So he wasn't a regular in the sense of a weekly or monthly appointment. Not like my others, and it intrigued me a little. I mean, the regularity of my schedule meant money in the bank for me, and that part was damned nice, but with my steady clientele I understood that routine was clearly comfort factor with them. Doctor X liked Monday afternoon sex, a nice roll in the hay at his townhouse. John Doe liked to take me to dinner around eight or so on Thursday nights, to be seen at the most expensive restaurants on the Strip. Most of the others had a pattern with me too, but not Mr. Grey. I never knew when to expect his call, and that was part of the mystery.

After that first morning at the Sphere I realized he'd given me an extra hundred; I found it in my coat pocket on the way out. Nice. And unexpected, too—not that Mr. Grey seemed cheap in any way, but having seen what he did for a living I didn't think he could afford me very often. Or so I thought.

A pity, because he'd been very nice about the whole thing. He was clean even before we started, and gentle, almost shy. Not a virgin, but clearly not the sort of guy to get naked in a hotel room with a woman on a regular basis. No, he knew his way around a woman's body, and I regretted my no-kiss policy because I bet he'd be nice to do that with. But I was firm with myself on that rule. I won't do it.

Kissing is the first step to getting involved with someone. You can't love someone without kissing them at some point, and for me, it's a more intimate an act than sex. Tabs and slots aren't nearly as personal as opening your mouth and heart to someone the way you do when you kiss. My clients don't seem to mind my rule, as long as I'm willing to use my mouth in other ways, and as long as I'm polite about it.

The second time Mr. Grey called me I was just waking up from a nap around ten PM on a weekend. The TV and papers had still been full of the story on the Sanderson murders and I for one was sickened and disheartened by them. I may be a hooker, but I'm a human and a woman too, and the deliberate slaughter of four little kids was more than I wanted to deal with at any point in my life. I couldn't imagine how the surviving family must have felt, and the cops had been pushing night and day to find the monster responsible.

I heard his voice, soft and tired over my cell phone. "I need to see you, Slim."

It hit me then; God, he was probably one of those behind-the-scenes guys working on the murders. I wondered if he'd gotten any sleep since Monday even as I spoke up.

"I'd like that, Mr. Grey. When and where?"

"The Sirocco, room 428."

The Sirocco was north of the Strip, and not as well known; the décor was sort of Arabian Nights, with a sand and silk theme, not as ornate as the Tangiers. He answered the door when I knocked; I guess he'd booked in and called me from here. Mr. Grey had his collar open and was sipping a glass of bourbon from the minibar when he opened the door. Only one light, the nightstand one, was on, and the curtains were drawn tightly.

He looked rough. I could see he hadn't groomed his beard for a few days, and there were the purple smudges under his eyes, but his smile was sad and sweet as he watched me walk in.

"You look . . . nice," he commented softly, and I felt his eyes follow my every move into the room. Hungry gaze. I let him look his fill—after all, his money.

Slowly I turned around, checking him out myself, seeing what else his stance and clothing could tell me. He was thinner, held together by an inner resolve that the bourbon was starting to wear down a little. There were chemical stains on his fingers, and a whiff of desperation on his skin, but the set of his shoulders made it clear he wasn't giving in easily. I set my purse down on the nightstand and sauntered back towards him, reaching out for his forearms.

God, they tight with tension, but not about me—this tension had been here for days, gripping him, clenching his muscles like steel and choking his body. I drew in a breath, stroked his arms and looked up into his face.

Haunted. That's what he was, that lonely blue gaze drinking me in, making me shiver.

"I want to help you," I told him softly, "Tell me what to do."

"Let . . . Let me undress you, honey," he whispered hoarsely back. I nodded.

The bills went from his hand to mine, and then to my purse; I turned back to him and gave him a small, encouraging smile, glad I'd chosen this particular outfit: one of my Li Matsuke pantsuits with a long mahogany silk coat and slacks topped by a gold blouse. He seemed to like it.

Carefully, he leaned back against the edge of the low dresser under the mirror, and pulled me to stand between his spread feet, the way a jock reigns in his girlfriend for a cuddle, lounging casually. I felt his hands slide down my shoulders and back, touching lightly, and to keep Mr. Grey going, I put my hands on his hard stiff shoulders.

"You're tense. Long week?" I asked, getting one of his little bleak smiles in return.

"I'm running on a total six hours of sleep since Monday night," he ruefully admitted, slipping my jacket off of me and laying it aside on the dresser. I liked that he didn't just drop it, or toss it aside. Carefully I began undoing his shirt buttons, checking to see if it was all right with him. Every touch seemed to help, and he gave a small nod as I continued.

I liked his hands, carefully undoing MY buttons in return, deliberately, gently. Clients don't often give a damn about my wardrobe or taking things like this slow—the faster I'm naked and on my back or on my knees the better—but Mr. Grey wasn't like so many of them. I could feel his breathing slow down when he slipped the blouse from my shoulders. I have big bony ones and they're not my best feature at all, but he didn't seem to mind as his thumbs stroked them.

"Strong collarbones," he commented a little sadly, which told me he was thinking of her. I waited until he set the blouse aside before I helped him out of his shirt in return.

Skin to skin was a pleasurable little shock; he was amazingly warm, and I was worried about chilling him with my cooler torso, but he didn't seem to mind at all. My bra straps fascinated him, and he took a long moment working them down my upper arms, his breath sweet from the bourbon. He paused, looking into my eyes for a moment when I unhooked my underwire and set it aside.

"You said you wouldn't kiss me, but does that include . . .?" he trailed off and that dull red along his face was adorable. I had to fight not to smile.

"Just mouth to mouth kissing," I told him softly, trying to stay firm. "But I'd be more than happy to kiss your entire body if that's what makes you feel good, Mr. Grey. Your chest, and shoulders . . ." I did so, bending my face down to press my lips to his skin. Hot, faintly spicy with clean musk. A downward glance and I could see he was definitely straining his slacks now. As I worked my way up one big bare shoulder I reached his ear and breathed in it; he arched back a little. Right then I slid my hand against his bulge as I added, "All the way down to your toes if you'd like. I suck, Mr. Grey, quite well."

"Christ!" he gulped and I knew whatever had been on his mind for the past one hundred and sixty eight hours was momentarily gone.

Chalk one up for Slim there.

His hands were up, moving down my back, playing with my spine, but heading south fast, so I helped him with the little zipper and stepped out of the pants. Luckily I had on my favorite black thong; the lace one. Mr. Grey's blue eyes were enormous drinking me in as I shifted my weight to one hip and smiled at him.

"The offer stands, babe . . ." I reminded him.

He nodded tightly, eyes closed and Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed a last slug of the bourbon. Since I was already standing between his thighs, it was no hardship to slowly slink down to my knees and work his fly open.

I don't mind this option myself. Some of the girls at Sleek's only work through latex, but I think that's a little paranoid myself. I like my customers, and I know enough about most of them to know they're not likely to play the field. Since this was all about making the client feel good, I took my time and put Mr. Grey through some highs and lows for a while, knowing I was holding him back only to tease him again.

He tasted lovely, and believe me, I know. Spicy, but with a hint of soap and water all along the length of him. Warm, suede soft skin over iron hard length, and throbbing as I worked him over my tongue. Vaguely I heard him gasping, felt him clutch my hair, and I gave a purr of encouragement because I know part of what drives the fantasy is that freedom to grab, to cry her name out along with endearments and curses.

We were close now, and I could feel the change of rhythm, the clenching of his thighs around the outside of my shoulders. The sudden swell of him and then a rush of sweetly bitter flavor over my palette in a few long spurts as he groaned his pleasure. I took my time cleaning him up, pleased to have given him a very nice BJ.

I rose, sliding my hands up his thighs, glancing into his face.

God.

His eyes were still closed, deep tear streaks dripping down from them making his long lashes dark and wet. I felt a stab of real fear then, and before I could think about it, I put my arms around him, guiding his head to my shoulder. He shook, but didn't make a sound as he held me.

We didn't talk. I got him into the bed and turned out the light, holding him until his breathing leveled out, stroking his stomach as he managed to get a hold of himself again to some degree.

"This is . . . wrong," he groaned, one arm over his eyes. I waited, not saying anything. Clients pay for the chance to be heard too, and I know when to stay quiet. Mr. Grey spoke again in a flat low voice.

"It's wrong. She's gone, Slim. I need to get that fact into every layer of my brain, not just consciously but down to the medulla instead of paying . . ."

". . . Instead of paying a hooker to be her, for a while," I finished. I knew the realities of my job, and usually they didn't hurt.

Usually.

He gave a cynical, sleepy little laugh.

"They care, and they try to make my life, my career work without her, but it's shallow. Like miles and miles of kiddie pool for a job. I go through my paces and do the work, but the pith of vocation is gone. She took it with her, Slim. I am a husk."

I waited a beat and commented softly, "There are cheaper therapies, Mr. Grey."

That made him laugh, a little bitterly, but I nuzzled his skin and kissed the big bare shoulder nearest me.

"I go to therapy, Slim. I force myself to talk to people who never knew her, clocking in the hours so I can keep my job because they say I'm recovering. I do everything by the book, and yet inside--I fester. Out of everything I've done or tried to get OVER what's happened, you're the only one that's left me . . . drained."

I sighed. Wordlessly I rolled over, pressing against him and taking his hand.

"Good."

I didn't know if he wanted a second round or not; he merely looked at me with those big blue eyes, scanning my face in a way that left me a little self-conscious. I know my mouth was still a little puffy.

"Yes." He agreed, distantly. Then he closed his eyes, and spoke a little more softly. "What time do you have to go?"

I checked my watch out of habit. Truth to tell I didn't have an appointment for the rest of the night, and the bed was fairly comfortable, and I'd already been paid . . . .

"About forty minutes," I told him a little harshly. Can't start making exceptions in this job. The rules are there for a reason, and even if it was tempting as hell to just nap with Mr. Grey I really shouldn't do it.

He nodded without opening his eyes, sliding an arm around me.

"Just . . . lie here with me then. For a while."

Shit. I bit my lip and stiffened for a moment, then let out my breath and softened up against him. Hey, he asked, and we were still on the clock, so I gave in and just lay quietly in the circle of his arm, listening to him breathe.

The room was warm and dark, and before I could quite help myself I was drifting off alongside Mr. Grey . . .

I woke up again a few hours later, feeling an arm draped over my stomach and a hot breath on my shoulder. For a moment I panicked a little, but once I remembered where I was I relaxed and started to think about how to slip out without waking my client. Clearly the sex had relaxed him enough to sleep, and I didn't want to disturb that. I shifted, moving my legs first, but he stirred slightly, and the arm on me tightened.

"Mmmmnn . . ." he murmured, his teeth bumping the skin on my shoulder. I shifted a little more, but the wrong way, and all of a sudden I had a very big problem pushing between my thighs as the arm tugged me closer. Mr. Grey breathed on the side of my neck, his words almost sorrowful.

"Need you, Slim. I'll . . . pay the overtime."

I have no idea why that hit me so hard; other clients have done it, and tipped big for longer sessions too. Maybe it was because Mr. Grey sounded so damn sad, or maybe it was because he felt so good, smelled so warm and sleepy—I had to blink a lot to clear my eyes and worked to keep my whisper steady. I rolled over and pressed a hand on his mouth.

"Shhhhhh . . ."

This one was slow, almost like real lovemaking. Mr. Grey nuzzled and licked and let me do the same to him. The darkness was intensely liberating for him, I could tell. By the time I got the condom on him and he slid my knees up over his shoulders both of us were pretty worked up; he thrust into me and I didn't have to fake a groan of my own.

Bad sign.

I tensed, but it was too late to change anything; while a girl like me can fake an orgasm, I sure as hell can't stop the real thing from happening when it's on the way, and damn it, this one had been building up for a while. Mr. Grey languidly pumped himself into me, and I closed my eyes, mentally cursing him for being so fucking good at hitting every button on the elevator, if you know what I mean.

We came only a few seconds apart, and I felt the heat sizzle through me as my body clenched, milking his in that perfect synchronicity all the books and movies talk about—the one that doesn't happen in real life. I felt him drop onto me, shaking, clutching me and for one little tiny moment I let myself pretend.

Pretend it was ME he wanted, he loved, not her.

Not his precious dead Sara.

Shit.

000 000 000

I got out of there fast, while he was in the bathroom. I knew he'd want to shower together, I couldn't see myself doing that without a problem now. So I climbed into my clothes as quickly as I could and got out of there, making sure to close the door quietly. I took the elevator down two floors and got out, took the stairs the rest of the way, trying not to think about anything. At this hour of the night not many people were around, so it was easy to catch a cab and get away from room 428.

It wasn't so easy to get away from my thoughts, of course. My stupid feelings. Somehow Mr. Grey and his big blue eyes and lonely smile had gotten under my thick working girl hide for the moment and I need to recover from that. I got home an hour later, tired, angry with myself and ready to take it out on the treadmill in my spare bedroom. I walked in and hit my answering machine before I thought about it, which was my second big mistake; it beeped, and then as I stood there, his voice filled the room, soft and disappointed.

"I'm sorry you left, Slim. I know I took up more of your time than you can afford to lose and that I owe you . . . well, I owe you a lot for tonight. I'll leave the money with your agency if that's all right with you."

There was a long pause on the tape, and I thought the message was over, but then I heard his voice again, softer this time.

"I didn't mean to . . . hurt you, honey, if I did."

And that's when the tears started.

000 000 000

So it's easiest for me to pack up and move on. This isn't a softhearted career and there are a thousand other cities out there where I can set up shop and do just fine. I've got enough in the bank to head out to my brothers and take my time figuring out what I want to do. I've left word with Sleek's to take good care of my clientele, and find some good up and comers for them. Doctor X likes them adventurous; John Doe likes them stylish and patient . . .

I sent Mr. Grey a letter. Names are important, and I knew his from the start, so it was easy to get a note to him through the LVPD. A short, sweet one, thanking him for his patronage and wishing him the best of luck. Nothing too personal, nothing incriminating.

A polite note of goodbye.

But I know when he reads it that he'll be looking at the paper, the envelope, the stamp. That he could take it apart twenty different ways and find me if he wants. Maybe he will. Maybe he won't.

All I DO know is that he's not my client anymore, and if he wants to do something about that---

He can.

END