The trouble with escorts.

“Bren pulled away. ‘Who do you think she’s talking to?’ She was rubbing Reuben through his gray wool trousers the same slow way she’d been kissing him.

“His hands were under her skirt, rubbing her through her underwear, which felt like lacy Braille stretched over warm moss. ‘I think they have check-in policies. Like, I’m here. If you don’t hear from me again in an hour, call the cops.’

“Bren inhaled sharply; he was touching her just right. ‘Probably not the cops.’

“‘Okay, not the cops.’”
Tom Bissel, “Creative Types

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