Lights Out

By Amy Temple

Some secrets only come out at night...

A love story between two unforgettable women

Kayla is on a mission. She's dragged herself back from disgrace and been hired by the best brothel in London. She dreams of founding her own high-class, body-positive, inclusive brothel where her clients can find their true selves. Any hint of an indiscretion will see her madam kick her right back on to the streets.

But when she arrives at her last-chance job and meets the stunning Sally, everything changes.

The attraction between them is instant and sizzling. But office romances are always dangerous, especially when you live and work side-by-side and work is almost as hot as play. Tiptoeing to each other after lights out is dizzying and delicious, though Sally could destroy Kayla's dream, her future and her heart with a single word.

When the remains of Kayla's family come to her desperate for help, suddenly losing her job isn't just about giving up on her own dream. For the first time, Kayla has a family who needs her. But can she turn her back on the deepest passion she's ever known?

Lights Out is the story of what happens when sex, love and power meet, after dark.

This is a love story of two bi women and is high heat. Read on if that's your thing!

Content warnings: mental illness themes, references to self-harming behaviours and suicide ideation/attempts off-page

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy Temple
• Release date: Apr 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215312513

Book preview

1

IT'S NOT EXACTLY USUAL to arrive at your new job carrying two suitcases and wearing high heels. It was a relief to have a cab driver to help me with my luggage this time.

Is this an Air BnB or something? he asked, craning his neck to look at the front of the building on Rose Street.

No, I said. I'm staying with a friend from college. I'd said this so many times over the previous month, when it had been true, that it didn't feel like a lie.

He took his time driving off, so I began to make my way up the path of the nearest house before the black bulbous shape of his taxi vanished around the corner.

As soon as he was out of view, I retraced my steps and walked the remaining hundred yards to the house I was actually bound for. He would probably forget about me within five minutes, but it's always best to be careful.

The house looked as nice as I remembered, the typically London Victorian facade betraying no hint of the large extension to the rear.

I rang the doorbell and waited. I could hear female voices inside. I tried to pick out a familiar one. Cara maybe, the sweet brunette with the corkscrew curls who had shown me around on my last visit.

But no, it was Madeleine who opened the door.

The madam of the biggest, best brothel in London, and my new boss.

She smiled more when she saw me than she had for the full hour she spent interviewing me last week.

It's good to see you, Kayla, she said.

It's good to be here, I replied, which was an understatement. It was impossible to work from my friend's spare bedroom, and I missed my work.

I know how that must sound. But trust me.

Madeleine indicated a corner where I could leave my suitcases.

Come and meet rest of the girls.

I followed her into the living room, conscious of the loud sound my high-heeled shoes made on the floor of the hallway until they sank into the rich wool rug in the living room. The living room was best described as sumptuous – thick, claret-coloured curtains that I knew would let no light escape once they were drawn. Three long sofas upholstered in a soft shade of mink lined the room, leaving one wall bare but for the large TV. There were four girls lounging on the couches, legs kicked over the side or stretched out in front of them, hands cradling cups of tea or flicking magazine pages or combing out manes of hair. For the moment I saw them as a single unit, and picked none of them out individually.

It was a struggle not to reach down and untwist the stocking that was gradually moving in a maddening circle around my upper thigh.

What possessed me to dress like this today? I thought. I look like a businesswoman. The others will think I'm a snob.

But I'd wanted to make a good impression.

This part always reminded me of boarding school – arriving in a closed environment full of girls, all keen to be the most beautiful, the smartest, the best dressed, the most desirable. I had become so attuned to the atmosphere in all-female spaces that I could practically smell the raw competition in the air. I had made some good friends in the business over the years – well, adequate friends – but I had also learned that no one ever respects you unless they gasp when you walk into a room for the first time. They may like the cute girl, but they'll only respect someone stunning.

I wasn't born stunning, but I can do striking, at the very least. I'm five nine without heels, six feet with them, and I wear my hair long and straight down my back. It has the colour and sheen of a polished conker, and so it should, because I spend enough time and money making it look that way. My build is slim and I work out, so I can wear anything without fear of an undulating curve messing up the line of a top or a dress and forcing the fabric to cling where it should fall. Truth be told, I wouldn't mind a few soft, sexy curves that clients could sink their fingers into, but that's not what I have to work with. I was made in the slender and commanding mould and that's the strength I play to, regardless of how I feel about it. Physically, I do the best I can with what I have.

It's my job.

I could feel the cool, assessing glances lasting only a fraction of a second before the pleasant smiles and casual little waves. I smiled back, as widely and genuinely as I could. They had a moment to take in the overall impression, and I had sensed the fleeting instant of evaluative silence. Now I could relax and be nice.

And take off the bloody pencil skirt, hopefully, sometime soon.

Madeleine was smiling too. I knew that, regardless of how much she liked me, I wouldn't be kept on unless her girls warmed to me.

I won't bombard you with everyone's names, Madeleine said. I don't want to overwhelm you on your first day! Have a seat there by Cara and make yourself at home.

Cara remembered me and introduced me around. She touched my arm as she spoke and was barely ever still in her chair. I had a sudden, comical vision of her clients asking if they could tie her down just so they could avoid falling off her.

"Did you have an awful time packing your stuff? Cara asked me, and without waiting for an answer, she continued. It drives me nuts about this line of work – isn't it such a pain having to keep your wardrobe down to, like, two or three suitcases? I started to answer, but she continued again. And it's not like you just live to work, either. I like to cook so I've got, like, dozens of cookbooks and pans and whatnot, and I just decided, y'know, it's a bit awkward, but I told my sister I was renting a studio and asked if I could leave them in her place. She's got three kids so she had to move to this giant house in the middle of nowhere. . ."

I figured that Cara was unlikely to pause for breath before Christmas, so I indulged myself in a brief glance at the other girls while she was talking. Kimberly was the girl with super-short platinum hair, a faded Rolling Stones t-shirt that clung to her slender frame and a tribal tattoo inked on her upper arm. Beside her was Sandrine, whose olive skin and full lips I envied. Some women have a quality to them that suggests an excess of womanliness – a lush figure, plump lips, a warm light-brownish sheen to the skin. If I could wave a magic wand and change my appearance, I'd fix it so that my Italian heritage overshadowed the English. In spite of my dark hair, a lifetime spent in England had left my skin the colour of tea with milk in it.

I stole a look at the fourth girl.

She was on the other couch, opposite Sandrine. Her feet were crossed on the arm of the couch and her body lay across the cushions, her rich blonde hair in a twist beneath her head. I couldn't tell if she truly had the most beautiful body I had ever seen, or if it was simply the way her supine posture had rearranged her curves, but I had completely stopped thinking in a logical or rational enough manner to imagine her upright. I had only one thought in my mind.

Do not get caught staring at her.

I started at the gentle hand on my arm and was shocked to feel warmth shoot from my bare forearm to the spot where my thighs met under my skirt.

I turned to see Madeleine. You must want to get settled, Kayla. Sally, will you show her up?

2

SALLY, IT TURNED OUT, was the vision who had been reclining on the couch. She sprang up at Madeleine's instruction and gave me a wide grin. It was so totally unlike her slouchy, lazy posture on the couch that I instantly reevaluated my impression of her as the resident rebel. Every brothel has one.

It's usually me.

So have you done this before, then? Sally asked me, as she picked up my second suitcase. It was heavy and she extended her arms in a long V and clasped the handle in both of her hands. Her breasts crushed against her arms and again, all I could think of was the necessity of drawing my eyes away.

Yeah, I said. I was in my last house for four years.

Cool, Sally said. So we don't need to give you the newbie talk. That's always nice.

She took to the stairs in front of me, her pace quickening as she adapted to the weight of my suitcase.

I struggled to keep up. Not just because I had the heavier case, but because she was wearing a fitted denim miniskirt that crept tantalisingly higher as she took each step. She wore no tights and the sight of her smooth thighs just a foot from my face was the most delicious, exquisite torture.

Although I had barely been able to take my eyes off her, I felt I hadn't yet seen her properly. I knew her smile was wide, her hair was gold and her thighs were broad and perfect, but I wanted more. I wanted her to stand before me and do nothing but let me look at her. I wanted the freedom to stare at her from every angle – clothed or unclothed, I didn't care – and meditate on her beauty, figure out exactly what it was that had got me so undone.

I had seen women before who caught me like this. Women so attractive that I felt I had to look at them, examine them, make a study of their beauty and see if I could emulate it. And I would have believed that was all I wanted of Sally, but for how hyper-sensitized my body had been when I saw her – but for that jolt of excitement when a warm hand touched my arm as I looked at her, even though the hand hadn't been hers.

How on earth did they not all go crazy in this place, with her here?

We reached the top of the stairs and she led me to my room.

That's mine, she said, nodding at a white-painted door with a postcard pinned to it.

What's the postcard? I asked.

It's a painting, Sally said. I forget who painted it, but I love it.

Do you like art? I asked. I couldn't care less if she liked art, and I knew nothing about it myself (given what I do for a living, it doesn't come up very much) but I needed to talk to her. To humanise her, so she would become Sally from two rooms down (not that I'd counted) rather than Sally, from whom I couldn't tear my eyes.

It's alright, she said, and I could hear her accent was more London than it had sounded at first. I used to go to galleries when I was a student. It was something to do and it was free. She swung open the door. This is yours, she said.

The room was exactly like every other brothel room I had ever been in. People might think that a bedroom in a brothel will be all red-shaded lights and black walls and satin sheets and industrial-sized boxes of Kleenex on the dressing table. But it's not quite that extreme. True sex is more subtle than any of that - it’s about a creeping hemline, a particular note played on the right instrument, the way a shadow moves. You can’t just throw a bunch of black lace and red satin at something and announce that it’s now officially sexy, although Christ knows some people – and some bars – try.

I've only ever worked in what the newspapers call high-class brothels, and what the girls who work there just call brothels – we'd never dream of working in any other kind. They all aim to send every client away satisfied (honestly, what I do has more in common with hotel management or suit rental than you'd expect).  This room had a pale creamy carpet and a king-sized bed, made up with sheets of a deep raspberry pink that matched the walls perfectly. The headboard was of twisted, intricate metal, full of places where a set of handcuffs, a scarf or a rope could be firmly secured. There was a generous wardrobe and a sink in the corner, and the window looked out into the backyard, where two girls were trying to catch the last of the summer sunshine.

It's nice, I said, hoisting my suitcase on to the bed. Sally followed my lead and put the second one alongside it.

You'll be sharing a bathroom with me and Cara, Sally said.

I nodded.

Showers get a bit competitive around four o'clock, Sally said with an impish smile. We’re all terrible for leaving it to the last minute. Sandrine usually snags her shower first, so Kim tries to use mine – ours. And it's not like she has much hair to blowdry so don't ask me why she insists on going first!

I tried not to picture Sally in the shower, and succeeded mostly because her proximity was sending me into such a blind panic that my brain wasn't functioning anymore.

It didn't help that Sally was finally standing still, upright and not holding anything, so I could get a proper look at her. The rest of her skin wasn't as tan as her thighs, and her face had a gentle quality to it. I ached to stroke her soft cheek, and her lips were so full and pink I wanted to nibble them like strawberries. She was noticeably shorter than me – but then most people are, especially when I have the killer heels on. Her body was almost exactly as it had looked when she was lying on the couch, all curves and plump undulations.

Anyway, I'll let you get yourself sorted out. Give me a shout if you need a hand, yeah? Sally said as she left.

3

LEFT ALONE, I FORCED myself to unpack my things. Thinking too hard right now would not help.

My clothes I hung in the wardrobe, my nice underwear went in the top drawer and my normal cotton underwear for days off was stashed in the lowest drawer. I had a few personal keepsakes – a photo of some people who may or may not be my parents, one of me with my brother and sister the day I got my A-Level results, some gifts from Jack – which I put underneath the non-fancy underwear, where no one was likely to stumble upon them but I could find them easily. My jewellery went in the small wall safe that Madeleine had told me about when she made me the job offer, and my box of tricks – handcuffs, ties, vibrators, other assorted bits and pieces – went under the bed.  Unpacking didn't take long – when you've lived in one small room or another all your life, you just don't accumulate belongings in the same way as most people. I had heard diatribes like Cara's for the entire time I'd been a sex worker, but I'd never found it a problem myself. Boarding school had trained me well.

I suddenly found myself wishing I had more things. I didn't want to go downstairs, but I also didn't want to stay here alone.

I took off my pinstriped pencil skirt and crisp white shirt and hung them up, and lay on the bed wearing just my underwear, stockings and shoes. I felt like a cliche, like a poser, but I couldn't help wondering what Sally would think of if she saw me like this.

Outside the sun was high in the sky, and puffy clouds rolled gently across the patch of blue I could see in the square of window. One hand idly drifted from my stomach down to the waistband of my knickers, where my fingers toyed with the dimpled satin.

Sally, lying on the couch in the living room, the soft mink fabric brushing her skin.

Sally, two doors away. Sharing my shower. Yes.

Sally, telling me to shout if I needed a hand.

I certainly did need a hand. One of her small, elegant hands – I had noticed them when she put my second suitcase down. I imagined the smooth, flat surface of her unpolished nail teasing lightly across my nipples, across my flat belly, my aching clit. . . I imagined her gentle fingers slipping inside the midnight blue fabric of my knickers, much as my own were now. . . I imagined a cheeky grin spreading across her lips as she watched my face change at the touch of her hand. . .

Almost unknowingly, I had begun to touch myself. My fingers tangled in the short dark hairs, probing down to my clit, the tip of my middle finger creeping into the wetness of my pussy. I felt the familiar sensation of my muscles tightening all over as my body tensed under that finger, my pelvis rising ever so slightly to increase the pressure.

Suddenly I pulled my hand away and stood up, annoyed. I washed my hands and face, freshened my make-up, and got dressed again. Then I went back to the sink and washed my hands once more, throwing the towel roughly into the corner when I was done.

This was ridiculous.

I should know better than this.

I had lived in virtually cloistered, all-female environments for most of my life. I enjoyed the camaraderie, the fun, giggling about boys, later men. I didn't enjoy the judgment and gossip, and I especially hated the first impressions.

No one in my last house had a problem with me being bi, until they did.

I didn't intend to lie about myself, but I didn't intend to tell the whole truth either.

I'd never met a homophobic or biphobic sex worker, in theory. But every house I had ever worked in (or heard of) had a strict policy of no sexual, romantic, or otherwise fun relationships between workers.

Desire, as we all knew too well, was a powerful and dangerous force.

It made us all rich.

Since my school days, I had known one thing – from a tiny birthmark concealed by a shirt to the fact you allowed your hands to slip into your underwear on a Thursday afternoon, nothing was never as private as you thought. If I spent my first afternoon teasing myself, someone would spot a flush in my cheeks or hear an errant bedspring creak, and someone else would deduce that as Sally was the last person I'd seen, she was probably the subject of my thoughts.

It didn't matter whether anyone believed it was true. What would matter is that it was plausible, and the story would stick in people's minds, and everyone would feel uncomfortable about me catching a glimpse of them in a bathrobe or seeing them sunbathe. And no one would care that they weren't homophobic as a rule, or that I have fancied more men than women, or that I couldn't care less about seeing any of my new colleagues naked. My desire would be a shameful thing, my colleagues would shrink from it, and I would be out on my ear, sleeping on couches, looking for a new job