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Companion Dubai Call Girls 0501780622 The 122nd Floor
The lift climbed so fast her stomach stayed on the ground floor.
When the doors slid open on 122, the air itself felt different: colder, thinner, expensive.
Address Sky View, Pinnacle Suite.
The one that costs seventy-five thousand dirhams a night and still isn’t on any booking site.
He was already there.
Yousef.
Not an Emirati prince this time; worse.
Half-Emirati, half-Russian, all predator.
Built like a fighter who’d traded the ring for boardrooms and underground cages. White thobe open at the throat, black Rolex President heavy enough to use as a weapon.
He didn’t speak. Just crooked a finger.
Zara walked forward barefoot across heated marble, the hem of her crimson dress brushing her ankles. She stopped one foot away.
“Turn,” he said in Arabic-accented English that still managed to sound like a command carved in stone.
She turned.
The zipper came down in one slow, deliberate pull. The dress fell.
No bra. No lingerie tonight. She’d been told exactly what he wanted: nothing but skin and the thin platinum anklet he’d sent yesterday with a single line:
Wear this and nothing else.
His hands were on her instantly: rough, warm, possessive. One slid up her spine, fisted in her hair, bent her over the back of the white leather sofa that faced the window. Dubai lay spread beneath them like a circuit board made of light.
“Hands on the glass,” he ordered.
She obeyed, palms flat against the cold pane, 450 meters above the fountain show that looked like cheap fireworks from up here.
He didn’t undress fully. Just freed himself, thick and already leaking, and pushed inside her in one brutal thrust that tore a cry from her throat.
No warm-up. No mercy.
Just the sound of skin hitting skin, her breath fogging the window, his low growls in Russian she didn’t understand but felt in her bones.
“Mine tonight,” he rasped against her ear, one arm banding across her chest, fingers closing around her throat just tight enough to make her see stars. “Every moan, every drop, every fucking heartbeat. Mine.”
She came clenching around him so hard her vision whited out, forehead pressed to the glass, watching the world spin far below while he kept going, relentless, until he followed with a curse that sounded like surrender.
When he finally pulled out, he didn’t let her move. Just spun her, dropped to his knees, and licked her clean like he was starving for the taste of what he’d done to her.
Later, showered and wrapped in his thobe that swallowed her whole, she sat on the terrace smoking his Cuban cigar while he wired the money.
Half a million dirhams.
For six hours.
He kissed her once, soft and almost tender, right where the city lights reflected in her eyes.
“Same night next month,” he said.
She exhaled smoke into the desert wind.
“Make it a million and I’ll bring toys.”
He smiled, slow and feral.
“Done.”
The elevator took her back to earth at dawn.
She stepped out into the lobby smelling like oud, sex, and money that high only comes when you sell your body to a man who can buy the sky and still wants more.
Dubai never sleeps.
Neither do the girls who own its nights.
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