The only time in my life that I've felt in love is when I'm with Marcus. I love the way that he says my name, the way that he laughs at my jokes. I love the way that he buys me dinner at my favorite restaurant every month. I do not love him and he does not love me but whenever I'm with him, I feel in love.

There's a difference between feeling it and actually having it. I don't love him because I only feel in love with him when I'm physically with him. On dates, in bed, talking to him. But the second that he's gone, it's like he was never even there.

He's handsome but a little bit older than me. He likes to drink scotch with his steak and he talks about business. He's tall, he's got a bright smile and a rounded nose, his eyes are a dark brown surrounded by very noticeable crow's feet. He's very rich and he loves to show that off with his fancy suits, expensive watches and cars, and the way that he commands every space that he's in.

"Samantha," He uses my whole name, which nobody ever does, and that is something else that I love about him. "You look absolutely incredible tonight."

I offer him a flirty smile and sip on my martini. "You don't look so bad yourself."

"How's your brother?" He starts with small talk as he sips on his first glass of scotch. It's a routine for us by now so I know that in total, he'll have three glasses during dinner and one after. "About to start high school, if I remember?"

"He is," I confirm with a nod. "He's nervous but excited. And very moody, which I assume is how all fourteen-year-old boys are."

"That's very true," Marcus agrees with me. He looks at his phone because although this is Saturday night, he does have a business to run and always needs to check his phone. "I was definitely a little trouble-maker when I was fourteen."

"Oh, god, I do not want to know what you were up to when you were fourteen," I laugh and cringe at the same time. "I'm already paranoid enough about what he's going to be getting into, I have a feeling that you would make that so much worse."

"You're probably right," He lets out a deep chuckle that shakes his whole, broad chest. "I won't say a thing. And I'm sure you don't have anything to worry about, he's a good kid."

"Yeah, he is," I nod. "And how's Melony?"

Marcus laughs a deep laugh and flashes his white teeth. "I still can't believe you remember my daughter's name, every time."

I take another drink of my martini and then say, "You're my favorite, Marcus. Always have been." And that's why I remember everything about him, all of the stories that he's told me over the time that we've known each other. His daughter's name is Melony, his ex-wife's name is Sandra. I remember that Sandra has custody of Melony on weekdays but she comes to his place on weekends. It was an amicable divorce five years ago because they were too engulfed in their work to have time for each other.

"She's good," He says with another bright smile. "Thankfully not in the teen years yet but she's getting there."

"I was a good kid when I was a teenager," I recall from my childhood. It was rough but I stayed strong and I was a good kid.

"Really?" He seems suspicious.

"I was," I insist. "When I was fourteen, I was a straight-A student, with my foster parents, taking care of my brother. I got a waitressing job when I was fifteen and then when I was sixteen, I learned how to flirt for better tips. That's when my trouble really started."

"Never let Mel get a waitressing job. Noted," He says jokingly. "Her mom just got her into music lessons, actually. She seems to really like the violin."

"That's sweet," I smile at him. "I remember that I used to want to play the clarinet because of Squidward but that never panned out. I guess time just got away from me."

"So what exactly is it that you do when you're not working?" He asks me curiously.

"I'm always working," I inform him. "My brother is basically a full-time job in itself, especially in the summer when I have to entertain him 24/7, and I'm always shopping too. Appearance in my field is pretty important, I'm sure you can imagine. I do yoga, just to keep myself sane."

"And bendy," He adds.

"Yeah," I agree with a small laugh. The well-dressed waiter brings us our food. It's the same that we get every month. He got his large, expensive steak and I got the mushroom ravioli because it's my favorite food at my favorite restaurant and I absolutely live for this dish. "And bendy."

"I'm sorry," Marcus insists but he's smiling and doesn't look apologetic at all. "You know that I have to get in my one pervy joke a night."

"I can live with that," I start to dig into my ravioli as he cuts up his steak. "I've missed this food so much."

"You say that every time we come here," He observes with an entertained smile. I love his smile.

"Because I always miss the food here," I inform him. "I only come here with you."

"That makes me feel special," He says with a smile. He always looks so happy when we're together and I don't know if that's because he's just a happy person in general or if he's just happy to see me. I know that it doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things but I'd like to believe that it's because of me. Because I feel happier around him too.

"You are special," I assure him. I say that to almost everybody that I meet but with him, I really mean it. He is special to me; I always look forward to our monthly dates, the ravioli and martinis and a nice, real conversation over dinner with slow music playing live in the background.

He looks skeptical and I don't blame him. He knows what I do, he knows that I probably say that a lot, to many people, but I don't think that there's any way that I can really show him that I mean it. But just how I will never know if he only smiles for me, he will never know how special he is. Because it will never really matter.

On his second glass of scotch, we're talking about his business. He likes to talk about his business, about his family. He likes to be heard because there's nobody really around him that will just sit and listen to him. And so I sit and I listen. Last month, he didn't like Sandra's new boyfriend but tonight, he's talking about how happy he is that they broke up. The new boyfriend apparently liked alcohol a little bit too much and so he's out of the picture.

He talks about the business and how it's doing so well that the stocks are skyrocketing. It's a tech company working in networking hardware and that's about all that I know about it. It's a huge company that Marcus built from the ground up with his two brothers and it's how he got all of the money that he has today.

He asks about me only to be polite but there's not much to talk about with me. And because I know that he likes to talk more than he likes to listen, I keep my answers short and concise. I tell him about running into a violent homeless man on the metro the other day but I kicked his ass before he could mug me. I tell him about one of my friends turning 21 two weeks ago and how we went out to celebrate that.

But mostly, I just listen. I look at his face when he talks, letting a whole month of stress just wash away. He builds it up inside all month because nobody else will really listen to him. To just be here and listen and understand what's going on with him. Even when I don't understand what he's talking about, whether it's about the technology or about business practices, I sometimes get so lost in his jargon that I can only nod and listen even though I have no idea what he's really saying.

Marcus is really smart, graduated from MIT and then built this company that he owns. I never even made it through high school so I don't have a lot of book smarts, definitely not enough to keep up with him.

But I still love hearing him talk about these things, even if I can't understand what he's saying, because I like to be the person that he turns to. I like being the one that he feels comfortable enough around to let everything go that has been bothering him all week.

A lot of people want that sort of level of comfort with somebody. In this world, there are a lot of lonely people. A lot of sad people who just want somebody to hear them. They don't want a therapist who tries to give them advice, breathing techniques, and solutions. They just want somebody to listen to their stories, their problems, their fears, and tell them that they understand. Tell them that it's going to be okay.

A lot of people want to be heard. They want to talk and they want somebody to understand what they're saying. I'm that person for many people in this city. I listen and I don't give solutions, I don't tell them to take a breath or suggest that they confront their issues. I just nod, I laugh, I flirt, and I listen. I tell them that I understand what they're saying and that it's all going to be okay.

By the time that Marcus is on his third glass of scotch, I can tell that he feels much more relaxed. I think that it's both because of the alcohol and because he feels better now, after being heard. He's released all of his problems into the air and I was there to soak them in. He feels better now.

I finish my ravioli and get a second martini but I only drink two. It's starting to get late and dinner is wrapping up so once he finishes his steak and his last glass of scotch, we'll be leaving the restaurant. I smile at him as I listen to him tell me how his daughter is doing in school and a project that she's working on. I run my foot up and down his leg under the table so that my bare ankle rubs against his pant leg.

So he drinks his scotch and talks about his life. I finish my martini and I listen because I'm so good at listening. And then Marcus, being the gentleman that he is, pays for dinner and we leave the restaurant.

The convenient thing about this restaurant is that it's inside of a nice hotel. The fancy kind that only the richest type of people can afford—people like Marcus—and he already had a room upstairs on the eleventh floor.

"I know you like the top floors," Marcus tells me as we're in the elevator. I adjust my short dress because it's so tight that as we were sitting at our dinner table, it had ridden up my thighs a little bit. "But I almost forgot to book the room and everything at the top was already full."

"Don't worry about it," I assure him because although we didn't get a top floor, I still appreciate the fact that he remembers my preference.

He checks his phone and I glance over to see that he's bringing up his bank account. "I heard that your rates went up."

"Not for you," I promise Marcus, looping my arm around his. We're the only two in the elevator as it slowly carries us up the eleven stories.

"You're in high demand?" He wonders. "Not surprising, you are wonderful. Anyway, the money is transferred."

Although I trust that he's paid me, he shows me his phone anyway so that I can see that he just transferred the agreed upon price for the night. Because handling ten grand in cash gets a little bit obvious, we do it virtually.

Once we get out of the elevator and down the hall, we arrive at the right room and we go inside. Marcus doesn't like to rush things, likes to take his time. He likes to believe that this is a real date with a real girl that he really does love. Instead of only feeling love for a few hours before it vanishes. He likes to be a gentleman, always, and he doesn't ever make me feel cheap.

Well, for ten grand a night, I'm not cheap.

That's one of the reasons that I feel in love when I'm with him, why he's special and one of my favorite clients. Because he makes me feel like this is a real thing and not just a business. A service that I am providing. He doesn't just use me and then throw me aside like most of my clients do.

So when we get into the hotel room, he pours himself his fourth glass of scotch like he does every time we do this and starts drinking it as he takes a seat on the couch. I sit down beside him.

"This room is nice," I tell him, looking out the window that looks over Washington D.C. and it's nighttime so everything is lit up. It looks so beautiful even just from eleven stories up. "The eleventh floor isn't so bad."

"I'm glad," He chuckles, wrapping his arm around my waist. "When do you have to leave?"

"I'm here all night," I remind him.

"And in the morning?"

"Before ten," I decide. "I have to take Casey shopping for dorm furniture."

"Right, he's going to Van Latten's," He remembers. I love that he remembers that. I rarely ever tell my clients real things about myself, especially things about my brother, but I trust Marcus and I like talking to him. Maybe a little bit too much. "It's a good school."

"Yeah, it's also a boarding school so we have to go buy everything," I explain to him. "I'll wake you up to say goodbye."

He kisses my cheek, "You know, if you treat every guy like this, I can completely understand why your rates went up."

"I told you, you're special," I remind him. I don't even spend the night with most of my clients, they pay by the hour. Except for Marcus, who pays a ten-grand flat rate for the entire night.

"Yeah, I know, but I'm sure you say that to everybody. It's part of your job to make us feel special," He informs me with a long sigh.

"It is," I agree with him. "But you're the real deal kind of special."

"Alright, and why is that?" He wonders curiously.

"Because you don't treat me like a whore," I explain. "I know that I am but it's nice to be treated like I'm not every once in a while. We don't just get a hotel room for a few hours and then move on; you buy me dinner and listen to me talk, you tell me about your life, you smile when I smile. And then when we come up here, we don't just get to it, we sit here on this little couch while you drink your scotch and we look out this window. And then when we're done sitting on this couch, you don't treat me like you own me.

"Because almost everybody thinks that this is just a service and that I'm not entitled to anything, which I'm not. You don't go to a restaurant, buy your meal, and then give the chef a dinner in return. This is a service, I am servicing you, but you don't act like that. You treat me like this is real, like we're a couple and like you care about this going both ways."

"Okay, now that's a bit more convincing," He says with a deep chuckle.

"You're a good guy, Marcus," I inform him. "Not many people that I meet in my line of work are good guys."

He finishes his scotch and sits the empty glass down on the table beside the couch that we're sitting on. "You're good too. Now take off your dress."

Another reason that Marcus is different than the other clients that I work with is that everything is real. I don't tell him that though.

Men like to believe that they're good in the sack, at making a girl feel good. And so I've mastered the art of making them think that they're good at it. Faking moans, breathing heavily, making them think that I've had an orgasm, that I'm having the best night of my life.

But with Marcus, none of it is fake. Everything from the panting to the moaning is real. When I scream for Marcus, it's a real scream and when I'm writhing on the bed underneath of him, it isn't because I'm good at my job, it's because he's making me fucking squirm. I sweat, I beg, I claw, I orgasm like there is no tomorrow. And it's real, all of it.

He's not the only man to ever make it real but he's one of the most memorable, one of the best I've ever come across.

I like that he thinks that I'm a good person, even though he knows that this is what I do for a living. This is how I support myself and my brother, by selling myself. I like that he doesn't judge me because of that, and I think that he likes that I don't judge him for using an escort service.

I like that I feel in love with Marcus, even if it's just for one night a month and not at all real.