Jessica headed down the hall. Fast steps. Too fast, maybe. She was already half-turned-on, heart thumping not just from fear but from anticipation. Her uniform was tight, the hair—perfect, of course. She was swaying her hips; she knew she was. Showing off the cleavage. All part of the show.
She tasted the handsome millionaire already in her mind, the one she'd been suffering for. Ethan. She was ready to prove herself. I hope he's excellent. A low, hungry smile stretched her lips. She bit down lightly, waiting for the prize.
She pushed the door open—and it all slammed to a halt.
It wasn't Ethan.
It was him. A smell hit her first: stale sweat, damp garbage, cheap oil. A wreck of a man. Rags for clothes, that long, filthy hair matted to his scalp, the beard a nest. His presence alone seemed to stain the gold trim of the luxurious room.
