The woman stepped into my space, pulling me into a warm hug. Her scent hit me instantly—cheap cologne, but it had a bold, overpowering allure, much like her makeup. The scent wasn't unpleasant; it was strong, assertive, a perfect complement to her vivid persona.
My hands instinctively moved to her face, tracing the smooth curve of her cheek. She wasn't just beautiful. She was perfect in a way that felt almost artificial, as if crafted to be flawless rather than real.
"What's your name?" I asked, my voice low.
"Cola," she said, her voice dripping with a practiced seduction.
"Cola?" I raised an eyebrow. "That's your name?"
She giggled, a soft, teasing sound that carried a sultry undertone. "Yes, that's my name," she replied, wrapping her arms around me in a serpentine embrace. Her movements were deliberate, calculated, each touch designed to captivate.
I knew the women here never used their real names—Sonia had been Cherry. They hid behind codenames, masking their true selves beneath layers of mystery. She looked young, almost too young for the life she lived, but her confidence and poise betrayed years of experience.
Her smile was deliberate, too. She showed off her straight, perfect teeth, a smile so polished and practiced it felt like part of a well-rehearsed performance. Everything about her was designed to lure and seduce, and she executed it flawlessly.
"So?" she purred, leaning in so close I could feel her breath, warm and teasing against my skin. Her lips hovered just inches from mine, painted in that bold scarlet hue. Her voice was low, suggestive, as though daring me to slip. "What made you choose me, Mister?"
"You looked... nostalgic," I said after a moment, my words carefully measured. I kept my gaze fixed on hers, those electric blue eyes that seemed to drill into me, pulling memories from a place I hadn't intended to visit tonight.
She raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching into a sly, almost condescending smirk. "Nostalgic?" she repeated, her tone laced with both challenge and amusement. "Just nostalgic? I'm a fucking painting."
There was an edge to her words, sharp and deliberate, but the way she said it, the way she owned it, struck me. Her body language demanded attention—hips tilted just slightly, arms crossed loosely but confidently. She was performing, sure, but there was something raw beneath the practiced act.
"No doubt," I said, allowing a small smile to curve my lips. "You are."
Her smirk deepened, a hint of satisfaction flashing in her eyes. She tilted her head slightly, studying me now as if she were the one making the choices. There was power in her gaze, a boldness that made it clear she wasn't like the others here. Or maybe she was, but she carried it differently, like she owned every moment of her performance.
"Men don't usually bother with 'nostalgia,'" she said after a beat, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "but you? You seem... complicated."
"Complicated?" I chuckled softly, shaking my head. "Maybe. Or maybe I just see things others don't."
Her expression flickered for just a moment, the façade almost slipping. Something in her eyes—something familiar yet distant—made me wonder if she was just as trapped by this moment as I was. But the flicker disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by her usual confident mask.
"Sir, you look like one of those customers," she said, her tone dripping with playful derision, "the type who promises the world to a woman here, only to go home to their wife and kids... yet keeps coming back, worshiping us like deities."
Her words hung in the air, pointed and deliberate.
"You're mistaken," I replied, my voice calm but firm as I looked down at her. "I'm not the kind with a wife. I'm a free man."
"Umm, I see," she said, tilting her head slightly, her sharp gaze piercing through me as if trying to strip me down to the truth.
"But careful, Mister," she added, her voice dipping into a velvety warning. Her lips curved into a subtle smirk, and her electric blue eyes gleamed with an unsettling mix of allure and menace. "Sometimes, seeing too much can get you hurt."
There was a weight in her words, a subtle challenge wrapped in silk. It wasn't just a warning—it was an invitation to step closer to the edge.
Hurt me?" I said, my voice steady, almost daring. "Let it. Let it. I like the fire that burns me, bruises me. Or else, what's the thrill? If it doesn't sting?"
Her demeanor shifted. The irritation in her expression melted into something softer, something intrigued. She tilted her head slightly, her electric blue eyes narrowing playfully. "Oh, honey, you interest me," she said, her voice dripping with curiosity and just a hint of mischief.
"Do I?" I asked, meeting her gaze. Up close, I noticed how petite she was- average height, maybe even shorter- but her presence was anything but small. Her doe eyes, wide and innocent, betrayed a childlike quality. She looked like a lost puppy searching for shelter, and yet there was something predatory beneath that façade.
I reached out instinctively, patting her head gently. "You look young, dear. What's your age?"
"Mine?" she asked, feigning coyness, her lips curling into a sweet, almost deceptive smile. "It's nineteen."
Her words hit me like a cold gust of wind. Nineteen. Barely an adult. My mind raced, wondering what cruel string had pulled her into this life. What force had turned her into a marionette, tangled in the threads of unspeakable things?
Hesitation crept in, an uneasiness I hadn't felt in a long time. But before I could dwell on it, she leaned closer, her breath warm against my face. Without warning, her lips sank into mine, and I was swept into a kiss that was neither gentle nor shy. It was raw, passionate- a dangerous dance that ignited flames deep within, flames I wasn't sure I could extinguish.
Her slender legs pressed tightly against mine, her body molding into me with a boldness that defied her delicate frame. The air around us grew thick, charged with a tension that teetered on the edge of recklessness.
She pulled back just slightly, her lips brushing against my ear as she whispered, "Fear not." Her voice was soft, almost hypnotic, yet there was a lethal edge to it. "Older, handsome men are my type."
It wasn't a reassurance-it was a challenge. And I realized then that she wasn't just playing with fire; she was the flame, unpredictable and impossible to contain.
"You're really sure?" I asked, my tone probing, though her confidence left little room for doubt.
"Yes. I am," she replied, her voice steady and assured. "Don't take me for a kid." She tilted her head slightly, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. "I'm actually the most sought-after one here."
Her words carried an almost dangerous allure, a promise laced with challenge. "You can't even imagine the flames I can ignite—body, heart, and soul—all in one night."
There was no hesitation in her tone, only certainty. She exuded a power that was both captivating and unsettling, as if she held the key to a temptation most men wouldn't dare resist.