A/N: Okay, I just got an urge to write this down because I saw something on Tumblr, and I can't even remember what it was really that inspired this. I can tell you right now, I only plan for this to be three or four chapters long, and hopefully I can bang this out within a week. This is WAY AU, just a fair warning. Thank you so much for reading this. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: These characters are the creative property of LJ Smith and The CW. No copyright infringement is intended.

In my world the only rule is, there are no rules. And because of that, it's prompted me to make some of my own. Never have regular customers. Feelings get involved, people grow attached, then lazy, and then entitled. Never tell them anything real or truthful about yourself. Getting to know me, the real me is never apart of the deal. They wouldn't be able to handle the truth regardless. Don't ask questions about where I was born, my family, what schools I attended, and my future dreams and aspirations. I don't have any, and if I did, you'd be the last person I'd ever tell.

Always protect yourself. A girl in my profession can never be too careful. I might dole out a particular brand of service, didn't mean everyone was entering this deal with one goal in mind, and if you aren't going to play my way—you will get shanked.

Always get paid upfront. Some like to boast about the dollars that line their pockets, and end up blowing more smoke out their ass rather than living up to the hype. Don't waste my time or yours because you will inevitably have to explain your broken nose or busted knee to your wife, girlfriend, significant other. I do not play. And this was the most important and golden rule:

Never

Ever

Under any circumstances

Or duress

Fall

In

Love.

Those are the rules of engagement ladies and gents. Let us begin.

Two nervous, sweaty, and slightly callous palms rubbed together while a pink tongue moistened dry lips. Repeatedly he checked the time on his David Yurman time piece feeling the anxiousness coiling inside his belly wanting to explode. He jumped up on his feet, crossed over the deluxe luxury suite to check the pail to make sure the ice hadn't melted, and that the bottle of Dom Perignon was nice and chilled. On a table next to the champagne were chocolate covered strawberries. He wasn't sure if she liked strawberries or not, but what woman didn't like chocolate covered strawberries?

He frowned in contemplation. Maybe this was a bit much. Maybe this was too romantic. He didn't necessarily call her up to romance her, and she wasn't in the business to do much romancing herself. He shook his head suddenly feeling very foolish and very juvenile like he had never partaken of this kind of transaction before. No he should get rid of the strawberries but keep the champagne.

But…but she was so different. He saw her profile online and nearly fell in love with her on sight. Which was ridiculous now that he's thought about it. However, she was so beautiful with that mane of chocolate hair, and those viridian eyes that looked playful and serious simultaneously, and she appeared to be far classier than the other women on the website who dressed and posed provocatively hoping to ensnare someone like him. A lonely businessman with more money he could spend in several lifetimes unable to find a woman to stimulate him not just physically but intellectually as well.

He had exchanged a few emails with her, and she didn't automatically inquire after his penis size or demeaned herself by saying she was a fucking filthy slut that wanted to fuck hard all night. She merely asked him what he was in the mood for. Conversation? A doll to be paraded around at some boring and stuffy function? A tension reliever? A massage?

Sex hadn't been one of the options to choose from and that gave him pause. Maybe she was hoping he might take the lead on this since he had a triple platinum membership, which spelled he was one of their valued customers. Nevertheless he invited her for a drink and conversation at the Riverside Manor which was located forty miles due east of where he lived. The manor was really an upscale mansion that had been converted into a hotel that catered to a clientele that fell within a certain tax bracket in the late nineties.

Once he made the reservations, and emailed the information, he asked if she required anything in particular. All she replied with was: you'll know its me when I knock on the door three times.

He didn't know what to expect really. The one thing he could say about this website he belonged to was: the owners were about discretion and they were about running background checks on all parties involved. He felt secure that as she entered and then left whatever secrets he might end up exposing would be safe between them. But, he had no such plans to divulge anything about himself. He wasn't a long way from home, but he was far enough away to convince himself he was in another state, another country, and that he didn't have to be…

Three knocks sounded on the door.

His stomach plummeted to his toes before it climbed its way up his chest before getting lodged in his throat.

He crossed the suite to the front door, but paused and checked his reflection. Still perfect. He frowned. He had a face that could grace fashion magazines; the kind of face women fantasized and drooled over, some men as well. It was a face that changed over the last thirty-three years he's been alive from cherub-like innocence, to boyishly cute, to ruggedly handsome, to wickedly hot.

It was his eyes though that made most women cream their panties and he was hoping his eyes would have the same effect on her.

Cupping a hand over his mouth, he blew into his palm, and checked his breath. He could still detect a faint hint of toothpaste and mint flavored mouthwash, but that would become obsolete the second he popped open the champagne, and drank half the bottle to calm his nerves.

Clearing his throat, he looked out the peephole—just in case it was housekeeping, and then threw open the door.

"Hi, Mr. Smith?"

He nodded and then for a moment just stared at her. Her online profile really did her little justice. He could tell she was sexy, but the vision before him…made his mouth dry and salivate at the same time. Realizing he was staring and not speaking like a weirdo, he stepped aside permitting her entry. She smiled, revealing straight white teeth and strode past him leaving behind a teasingly sweet smell of vanilla. After taking a cursory look around she turned to face him passing those bright green eyes over him.

He didn't know what she might be wearing underneath the coat, but her legs were housed in a pair of fishnet stockings just as he requested. Black snakeskin pumps added a good five inches to her otherwise diminutive height. Her legs were amazing and already he pictured them either thrown over his shoulders or wrapped around his waist as he pumped into her—furiously.

At the last second he realized he was still wearing his wedding ring and hastily stuffed his left hand in his pocket.

She grinned knowingly. "No reason to hide. I'm not here to judge."

"Can I take your coat?" he decided it was best to overlook that small yet huge detail.

"Not just yet," she said which stopped him in mid-stride. She hitched an eyebrow in the air. "We haven't discussed the terms of the contract."

He frowned thinking everything had been covered in the emails they exchanged. He wanted two hours of her time for the staggering price of seventeen hundred dollars. So he reminded her of that fact hoping he didn't sound too cross in the process.

She had the audacity to let out a little laugh as she fingered one of the buttons on her coat, drawing his attention, and making his heart beat just a little faster.

"Emails are never finite. They are simply a formality," she explained. "We agreed to the location, and the time, but you never explicitly stated what you wanted. What, Mr. Smith, are you in the mood for?"

"I thought we could just wing it," he replied and smiled charmingly hoping to diffuse any underhandedness she might have planned. He had fallen victim once before to a redhead, who swindled a thousand bucks out of him, and fifteen minutes into their "session" she left saying she had an emergency. He called the company to complain, and demanded he be reimbursed, but they had a well established no refund policy, and offered him another girl. He didn't want another girl. He wanted his thousand dollars back!

Well, he wasn't going to become anyone's chump. Ever again!

Yet he thought back to his predicament at hand. "I thought we could just talk."

"How much talking? For the allotted two hours?"

He hunched a shoulder. "Maybe. There's champagne."

She looked over her shoulder before redirecting her attention back to him. Her expression was unreadable.

"I don't drink while I'm working," she told him.

He nodded and thought this added to the fantasy he built up in his mind about her, and proved he had been right in his assessment. She was different from the others. A thought came to him.

"I'm sorry, but what's your name? You just had the letter B listed on your profile."

"That's my name. I'm sure your sign Mr. Smith on all the checks you write," she smiled teasingly.

Mr. Smith's cheeks warmed profusely. Aliases were a necessary evil when one dabbled with call girls.

"Seventeen hundred dollars is a lot of money for just two hours," he griped.

B approached and stood nearly toe to toe with him, the scent of her perfume much stronger with her closer. With her in kissing range. And she had lips he wanted to taste. Lips he wanted wrapped around his meat stick.

"I assure you, Mr. Smith…I'm worth every penny."

He gulped. Then watched helplessly as she moved away. His body suddenly felt bereft and he had yet to touch her creamy, unblemished, butterscotch skin.

"So you want to talk to me for two hours," B resumed their earlier conversation. "I guess I can swing with that. Nude or fully clothed?"

His eyes momentarily bulged out of their sockets and Mr. Smith wanted to slap himself upside the head for the way he was reacting to her. She was just a woman, one of hundreds he had been with, well maybe not hundreds, but he had been with his fair share of women. None of them made him feel like he was going to spray his shorts just by asking him a simple question.

"Nude," he blurted. "Get undressed," he ordered in the voice he used in the boardroom at his company.

B turned around, eyes slightly blazing. "We have yet to shake on any deal, Mr. Smith. We're still negotiating."

"And while we're negotiating," he used air quotation marks, "is it eating away at my time? You've been here for approximately," he flicked his wrist and noted the time, "ten minutes. That only leaves me an hour and fifty minutes with you."

"You can always request more time, but that of course would cost you more."

"How much for another hour?"

"An additional three hundred."

His eyes bulged again.

And just as he was about to protest, B began to button her coat to reveal a black mini dress that was sheer in all the right places. She wasn't wearing a stitch of underwear from what his experienced eyes could tell. He could make out the shape, size, and color of her areolas, and as his eyes diverted farther south he could see her kitten was completely bare.

Mr. Smith had a particular weakness for shaved pussies. Blood rushed and he was painfully hard and engorged behind the seam of his pants.

"Mr. Smith would you like an additional hour of my time?"

Mutely he nodded and blindly reached for his wallet extracting it from his back pocket. He retrieved three crisp one hundred dollar bills and lifted them up.

"I just have one other small request."

"And that is?"

Mr. Smith swallowed and noticed that her eyes were locked on him and not the money. That made him even harder for some unexplainable reason.

"You call me, Sir, all night."

B allowed the coat to cascade off her shoulders and pool at the bottom of her feet. She sauntered over to him embellishing the sway of her enticingly round hips, and didn't stop until her chest was crushed against his solid frame. Her fingers wormed over his fingers that clutched the money, and she ran the tip of her nose along his clean-shaven jaw.

"I think that can be arranged…Sir."

Chapter end.

A/N: Who exactly is this Mr. Smith? Yes, I'm being ambiguous on purpose, but I know where I'm going with this, and I hope you stick around for more to see exactly how this all plays out. If you're wondering if this is PWP, not necessarily. So let me know what you think. Until next time, love you guys.