Eric stood, matching her energy, letting his crystalline blue eyes meet hers with practiced intensity. "That's exactly what you're paying me for, Isabelle."
"Good." Her smile turned predatory, promising. "Then stop talking and start earning it."
Eric moved first, closing the distance between them with confident ease. His hand found the small of her back, pulling her closer as his other hand cupped her face. He kissed her slowly, taking his time, letting her taste the wine on his lips. Isabelle responded immediately, her mouth opening under his, hands gripping his shirt.
'Eager,' Eric noted. 'Starving for attention. Husband's neglect is deeper than she's letting on.'
He pulled back slightly, smiling against her lips. "Bedroom?"
"Down the hall." Her voice had gone breathy. "Last door."
Eric swept her up, making her gasp and laugh, arms wrapping around his neck. The bedroom was all king-sized luxury, Egyptian cotton sheets in cream, more floor-to-ceiling windows offering the city as backdrop. He set her down gently, then stepped back.
"Let me look at you properly," he said.
Isabelle's hands went to the tie of her robe, then hesitated. There was vulnerability in that hesitation, the flash of a woman who hadn't been truly seen in years. Eric stepped forward, his hands covering hers.
"Let me," he murmured.
He pulled the silk tie loose slowly, deliberately, maintaining eye contact. The robe fell open, revealing skin that expensive gym memberships and good genetics had kept taut and beautiful. Eric let his appreciation show in his expression, in the way his eyes traveled over her.
"Isabelle," he said, voice pitched low and sincere, "your husband is a fool."
She laughed, but it came out shaky. "You're good at this."
"I'm good at appreciating beautiful women." He slid the robe off her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet. She stood before him in black lace that probably cost more than his entire wardrobe. "And you, Isabelle, are absolutely breathtaking."
He kissed her again, deeper this time, hands exploring the curves of her waist, her hips. Isabelle moaned softly into his mouth, her own hands tugging at his shirt with increasing urgency.
"Off," she breathed between kisses. "Get this off."
Eric obliged, pulling his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. Isabelle's hands immediately mapped his chest, his abs, tracing muscle definition with obvious appreciation.
"Oh... my," she whispered. "You're perfect."
"Not quite," Eric said with a smile, "but I work hard at it."
He guided her backward toward the bed, his mouth finding her neck, that sensitive spot just below her ear. Isabelle's breath hitched, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Eric filed the information away, mental notes on what made her respond.
'Neck is sensitive. Good to know.'
They fell onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs and escalating heat. Eric's hands roamed with purpose, mapping her body, finding the places that made her gasp, made her arch into his touch. Years of experience had taught him the language of pleasure, and he was fluent.
His mouth traced a path down her throat to her collarbone. Isabelle's breathing quickened. His hands found the clasp of her bra, removing it with practiced ease. When his mouth closed over her breast, Isabelle's moan was loud enough to echo in the spacious room.
"God, yes," she gasped, hands tangling in his copper-orange hair.
Eric took his time, alternating between gentle and demanding, reading her responses like a textbook. When his hand slid lower, tracing the edge of her remaining lace, Isabelle's hips lifted involuntarily.
"Please," she whispered.
"Please what?" Eric murmured against her skin. He'd learned that making them ask, making them vocalize what they wanted, intensified everything.
"Touch me. God, please touch me."
Eric's fingers slid beneath the lace, finding her already wet and eager. He groaned appreciatively. "Isabelle, you're so ready for me."
"I've been ready since you walked through the door," she gasped as his fingers found the exact right rhythm. "Oh, fuck, right there, yes."
Eric watched her face as he worked, cataloguing every expression, every sound. Her breathing turned ragged, her hips moving in counterpoint to his hand. He adjusted pressure, angle, speed based on her responses.
"Harder," Isabelle demanded, nails raking down his back. "Don't be gentle, I don't need gentle, I need—oh God—"
Eric obliged, increasing pressure and pace. His mouth found her breast again while his fingers worked magic between her thighs. Isabelle's moans grew louder, less controlled, her body tensing.
"That's it," Eric murmured encouragement. "Let go, Isabelle. No one's here but us."
"I'm going to—Eric, I'm—"
"Cum for me," he commanded softly.
Isabelle shattered with a cry that was probably heard in the next unit, her body arching off the bed, pulsing around his fingers. Eric worked her through it, drawing out every wave until she collapsed back against the pillows, gasping.
"Holy shit," she panted. "Holy shit, Eric."
He grinned, kissing her slowly. "We're just getting started."
Eric positioned himself between her thighs, his substantial length pressing against her entrance. Isabelle's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of anticipation mixed with apprehension crossing her face.
"You're... definitely well-equipped for this line of work," she said breathlessly.
"You paid for the premium service," Eric replied with a wicked smile. "I intend to deliver."
He entered her slowly, giving her time to adjust to his size. Isabelle's gasp was sharp, her hands gripping his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
"Oh God," she moaned. "Oh my God, you're—yes—"
Eric set a rhythm, deep and measured, watching her face for signs of discomfort. There were none. Only pleasure, building with each thrust. Isabelle wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"Harder," she demanded again. "Eric, harder, I can take it."
He obliged, increasing pace and power. The bed frame creaked in protest. Isabelle's moans became rhythmic, matching his thrusts, her nails scoring lines down his back.
"Yes, yes, just like that, don't stop, don't you dare stop—"
Eric had learned that stamina was his greatest professional asset. He could maintain this pace for as long as necessary, reading her body, adjusting when she needed more, when she needed him to slow, to change angles. He shifted, lifting her hips slightly, and Isabelle cried out.
"There! Right there, oh fuck, Eric!"
He pounded into that spot relentlessly, watching her come apart beneath him. Isabelle's second orgasm hit hard and loud, her body clenching around him, her cries filling the bedroom. Eric kept moving, drawing it out, making it last.
"How are you still—" Isabelle gasped between aftershocks. "How are you not—"
"Professional training," Eric said with a grin, kissing her deeply. "And we have all night."
They moved together for what felt like hours. Eric changed positions, each one calculated to hit different angles, to provide new sensations. On her hands and knees, Isabelle screaming into the pillows. Against the floor-to-ceiling windows, her palms pressed against glass as Eric took her from behind, Stardale's lights glittering below them. In the chair by the window, Isabelle riding him with abandon, her head thrown back in ecstasy.
"Cum inside me," Isabelle finally begged, her voice hoarse from screaming. "Eric, please, I need to feel you cum."
Eric had been holding back through pure discipline, but her words, the desperation in them, finally broke his control. His thrusts became erratic, powerful, chasing his own release. When it hit, it was intense enough to make his vision white out momentarily, a groan tearing from his throat as he pulsed inside her.
They collapsed together onto the bed, both breathing hard, covered in sweat, thoroughly satisfied. Isabelle's head rested on his chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin.
"That was..." she started, then laughed. "Words fail me."
"Good," Eric murmured, genuinely exhausted. "That's the idea."
"Worth every penny and then some." Isabelle kissed his chest. "Stay the night? I'll make it worth your while."
Eric's internal alarm was blaring. Rule number one: never stay. Leave before they wake. Keep it professional, keep it clean.
But exhaustion weighed on him like a physical thing. The wine, the exertion, the genuine tiredness from hours of performance. His eyes drifted closed despite his best intentions.
'Just for a few minutes,' he told himself. 'Then I'll leave.'
Just a few minutes.
When Eric woke, sunlight was streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sound of rain that had fallen through the night had stopped, leaving the city washed and clean. He jolted upright, disoriented, his heart racing.
'Shit. Shit, shit, shit.'
Isabelle was still asleep beside him, dark hair spread across the pillow, a small smile on her face even in sleep. Eric carefully, silently, slid out of bed, gathering his scattered clothes. Jeans here, shirt there, shoes by the door where he'd kicked them off in their urgency.
He checked his phone as he dressed. 7:47 AM. A notification from his banking app showed Isabelle had sent payment while he slept, plus a tip that was generous even by his premium standards.
'Professional to the end,' he thought with grudging respect.
Time to leave before the awkwardness of morning conversation. That was the rule. Keep it clean, keep it transactional. Don't blur the lines.
Eric dressed quickly, running fingers through his messy hair. He looked appropriately disheveled, morning-after in the best way. But he needed a shower. He smelled like sex and expensive perfume, and his apartment was a thirty-minute drive away.
The bathroom was marble and chrome, the shower large enough for four people. Eric turned on the water, adjusting the temperature, then caught his reflection in the mirror while waiting for it to heat.
Same face. Same crystalline blue eyes. Same body that had become his most valuable asset.
'Another satisfied client,' he thought. 'Another stack of cash. Another step on the road to absolutely nowhere.'
He stepped into the shower, letting hot water cascade over tired muscles. Steam filled the bathroom. Eric closed his eyes, tilting his face into the spray, letting the heat work out the knots in his shoulders.
And then he heard it.
RIIIIIIIIIIING!
The sound was sharp, piercing, impossibly loud inside his skull. It wasn't external. It was internal, resonating through his brain like someone had struck a tuning fork directly against bone. Eric's hands flew to his ears instinctively, pressing hard, but it didn't help. The sound was coming from inside.
"Ah, fuck!" Pain lanced through his temples. His teeth ached from the frequency.
RIIIIIIIIIIING!
Five seconds that felt like eternity. Then, abruptly, silence.
Eric stood frozen in the shower, water still running, breathing hard. His ears rang with phantom echoes. His heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to escape.
'What the hell was that?' Panic crept in at the edges. Stroke? Aneurysm? Some delayed drug reaction?
He blinked water from his eyes.
And froze completely.
There was something in front of him. Floating in the air between him and the shower wall. Not physical. Not possible.
A translucent screen, glowing faint blue, hovering in the steam like something out of a science fiction movie. Eric blinked hard, once, twice, three times. The screen remained, crystal clear despite the water, despite the steam, despite every law of physics that said it shouldn't exist.
He reached out tentatively. His hand passed through it without resistance. No substance. No physical form.
'Hallucination,' his analytical mind supplied desperately. 'Has to be. Drug interaction. Psychotic break. Brain tumor.'
But the screen stayed there, solid in its impossibility. And then text appeared, flowing across the translucent surface in clean, digital letters.
Eric stood there, naked, dripping, staring at impossible words floating in his shower. His analytical brain, the one that had earned him a PhD, tried desperately to rationalize what he was seeing. Failed completely.
His mouth worked soundlessly for several seconds before he finally found his voice.
"What," he croaked, "the actual fuck?"
The screen pulsed once, then text appeared across its surface.
‐‐‐
Welcome, Eric Reid-Leveson... Congratulations on reaching 1000 body counts.
‐‐‐
Eric's breath caught in his throat. The water continued to cascade over him, but he barely felt it. His mind raced, trying to process what he was seeing. How did it know his name? How did it know the exact number?
The text faded like smoke, replaced by new words that materialized letter by letter.
‐‐‐
You have successfully unlocked the Debauchery System.
‐‐‐
Eric stared at the glowing screen, water running down his face, completely and utterly dumbfounded. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"What... the actual fuck?" he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper.
The screen glowed softly in response, waiting, offering no explanations.
Just a promise that Eric Reid-Leveson's life was about to change in ways he couldn't possibly imagine.