Page 3 of Filthy Mouth
I had the perfect show house from my new build to take her to.
Yes, this was exactly what I needed tonight.
I rattled off the address to her while she noted it down. I could understand the need for security measures, but it didn’t look like she had a pimp or a madam. What the hell did I know about the flesh trade? Perhaps men and women are free agents nowadays.
Chapter 2
Poppy
I usually told men to fuck off, but tonight was not that night. Tonight I was in self-destruct mode. The fact that this dickhead thought I was a prostitute was hilarious, especially since I wore a modest work suit.
The way his infatuated eyes worshipped me one second, and the next, his filthy mouth was making an intriguing offer. He was in luck tonight, because I couldn’t give a damn about propriety.
I was supposed to be at a party with my father and the two bitches. Everyone could fuck off tonight. Especially that balding prick, Edmund.
I dragged the glass along the table, needing the second drink for courage.
“Do you often procure services from ladies like myself?” I asked, watching him gulp his drink down.
Judging by the light shining on a few stray grey hairs, he was at least forty—maybe older. I wondered if he had grey pubes. I guess I’d find out.
“No, the last time I did was at a stag do in Amsterdam in 2010,” he said, staring at my lips again.“How long have you been—um?”
I didn’t help him out, just sucked on my straw for dear life and stared innocently at him over my tall glass.
He cleared his throat.
“How long have you been working in the evenings?”
“Six years. I followed my stepmother’s footsteps and decided to become a whore. It was the best decision I made,” I said, hiding my smile behind my glass.
“Damn. What age did you start at?” he asked with a frown.
“I was nineteen, lured in by the glitz and the glamour of this sordid life,” I said, wondering if I should switch careers from interior design to acting.
He looked relieved.“So you’re twenty-five?”
He didn’t even need a calculator.
I managed to stop myself from giving him a slow clap.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
His brown eyes darkened, and he squirmed in his chair.
“Why don’t you call me Daddy for tonight?” he said, tugging at his shirt collar.
Oh, shit. This got better and better.
“Yes, Big Daddy,” I said, licking the rim of my cocktail glass.
His eyes turned predatory, and a smug smile spread across his handsome face. I didn’t like men with beards, but his was well-trimmed and designer-shaped, much like his latest season’s Tom Ford grey woollen herringbone suit. The white shirt came with a white pocket square. His deep pink tie showed confidence.
“Do you like what you see?” he asked.
God. This man’s ego was fucking astronomical.
“It’s better than what I see most nights,” I said, thinking of my father’s third chin. His eyes dipped to my drink, and he pulled out his phone.
