I hand the car keys to the parking valet, nod to the porter who opens the door for me, and walk into the spacious lobby of the Ritz-Carlton. I can’t believe I’m doing this—me who’s only ever felt pity and revulsion for the pea-brained Barbie dolls who fancy themselves glamorous seductresses.

When Russia plunged into a crisis that followed the collapse of the communist regime, the majority of the population fell on very hard times. I was in my freshman year. Three of my classmates were selling their bodies so they could buy stylish clothes. They were the “it” girls. They sported Walkmans and Levi’s jeans when the rest of us mended our socks over and over again, until they disintegrated beyond repair.

At the end of the year, one of those girls was beaten to death and tossed into a dumpster. Her best friend became a heroin junkie. I can only hope the third one made it into adulthood without suffering irreparable damage…

I halt in the middle of the lobby.

What the fuck am I doing here, going against all my principles, preparing to spend the night in the arms of a call girl? Have I gone crazy?

I spin around, make a beeline for the exit—and freeze a few meters short of my target, as Anna steps in. She’s wearing blue jeans tucked into pretty leather boots, a down jacket with a fur-trimmed hood, and a fluffy red scarf around her neck. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes bright from the cold. She pushes back her hood, removes her earmuffs and gloves, and rubs her frozen hands together.

I forget who I am and what I intended to do just a minute ago, because right now I ache to pull her close and press a hot kiss to her mouth. After that, I want to hold her hands, bring them to my face and warm them with my breath. And after that…

Anna looks up and spots me ogling her. “Hi there,” she says with a winsome smile.

I smile back. Actually, I don’t smile—I grin. “Let me take your coat.”

“Thank you.”

A few moments later we’re seated in the coziest, most private corner of the hotel’s bar.

“What would you like to drink?” I ask when a waiter turns up at our table.

“A martini would be nice.”

“Make it two,” I say to the waiter.

“It’s really nice here,” she says, looking around.

“You deserve the best.”

“Did you just flatter me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

She hesitates. “You have the reputation of—how shall I put it—someone who’s…”

“Mildly unpleasant?” I offer.

“Uh-huh.”

“So you’ve heard about me.”

“I did my due diligence.”

I raise my eyebrow. “How very circumspect for a—”

“Call girl?” She gives me a fleeting smile.

“Yes.”

She shrugs. “Well, I’m an elite call girl. I’ve developed the habit of researching new clients while I wait for my nail polish to dry.”

“Is that when you also listen to Gershwin?”

Her lips twitch, and tiny laugh lines appear in the corners of her eyes.

For a second there, I feel like my existence just acquired a new purpose—bringing out those laugh lines in the corners of Anna’s eyes.

Then I remember who she is and why we’re here.

“I’ve booked the penthouse suite,” I say. “I am told it offers a great view on the Red Square.”

Her smile vanishes. She nods and drains her glass.

I follow suit and we head for the elevator.

As we walk through the hallway, looking for our room, we’re both silent, and I try to come up with an action plan. The truth is I have no clue how to handle this situation. I’m awkward with women—a deficiency I chalk up to too many years as a computer geek. Even now, having become rich, decent-looking and powerful, I haven’t acquired any of the smoothness that distinguishes a ladies’ man. I’m too brusque and heavy-handed even with my little girl whom I love more than anything in the world. I know she cares for me too, but I suspect she considers me… uncool.

And now I’m about to find myself alone with a woman whom I’ve paid to have sex with. What do you say in such situations? Do you need to say anything at all?

We enter the suite, and I open the heavy curtains to verify the manager’s claim. The view is truly spectacular. I take in the masterfully illuminated historical buildings of the Red Square. My eyes glide over the Kremlin’s red bricks and linger on the onion-shaped domes of Saint Basil’s Cathedral. As always, I’m mesmerized by their harmony, by how their twisted stripes of green, yellow, white, and blue form a permanent firework display against the night sky.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” Anna says and disappears into the bathroom.

Two minutes later, I hear her light steps and spin around. She’s walking toward me, barefoot—a sensual vision in black silk. Her slip is lace-trimmed, flowy, and sheer enough to suggest she isn’t wearing anything underneath it.

I swallow and lean back on a console table. With glee, I watch her every step, every little sway of her hips, every tiny swing of her delicious breasts. I’m enthralled. My muscles flex and all my senses heighten.

I’m also fully and conspicuously erect.

She halts in front of me and peers into my eyes. I discern a splatter of pale freckles across her chest and shoulders. She smells heavenly. I have no idea what perfume it is, but it’s fresh and sweet and enticing.

Just like her.

I don’t move. I’m going to let her lead this dance.

She stands on tiptoe and whispers, her lips almost touching mine, “Do you have any special preferences or needs that I should be aware of?”

“No.” My voice comes out so coarse I can hardly recognize it.

“OK, then.”

She lowers herself slowly, keeping her head tilted up and her eyes trained on mine. As soon as she’s on her knees, she places her hand on my bulge.

On an impulse, I grip her shoulders and pull her up to her feet.

She gives me a quizzical look, but the thing is, I have no idea why I just denied myself an exquisite pleasure. I want it all right, I want everything she can offer, but not like this—not when I’m fully clothed and she’s… exposed and on her knees before me.

“Later,” I say and brush my lips over her temple, her elegant jawline, her neck, and the hollow between her clavicles. I hook my finger under the right strap of her slip and tug. With the strap out of the way, I kiss every single freckle on her slender shoulder and the spaces between them.

I love the feel of her skin, and I can’t help wondering what her lips and her tongue would taste like. But I push those thoughts away. I’ve read that sex workers don’t like to French kiss. They find it too intimate.

When I’m done with her shoulders, Anna leans into my chest, tilts her head up, and locks her gaze with mine. Her expressive eyes betray a host of emotions—incredulity, warmth, sadness… I’m nearly hypnotized when she shuts her eyes and whispers, “Kiss me.”

I cradle her face with both my hands and press my lips to hers. I nibble at their soft, delectable flesh, tease them apart, and thrust my tongue inside. As I kiss her, it occurs to me that I may be too rough, but I can’t help it. I push in deeper, holding the back of her head, my other hand on her back. She responds with ardor, wrapping one of her legs around my thigh so we can be even closer, touch even more. I drink in her incomparable taste, as my hands slide down to the small of her back and then her derrière.

Sweet Jesus.

I haven’t been so hungry for a woman in years. She’s making me wild. I break the kiss and back her to the bed. She climbs on it, then faces me and tugs at the lapels of my suit jacket. I pull it off and throw it on a nearby chair. Anna unbuttons and peels off my shirt, after which her deft fingers undo my belt buckle and unzip my trousers. I push them down along with my boxers. It takes me no more than ten seconds to kick off my shoes and remove my socks. When I look up, her head is tilted to the side, and she’s ogling my body appreciatively.

Now I’m the one at a disadvantage, because I’m stark naked while she still has her silky number on, the minx.

I gather the hem of her slip and slowly push the fabric up against her thighs.

She watches me, motionless.

“I like this garment,” I say. “I really do. But it’s got to go.”

She nods, her lips quirking into an amused smile. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t you sir me, Anna,” I warn her and continue pushing her slip up, higher and higher until it’s around her waist.

Then I look at what I’ve revealed and immediately look away in the vain hope to calm down. But the image of her toned tummy, lithe thighs, and the treasure between them is so vivid and clear in my mind’s eye that I may as well turn back and stare some more. My hand is itching to reach out and cup her, but I’m afraid that if I do, I might lose what remains of my control and embarrass myself like a first-timer.

I can’t believe what she’s doing to me.

“Or else what?” she asks, her eyes full of mischief.

It takes me a few seconds to connect her question to my earlier warning about sir-ing me.

“Or else”—I give her a hard stare that dampens her hilarity—“I’ll call you Anna Banana.”

She blinks and then bursts out in laughter.

As I watch her giggle, a wave of strange, completely unexpected pleasure washes over me. Must be the glee of anticipation mixed with the pride in the effect of my quip.

Only… there’s also something else, something I can’t quite pinpoint.

She wipes her eyes and takes a few slow breaths. “That is the most ridiculous and adorable threat I’ve received in the last two months.”

My pleasure vanishes. “What happened two months ago? Why are you getting threats? Who’s threatening you?”

She shakes her head in wonder. “What does it matter? Forget it, Anton. It’s nothing, really.”

“Answer me.”

She sighs. “Fine. Two months ago, I started doing this. Selling my body. That’s what happened, OK?”

“OK. And the threats?”

“Mostly things that are supposed to humiliate me to various degrees or inflict mild pain. No death threats. Just fantasies spoken out loud.” She gives me a bright smile. “As I said, nothing to write home about.”

I look at her slim, delicate body, and something heavy fills my chest. I wish I hadn’t insisted. I wish she hadn’t told me about the humiliations and “mild pain” her clients wanted her to suffer.

Then I correct myself. I shouldn’t say “her clients.” I should say “her other clients.”

Anna seems to sense the change in my mood. She draws closer and puts her arms around my neck. “I was having a good time. Can we go back to where we were before the ‘sir’ mishap?”

As she speaks, her silky groin presses against mine, and everything else becomes irrelevant. My hand acquires a will of its own and cups her, my palm rubbing, my index finger pushing inside, coaxing her sighs and whimpers. She grips my neck and throws her head back. I revel in her response, in the knowledge that she wants me with an intensity that matches mine. It’s not just her flushed cheeks, diluted pupils, and guttural moans that tell me how aroused she is. I hold much more tangible, exhilarating proof of her desire in my hand.

My fingers are soaked in proof.

It shouldn’t really matter, and I shouldn’t care, considering our circumstances. But it does. And I do. Very much, indeed.

“I have condoms in my purse,” she says.

“I got some, too, in the pocket of my trousers.”

We grin at each other and then she says. “Let’s use yours. Unless they’re caviar-flavored.”

“Please. I may be an archetypal Russian nouveau riche, and caviar is certainly very much part in my daily life, but not during sex.”

“That’s my boy.”

We stop joking after that. In fact, we hardly say anything at all for the next hour, letting our bodies communicate instead. Which they do with gusto and dedication. They talk to each other of passion and tenderness, of lust that builds to a fever pitch, and then of glorious release. They rub, knead, kiss, lick, suckle, and bite. When their hunger is sated, they just touch—legs entwined and hands interlocked.

This is precisely when I realize a shocking truth: Right now, in this bed with this woman, I’m almost religiously serene and at complete peace with the universe.

When I wake up in the morning, Anna is in the shower. I grab my phone, prop myself up against a pillow, and check my voice mails and emails. Ten minutes later, she steps into the room, wearing a white bathrobe and smelling of lavender and honey. I want her again. But I have a meeting at nine with my marketing team, and I don’t like showing up late.

It’s either quick sex or a quick breakfast. I opt for the breakfast—the sex will wait until next time. Because, in spite of all my misgivings about this situation, I have decided there’ll be a next time. On Saturday.

“Good morning.” She smiles and gives me an expectant look.

“They serve fantastic breakfast here,” I say. “Can you be ready in twenty minutes?”

She nods, and I head to the bathroom.

The breakfast is good, indeed—a substantial yet refined morning meal one can expect at every Ritz-Carlton on this planet.

As I work through my omelet, a foolish but irresistible idea hits me. I beckon to the server who takes my extravagant order without blinking an eye.

I turn to Anna. “The caviar curfew is lifted.”

“Must we?” She screws up her face in the most adorable fashion.

“I’m afraid we must.”

“OK.” She sighs, but the laugh lines betray her amusement. “As long as you don’t insist I eat it with a spoon.”

“You can eat it any way you like. Personally, I prefer it on buttered toast.”

“Why, that’s a brilliant idea.” A full-blown, toothy, dimply smile spreads across her lovely face.

I could stare at it all day.

“Since we’re being decadent this morning,” she says, “I’m going to ask for soy milk when our waiter returns.”

“You’re pushing it.”

“I know. But when in Ritz, do as the Ritzniks do.”

I chuckle and then blurt, “Why are you doing this, Anna?”

“What? Ordering soy milk?” She’s still smiling, but the laugh lines are gone. She’s too perceptive to have missed my meaning.

“You obviously have the brains for a more”—I pause, looking for the right word— “respectable occupation.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” she retorts.

My stare gets a notch harder.

She shrugs. “It’s elementary, Watson. I do it for the money.”

“Until two months ago you managed without it. What changed?”

She looks away for a moment. When she turns back, her gaze is every bit as hard as mine. “You’ve paid for sex, not for confessions.”

It’s my turn to look away. I’m furious, but she has a point.

“I’d like to see you on Saturday night,” I say, fixing her with my stare again.

“Of course.”

I should be satisfied by her immediate and unequivocal consent, but instead, it aggravates me. I hate how docile and dispassionate it sounds.

I abhor the subtext that it implies.