Bought: A Standalone Romance

By: Glenna Sinclair

Chapter One

His hands caress my thighs. I can feel the coolness of his wedding band brush against my skin. I let a perfectly timed moan fall from my crimson lips. It’s a regular Friday night. The man between my legs thrusting away, breathing heavy, face flushed, while I put on an Academy Award-winning performance. And the award goes to…Katie-Lynn!

No one knows me by that name anymore, though. These days, I go by Angela. I’ve always liked the taste of that name in my mouth. Angela. Shorten it to Angel and you’re a porn star, but Angela has a certain sophistication to it.

Escort, call girl, prostitute, whore. I’ve been called everything in the book; feel free to pick one. It doesn’t bother me anymore because I like what I do. For an evening, or a week at most, I have the illusion of being the pampered girlfriend without ever actually having to be one. No left up toilet seats, million questions, or lies. Just money

That’s why I got into this: money. It was too good to pass up. When I first started, I was like every other woman who does the same. I refused to sleep with the clients, refused to even kiss them, but one night, when I had no other choice, I caved. That’s when I realized that if I wanted real money, I’d have to really work for it.

The man on top of me grips my breasts. He pops a nipple between his pink lips before he’s sucking on it as though he’s trying to pull my soul through it. I want to scoff, but instead I arch my back, point my toes. My tongue runs over my upper lip. I can see from the look of concentration on his face that he won’t take long.

Money in hand, I kiss his cheek before I saunter out of the door. Another successful night. I stretch lazily as I get behind the wheel of the red little convertible that I love so much. Pulling out of the parking lot, the only thing I can think of is a hot, relaxing shower. Usually, he doesn’t mind if I use his, but his wife was on the way up from her parents’. There’s no way I want to be caught in the middle of that.

The drive home is a relaxing one. I don’t live far. I could never live too far away from the glitz and glam of the bustling city. Los Angeles. I’ve lived here all of my life, barring a few exotic vacations with some of the more generous gentlemen I’ve encountered, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. I like the busy streets, amazing food, and the few people who I’ve come to know and love.

Pulling up in front of my building, I lock up my car and hop out. My heels click against the concrete as I walk up to my building. I sigh. It feels good to be home. I like my high rise building, with its gold accents, marble flooring, and sleek accessories.

“You’re out late again,” a bright voice pipes up from behind the counter.

“Yep, I lead a busy, busy life.”

The gray-haired woman cocks her head, those blue eyes examining me closely. “In that?”

I look down at myself. The black dress that I’m wearing is form-fitting, hugging my curves as if for dear life. The front plunges down low, showing off a mound of olive-toned breasts. Black hair cascades over my shoulder, tickling my skin lightly. Tall heels make me look way taller than I actually am. Self-consciously, I grip the black leather clutch in my hands more tightly. Good ol’ Anne, always the observer.

“Yes,” I nervously chuckle. “It was a party for my friend.”

The woman nods. “Well, you have a good night.”

I wave lightly as I walk towards the row of stainless steel elevators. Throwing a glance over my shoulder, I can see Anne, shaking her head in disapproval. I sigh.

“Well, that was fun.”

My apartment is my sanctuary. It’s a large, loft style apartment decorated in sophisticated red, black, and creams. Downstairs, there’s a large cream sectional couch and a glass table in front of it. The kitchen sits in darkness, as it often does. I haven’t stepped foot in a kitchen in five years; the last time I tried the fire department was at my door.

Upstairs, a large bathroom and huge bedroom take up much of the space. Beside the bedroom, however, is one of my favorite places. My library. It’s stocked full of everything, from self-help to chick lit to the classics. There’s nothing better than curling up in that big red chair, pulling my hair into a bun, and diving into a good book.

I kick off my heels. My feet have a small throb in the soles that I massage lazily. A growl shatters the silence of the room, and I moan. Food hasn’t been on my mind since earlier in the evening, when I was being wined and dined by Mr. Moans-a-lot.

A small smile stretches the corners of my mouth as I think about this. All of my clients, I’ve given nicknames. Mr. Handsy, who always has to grab my ass every second that we’re around each other. There’s Mr. Nose, who not only has a huge nose, but also tries to stick it into my business whenever possible. And there’s Mr. “Dominant.” I have to scoff. He’s the worst of them all. He insists that I call him sir and sit on my knees, and I comply because the stack of cash he gives me at the end of the night is more than enough to forget all of the idiotic things that he says.

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