Across the table, I watch a smile play across your face. The restaurant bustles around us but I know you are looking only at me. My lipstick is immaculate but you are remembering how, just an hour ago, it was smudged messily around my lips. My hair hangs in smooth waves and you think of the tousled mane in which your fingers tangled not long ago.

If you’ve ventured this far, seeking out a London escort, reading this blog post, perhaps planning to meet me, I’ll hazard a guess you’re not conventional. Well, neither am I! And if we’re willing to upend social mores, let’s go the whole way and shake up the dinner-play tradition. Of course, anticipation is hot, but so too is the afterglow of intimacy. As a connoisseur of such things, I stand by my assertion: it is better to play before dinner!

Imagine the evening. You turn up at my London apartment and I greet you in lingerie and a robe. A shimmer of silk, a whisper of lace; tantalising in the way it both hides and enhances my body. I guide you to the sofa and pop open the champagne. The rest of the world disappears. I sense the anticipation that radiates from your body to mine. I feel your eyes wandering down past my breasts, the smooth skin of my stomach, the curve of my thighs. You run your fingers up the line of my suspenders, enjoying the contrast of straps on tender flesh. I squirm, unable to control myself. I loosen your tie and climb astride you on the sofa, enjoying your appreciation of me, enjoying the power exchange: you, fully clothed; me, almost naked.

I press my lips onto yours and we kiss deeply. I unbutton your shirt and run my hands over your chest. You pull me closer, slipping the strap from my bra so my breasts spill out and into your mouth. You can’t wait any longer. You unbutton your trousers, slip my panties to one side, feeling my wetness…

When reality finally cuts through the heady, erotic place we escaped to, we find ourselves lying on my bed, exhausted and intertwined. Evening light stripes our bodies in gold and we stay there, idly chatting, touching each other with the wonderment of new lovers.

Eventually, a more prosaic form of hunger beckons and we drag ourselves from the bed and into the shower, our dripping bodies still close. Your phone goes off, and it’s the taxi driver who’s come to chauffeur us to dinner. Sheepishly, we scamper to get ready, having lost track of time. With a knowing smirk, the driver speeds off and we make our way into the heat of London. We head to a favourite restaurant. Sitting opposite each other, we sip wine and smile our secrets. It’s impossible not to romanticise the occasion.

The food is delicious and the conversation flows like wine. We laugh and share stories we’ve never told. Our legs graze under the table and the jolt of electricity reminds us of the wildness we experienced just hours before. I love this contrast: the ultimate propriety and etiquette of a high-end restaurant juxtaposed with the messy, animal debauchery of a sexual encounter. Give me both and that is my bliss.