escort diary® of Louella York: The invitation
The note arrived with no warning, slipped under her door like a whisper meant only for her.
Come to this address at midnight. Wear red. No questions.
A game? A dare? A trap? None of it mattered. She felt it immediately—an unshakable pull, a hunger laced through each word.
She went.
The building was unmarked, tucked into the shadows of a street she had never noticed before. A heavy door, slightly ajar, as if already expecting her. Inside, the world was different. The air shimmered with the scent of dark spices, candle wax, the musky undertones of bodies pressed too close. The music was low, rhythmic, like a heartbeat slowed to the pace of seduction.
She moved through the crowd, her red dress a beacon. Hands brushed against her—some deliberate, some accidental—but none made her stop. Until him.
A presence, solid and dark, standing just at the edge of the light. Watching.
She felt his gaze before she saw his face. The way it crawled over her skin, igniting something ancient, something instinctive. When their eyes met, it was not an introduction. It was recognition.
He did not ask her name. He did not need it.
A hand extended, waiting. She took it.
He led her through the bodies, past the murmuring voices, into a room where the world narrowed to just two things—her and this moment. The doors closed, swallowing the sound of the party, leaving only silence and the crackle of anticipation.
The first touch was devastating. Not rushed, not hesitant—just the slow, deliberate drag of his fingers up her arm, over her collarbone, lingering at the pulse of her throat. His breath, warm against her skin, was measured. Waiting. Testing.
He could have devoured her in an instant, and they both knew it. But he didn’t.
Instead, he leaned in, so close that the heat between them felt unbearable. His lips brushed her ear as he finally spoke, voice rough with restraint.
"Tell me to stop."
She didn’t.
The restraint shattered.
Mouths collided, tongues searching, hands clutching at fabric that had no right to be there. He pressed her against the wall, his body solid, insistent, demanding. His hunger was a wildfire, scorching her alive.
Clothes became an inconvenience. The heat of skin against skin sent shocks through her spine, thighs trembling as his hands found every place that ached to be touched. He lifted her effortlessly, pinning her with his weight, his mouth mapping a path down her neck, across her collarbone, lower, lower—until there was nothing left between them but the raw need to consume.
They moved together in a rhythm older than language, primal and unrestrained. Every thrust, every gasp, every desperate claw at his back was a plea for more, more, more. He gave it to her without mercy.
Pleasure coiled, thick and overwhelming, building until it was too much, until it shattered them both. The room dissolved into stars.
And then, silence.
She lay tangled in the dark, breath heavy, skin slick with sweat and satisfaction. He traced lazy circles on her hip, as if memorizing the shape of her, though they both knew there would be no second chance.
He kissed her one last time—slow, lingering, as if trying to steal something she would never get back.
And then, just as quietly as he had arrived, he was gone.
By the time she dressed and stepped back into the night, the city was unchanged. As if none of it had ever happened.
But she knew better.
Her body still remembered.
And the note in her pocket, crumpled and damp with sweat, still burned against her palm.
She unfolded it, breath catching as she saw the final words scrawled beneath the first message.
Thank you for coming
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