Whatever. I don’t need some porno photos to tell me what I already know. Between what I’ve seen of Marlowe so far and the helpful assistance of my overactive imagination to fill in the gaps, I’m in no doubt as to the quality of what I’m buying.

Bang on time, a server ushers Marlowe into the suite, and holy fucking shit.

The woman is a knockout.

It seems even my imagination has its limits, because I’ve filled the spank bank this week with fantasies of taking that little pink work dress off her, but here she is, already half naked. She’s my type on steroids.

Or maybe it’s that she’s my type with a bit of soul. She has all the admittedly pretty stereotypical physical attributes I love—long blonde hair, perky tits, fantastic legs—but she’s classy. Soulful. Interesting. It’s in her delicate bone structure and her big brown eyes, and⁠—

She makes her way towards me, and my brain short-circuits. While she doesn’t seem to be a natural on heels that high, the way that little gold dress clings to her willowy frame is spectacular. I can feel the grin spreading across my face.

My evening just got a thousand times better.

‘Hi,’ she says, slightly breathlessly.

‘Evening.’ I flash that grin at her one more time as I stoop to kiss her on both cheeks. She smells incredible—something floral and feminine, which suits her. Her fragrant hair tickles my nose as I kiss her, and her skin is soft where I’ve laid my palm against her upper arm as we greet each other.

The hovering server takes our drink orders—a glass of Chablis for her and another long G&T for me.

‘Actually,’ I tell her. ‘Bring a bottle of Chablis and one of gin. I want ice buckets and tonic, too. Some still water, and a big mezze platter. That should do us.’

While I have no intention of drinking anywhere near a bottle of gin, I don’t want to give the server any reason to disturb us again. I’m hoping Marlowe isn’t a flight risk, but I don’t want her getting skittish, either during what could (for her) be a sensitive conversation or once I finally get my hands on her.

Particularly the latter.

I stick my spare hand in my pocket, my fingers reaching out of habit for the spinner on my fidget toy. ‘I’m glad you said yes.’

I really am. I thought the work-oriented interview went well, but Camille had previously made it very clear that if the candidate didn’t feel adequate chemistry, she was under no obligation to proceed to the next round. As it turned out, she called me the following morning with a big fat yes from Marlowe, and I wasted no time setting up tonight’s rendezvous.