Thor (Recherche #1)

By: L.P. Lovell

My name is Thor Jameson. I’m the guy men want to be and women want to do.

Am I arrogant? Of course. I have a successful business, a healthy bank account and women throwing themselves at me. The best part…those women are paying me.

My name is Thor Jameson and I’m a male escort. No, I’m the male escort. My reputation for guaranteed satisfaction and utmost discretion is unrivalled. So much so that I now own Recherché, an elite escort agency. Whatever your tastes, we’ve got it covered.

I’m selling your fantasy. Are you buying?

“Can’t you just stay tonight?” I glance over my shoulder at April who is stretched out on the mattress, her peroxide blonde hair splayed over the pillow and her fake tits standing up like two fucking balloons. “I’ll give you an extra ten.” She purrs. A satisfied smile remains on her lips and her eyes are half closed in that post-orgasmic haze. I grab my jeans and yank them back on.

“Sorry babe. You know that’s not my gig.”

I find my discarded shirt and put it on. Her eyes remain fixed on my stomach as I fasten the buttons and disappointment paints her features.

“Twenty.” She counters.

I sigh. Twenty grand is no small amount of money, but I have rules that I have to follow. One of them is you do not spend the night, no matter how much they beg or how much money they offer. I’m an escort, not her boyfriend. I’ll go to any function with her, I’ll pretend to be her fella and I’ll make every person who meets me damn well believe it, but at the end of the night, I’m not. I clock out and I go home because this is a job. She is a job.

She says nothing, instead sitting up and pulling on a satin dressing gown as she moves around the bottom of the monstrous sleigh bed. I pick up my wallet, phone, and keys off the bedside table and shove them in my pocket. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she steps close to me and scratches her perfectly manicured nails over the exposed skin of my chest. April Farley is in her early forties and has probably spent half her husband's fortune on plastic surgery and personal trainers, the other half she’s spent paying me to fuck her. She’s a good client, a little clingy, but that’s nothing new in this line of work. It’s my job to make her feel special, and women get attached to that notion.

“He’s away again on Friday.” She says sliding her hands over my neck and cupping my face. I flash her a crooked smile and wind one hand through her hair, cupping her arse and yanking her towards me with the other. She gasps and a blush creeps over her face.

“Then I’ll see you Friday.” I kiss her, allowing my lips to linger before I nip her bottom lip and let go. I turn and walk away without a backwards glance.

This is what I do. Some people are good with numbers, others can play multiple instruments. Me? I can make any woman wet with a look. And that is a skill with an awful lot of power. April is married to some billionaire who travels all the time. She’s lonely, so she pays me fifty grand a month to make her scream, and scream…and scream. Hell, for that kind of money there’s not a lot I wouldn’t do, least of all blow my load in an attractive woman. Did I mention I love my job?

I pull up outside my house and get out of the car. Maddox’s Mercedes and Kaden’s Porsche are both parked on the street, which means they’re here. It’s early evening and it’s just starting to get dark. They’re usually here for food, beer or both. I hop up the stone steps and shove my key in the door. The scent of pizza hits me the second I step inside. Wooden floorboards creak underfoot as I make my way down the long hallway to the back of the house. I bought this place a couple of years ago when the business started making big money. The top two floors are my living space, but the ground floor is for the agency. It’s completely kitted out with a living room, kitchen, two spare bedrooms with en-suites, office, gym and even a game room with consoles, pool table, and a bar.

I open the door and find Maddox sitting on the couch laughing. Kaden is standing with both hands on his head looking like someone just killed his mother. The football is on the TV and there’s an open pizza box on the coffee table.

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