I’m in a fancy club, my nose and mouth and fingers buried in the delicious—and soaking wet—cunt of a hot blonde who’s laid out naked on the sofa of a private room for my pleasure.

So far, so on brand for a Thursday night.

But that’s where this being any kind of normal Thursday night ends.

Because this isn’t a hookup.

It’s an audition. A two-way audition.

And Marlowe is not your average hot blonde bombshell who stakes out and seduces men like me so efficiently that she may as well be a professional.

Nope.

The hilarious irony is that this woman, who I’m test-driving ahead of hiring as a professional, is reacting to me in a way that’s more raw and more gratifying than any other hot blonde I’ve fucked in a very long time.

Don’t feel too sorry for me. I look like this and I’m very, very good in bed. The orgasms I coax out of the others are one hundred per cent real. But those women play the same game as me. They zero in on me for my looks or my money or my reputed prowess in the sack—usually all three. They’re practised and cynical, and the whole endless fucking cycle of them is tired, tired, tired.

Whereas I’d bet a lot of money that no one is more surprised than Goldilocks here at the reaction her body is having to mine.

She’s barely laid on any moves since she got here. No trite phrases, no trotting out of pretty, fake little moans or coquettish cries. Nope, she’s seemed unconvinced at best and shit-scared at worst.

I’ve never been an academic, but I can read people, and it’s clear as day to me that Marlowe is not here because she loves dick. For whatever reason, she wants or needs that paycheque, and who am I to judge? She’s been polite and sweet and twitchy, and she’s unwittingly provided exactly what I’m looking for so far this evening.

But there is nothing, and I mean nothing, more gratifying than having a front-row seat to a beautiful woman unravelling at your hands. Watching Marlowe go from cautious to semi-engaged to unwittingly grinding her honeyed cunt against my face is a bigger and better win than anything I can recall in recent memory—and that includes thrashing my smug mate Ethan at golf last weekend.

I’m so into this it’s not funny. The scent of her, the taste of her, are driving me wild, so much so that I’ve flattened myself onto my stomach so I can hump the sofa. But when she begs me, in that panicked, breathy little voice, not to stop, I mentally punch the air so hard that I mentally dislocate my shoulder.

Fucking yesssss.

I knew it.