The Prostitute

Part 13

When her eyes opened that morning, Camila woke up weary and wanting to die. *Me everyday*

Beside her, her phone blared out her schedule for the day. At ten, she had to make her way downtown to the Marriott Hotel to meet one client, and then another at two. Camila was already exhausted at the idea of having to fuck two women that held no similarities to the woman she had been dreaming about for the past few days. Still, work was work. Camila made her way to the kitchen, turned on the kettle, and grabbed the bag of coffee beans. As if on autopilot, Camila made herself a cup of coffee and nibbled on a fresh peach while she sat on her breakfast table overlooking Manhattan.

After a thorough shower, Camila dressed herself in a dress shirt that hugged her slender curves and accentuated the muscles of her arms. She slipped on her leather ankle-high boots and her ash grey peacoat and was out of her apartment by nine o'clock. The sun was bright, and the snow that fell last night glittered and sparkled. Slush covered the roads, and snowplows caused much of the traffic that Camila passed by on her way to the subway.

By nine forty five, she was shaking off her boots of any snow that encrusted it. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and when she received the text message from her client, Camila headed to the fourth floor and to the third room to her left. Knocking, the door immediately opened and a smile adorned her face. "Miss Luzia."

The dark-haired woman smiled and yanked Camila inside her hotel room. The blinds were drawn, candlelight flickered across the off-white walls, and there was a bottle of pinot noir chilled inside a bucket of ice. Camila shrugged off her coat and hung it up on one of the brass hooks by the door. She eyed her client up and down, drinking in the sight of her curves that threatened to spill out of her tight negligee. With her cuffs rolled up to her elbows, Camila kicked off her boots to the side and took a step towards Luzia.

In her hand is a wine glass, filled halfway. Burgundy liquid swirled in the crystal glass seduced Camila. Deft fingers flicked open the button of her crisp shirt, exposing her throat. Luzia placed the glass on the end table and sat down on the queen-sized bed.

No one spoke, and the air in the hotel room hung heavy with something Camila was familiar with. Yet with what happened with Lauren, something was different.

Like the sun still rose up in the sky but no longer from the east. Like the earth still rotated on axis, but on the other way around. Camila cleared her throat and reduced the distance from her body with Luzia's. She planted her knee on the bed against the woman's hip, her breath tickling the client's tanned cheek. "Well, well, Camila." Luzia's dulcet tones reminded Camila of the first night she spent with the gorgeous, dark-skinned woman. It was in the middle of summer, New York's heat at its peak.

Luzia called her on her phone, urgency in her voice. Since Camila was free when she received the phone call, she thought, why not? Luzia sounded wealthy with her clipped consonants and no nonsense resolve. Camila They met in the same hotel, but there were no candles lit. The air-conditioning was in full blast, and Luzia was wearing absolutely nothing but the skin she was born in.

It made for the best first impressions Camila ever had.

Since then, Luzia became one of Camila's best customers. A woman who knew when to ask questions, and knew the right way to tug Camila's hair to encourage her to go harder, faster, and deeper. She taught Camila that the business of pleasure was a rigorous one. Luzia taught Camila many of the things she knew now, and because of that, Camila offered a discount.

Which Luzia denied. After all, she said. She had the money to buy herself another small island off the coast of the Caribbean. She can most certainly pay Camila's exorbitant rates.