Emily Willis 0

Hi, I'm Emily — the girl your mother warned you about, except she'd probably have liked me anyway. Caramel hair, brown eyes that warm up before I do, and the kind of natural curves that have never once apologised for themselves.

I grew up barefoot on a property up north — horses, red dirt, sunburnt shoulders — then moved to the city and discovered two things: air conditioning, and lingerie. I bake when I'm stressed (my lemon tart has been described as dangerous), I illustrate with more enthusiasm than talent, and I'm the friend who remembers your birthday and your ex's name. Caring is a reflex. I've stopped fighting it.

What that means for you: I'm genuinely easy to be with. Conversation that runs from terrible puns to the thing you've never told anyone. A slow, warm smile that arrives just before the wicked one. And behind a closed door, a curiosity with no interest in behaving — I want to know what makes you ache, and then I want to be the reason.

I have a soft spot for longer bookings. Dinner first, where I look like the picture of respectability in a dress that hints otherwise — then dessert somewhere private. Give me two hours and you'll understand why overnights exist. And I'm your girl for the fantasies you've never said out loud. Secretary, something gentler, something stranger — nothing you bring me will shock me. Confession is my love language.

The practical bits: punctual, discreet, smells like vanilla and trouble. Sun-kissed, voluptuous, unashamedly natural — and, apparently, unforgettable.

Book ahead when you can — I keep my diary small, and my favourite evenings are the ones neither of us wants to end.

Emily, xx