Excerpt
It was February. The man waited—five
minutes, then ten. It was all a part of the game: the wait, the
delicious anticipation stretched out as long as they both could
stand. Nevertheless,
he checked his watch repeatedly. Thirteen. Fourteen. Was she
going to stand him up, this time? This time, would he be forced to
turn away, to move back onto the crowded city streets, to go home
unsatisfied?
He saw her. She never walked, but rather glided, a slow, haughty
gait that said she didn’t much care if you waited for her or not.
He knew her only as Imogen. Whether that was her real name or not,
he didn’t know; but, for what they were there for, it didn’t much
matter, either.
She was dressed all in black, as was usual. A sheer black sweater
hugged her breasts tightly, which was lucky for her, since she was
clearly not wearing a bra. A flimsy, lacy excuse for a skirt flirted
with the tops of her thighs, and her heeled leather boots rose above
her knees.
In contrast to the unrelieved black, her hair was a shade of blonde
so pale it was almost white. It spiraled around her shoulders in
loose, tumbling curls—curls that would look angelic on another
woman.
He enjoyed standing there in the lobby, watching her approach,
watching the other men on the street stumble as they caught sight of
her
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Lauren Hawkeye