Are you going to let go of that device at some point?

I'm having a hard time restraining myself. I'm not the submissive, ass-licking type who obeys without protest. Although this job has made me bury my head a few times like an ostrich.

Without a doubt, Sebastian Decker's name will occupy the position of one of the most hostile men I've ever been hired by.

My friend Jess and I keep a blacklist of the most obnoxious clients we've ever had, and the last one she added was as sour as lemon, but this one is worse than stomach acid. I think her forehead is an eternal scowl, and she hasn't smiled in years; it even makes me miss Paul Richmond's "green old man loose hand." And believe me, the comparison alone is a great offense.

When the limo pulls to a stop, the Decker machine operates automatically and stows its technological gadget inside its tuxedo. I press my lips together to contain my laughter at my comparison of him to a robot. Sometimes my mind plays very childish jokes on me.

"Put your coat on; it's cold outside." Decker the robot commands with that same arrogant tone he has used the few times he has deigned to speak to me. My head is full of sarcastic comments, but I must bite my tongue and nod.

Or maybe I should smile; I don't care!

Obediently, not for the sake of it but because I didn't want to inconvenience the client, I put on the coat I had placed to one side when I entered the car. Satisfied with my action, the grumpy German leaves the limousine and waits for me in the driveway, as he indicated in his brief and scrupulous explanation. I let him hold my hand as I slid out of the car, and I even offered him a slight smile. His hand feels warm, safe, and strong as he holds mine, causing a pleasurable tingle to move across the skin of my palm and travel with unsettling speed to an inappropriate place. The man may be a jerk, but he's an attractive one, and that's something I can't ignore.

Decker begins to walk, and my legs, by sheer miracle, keep pace with him. Now that I'm moving along with him, I'm aware of his height and build; he must be no more than six feet tall and slim, although I imagine that underneath the cloth he hides a perfect set of muscles. He maintains an upright yet elegant posture. After a short ride, we enter the luxurious Plaza Hotel in Manhattan, where I have been before as an escort. And, as every time, I am fascinated by its beautiful French Renaissance architecture, as commented by Harold McDowell, the second millionaire who took me by the arm inside. I remember him very well; he was kind, attentive, and very talkative. Nothing like the man I am escorting tonight. Crossing the elegant lobby, we arrive in the room where the reception for Mr. and Mrs. Baker will be held. I hand my coat to the coat checker, and we advance to the hostess, who greets Decker with feigned kindness and guides us to the table we will occupy.

As I walk, a large part of my right leg is exposed, thanks to the meter-long slit, which reaches halfway up my thigh. At the shoulders, two thick straps join the heart-shaped neckline, draped in a crisscross knot.

A gray-haired man stands as we reach the table. Decker shakes his hand as a greeting and then introduces me as Keira Morrison, without going into detail. Paschal Archibald, as he says his name is, takes my hand and then kisses it gallantly. Next to him, a woman much younger than him stands up and is introduced as Cristal Archibald, his wife. I greet her with a smile, while in my head I compare her to Poison Ivy: a tight-fitting green dress, revealing cleavage, exaggeratedly red hair, and a killer, sensual gaze that she makes no attempt to conceal. Decker greets her with a nod as he slides his open palm down my bare back, catching me off guard. An unusual warmth unfolds in my spine and reaches places that have been devoid of attention for many years. I challenge myself harshly for reacting that way to his touch. He is a customer, nothing more. And besides, so far this evening, he has proven to be as cold as winter.

Without removing his hand from my back, he invites me around the table to take our seats. The sensation of warmth, more and more intense and categorical, confirms that it is all due to him: to the exquisite and manly smell that his skin exudes, to the subtle way he moves his thumb on my back, to that soft hoarse whisper that pronounced in my ear the word "relax". I hadn't noticed that my body was stiff as a statue until he mentioned it.

What's the matter, Keira? It's about a controlling, grumpy piece of sh*t who couldn't look at you for more than ten minutes at a time.

I slide gently onto the seat that he chivalrously set aside for me. A little later, he sits down next to me and rests his left hand on the bare skin of my knee, as if it were customary for us. I go back through his words, and I don't remember him mentioning in his speech that he would behave that way with me. I didn't expect his hands to be on me. Furthermore, I smile foolishly before looking away; something about him unsettles me, and I don't think I'm strong enough to take it. Decker moves his thumb across the soft skin of my knee, causing the fire burning inside me to become ravenous, and I want to be extinguished by him. I look at him, because I think that's what he's asking for by touching me, and I discover that the color of his eyes is a combination of lead gray and moss green; that at the corners of his eyes there are slight wrinkles; and that his forehead is no longer an eternal frown. He looks relaxed. Slowly, he leans toward me and whispers in my ear to remind me why I am here. I nod weakly and flash him an impish smile, as if he just told me something erotic and sensual, not that he threw in my face the bad job I'm doing as an escort.

I'm ruining it! And I'm not good at many things in life, but I bragged about doing well in my role as a Golden Lady... until today.