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❛ pairing | hvitserk x reader
❛ type | drabble
❛ summary | Reader hires a male escort– and brings him home.
❛ warnings | nsfw-ish
❛ sy's notes | I know what you're gonna say– sy, that's ken. yeah, well when marco can wear the shit outta a suit like ken i'll use him. till then, hot doppelganger.
Male escorts were a dime in a dozen.
But hot, non-awkward male escorts are rare. You hate being approached by men in socials at Kattegat's city gala. It's awkward, it's tense, and shaking them off is impossible. For the past three years, you picked up an escort here and there. Most often they ended the night without bonuses for sex.
It wasn't like you were against it or anything. If you paid for it, you wanted it. In your case– you wanted it. It was a bonus to having a good escort. The only problem was, you hadn't had a good escort.
"C'mere," you say in the elevator.
"Whatever you want," he returns.
You didn't catch his name. He doesn't press it, doesn't boast about it or make you feel the need to know it. You want to know it, pinning his shoulders back against the elevator. His hand lifts between the inside of your thighs, a click, click, click marking every floor that passed. He reaches your core, shifting the restrictive fabric of your dress up. Silky panties hide your warmth from view of others.
"Spread them," he demands. You go from whatever you want to spread them rather quickly. He slips his long fingers into your panties. Fifteenth floor, clicks the elevator. A man walks in with his wife. He pans his eyes over to them, continuing his ministrations. You've sought out solace in his chest, praying that they don't realize it's you. His musky, natural cologne sinks into your nose. He smells good– looks good, even drives a nice fucking convertible. Its leather was replaced for Italian imported stuff.
Your legs spread.
The elevator slides elegantly up the floors, only clicks tipping you off to your approaching floor. Thirty-sixth floor. You glance up to his clean-shaven jaw. His hands slip out of your panties, crime as that may be, to offer you his arm. You take his, clipping on vibrant deep red heels (as had been your favourite colour today) toward the door of your apartment. You unlock the door, glancing over your shoulder to the escort. It crosses your mind that it might be extra– but shit if you don't care. You shift the black fur over your shoulders, reaching out and tugging him by his fine, crisp black suit jacket.
"How much?" You bring him in, reaching into your purse for your wallet. His eye falls down to your purse. Rolls of paper, lipstick and a tiny bottle of perfume. He stands watching you unroll several faces of paper cash. Several hundred.
"Looks fine." He notes, stepping forward. He swipes the money from your fingertips, pinning you back. "Not that I need an excuse to pump your pussy."
He rolls the cash up, setting it into his back pocket. Then tracing the dark jewel choker you wear, he grunts in his approval. His finger shifts down, tracing your pretty skin to the neckline of your dress. "Just the cherry on top."
