She pushes the short sleeve of my t-shirt up further and wraps her hand around my bicep. Her lips move against mine, her tits press against my pecs, our athletic gear far less of a barrier than our workwear usually is. Her other hand finds my hair and tugs at it. And a thought comes to me unbidden.

Does she really like this? Or is she acting? After all, Marlowe is pretty implacable as far as women go. She’s also the consummate professional. I have no doubt that all the orgasms I’ve doled out have been real—no one is that good a performer—but it doesn’t mean she’s into me.

I may not want anything serious here—after all, this pay-for-play relationship suits me down to the ground—but I really, really want to believe that she’s kissing me on a Friday morning on the stool of my grand piano because she’s digging it, not because I’m paying her to.

Only one way to find out. I need us both bare and on a bed. Usually, the client-hooker dynamic really gets me going, but today I just want to take this beautiful blonde upstairs and show her how good it can be when she’s with me.

‘Can I take you to bed?’ I mutter against her lips.

She gives a little hum of approval. ‘Mmm. Yes please.’

I stand up and hold out my hand. When she looks up at me and takes it, it feels as though the girl I like has agreed to go on a date with me.

‘Brendan Sullivan’s bedroom,’ she murmurs as I lead her upstairs by the hand. ‘I’m almost scared. Do women come here on pilgrimages and scatter flowers at your bedroom door?’

Cheeky little minx.

‘Mostly they just bring empty bottles so they can collect holy water from my bathroom taps,’ I bat back.

‘Kind of like Lourdes?’

‘Exactly like Lourdes. The healing power of a few hours with me and my dick is miraculous.’

She doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Explains a lot. I wondered how that weird rash of mine had vanished so quickly.’

‘Oh ye of little faith. You’ll see, baby.’ I wink at her.

‘As long as you change the sheets between all your “miracles”.’

‘Joke’s on you.’ I usher her through the open double doors of my master suite. My housekeeper, Val, made my bed first thing this morning before I gave her the rest of the day off. I don’t need anyone cramping my and Marlowe’s style. ‘You’re the first woman who’s ever been in here.’

She stops stock-still on the threshold. ‘You’re kidding me.’