First TIme Experience with Goa Model Escorts

The dim glow of neon lights bled through the smoky haze of the beachside bar, casting shifting hues of blue and violet across the polished mahogany counter. Tania leaned against it with practiced ease, one elbow propped on the surface, her fingers idly tracing the rim of a half-empty martini glass. The air smelled of salt, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of cheap liquor—Goa’s signature perfume. Her black dress clung to her curves like a second skin, the fabric so thin it barely concealed the lace of her bra when she shifted, the neckline dipping just low enough to tease. She wasn’t here to drink. She was here to observe. And tonight, observation had just turned interesting.

Manish had been lurking near the edge of the bar for the past twenty minutes, nursing a whiskey he hadn’t touched in ten. His dark eyes kept flicking toward her, then darting away like a schoolboy caught staring. He was tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of man who carried himself with the quiet confidence of money—probably a businessman, here on a "work trip" that had very little to do with spreadsheets. His crisp white shirt was unbuttoned just enough to hint at the dark curl of chest hair beneath, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms dusted with a light sheen of sweat. Tania had seen his type before: wealthy, restless, and hungry for something his boardroom life couldn’t give him.

She took a slow sip of her drink, letting her lips linger on the glass a second too long, her red-painted mouth glistening under the low light. When she set it down, she made sure her fingers brushed the condensation, the cool dampness a stark contrast to the humid heat pressing in from outside. The ice clinked. A deliberate sound. An invitation.

Manish finally gathered his courage—or his desperation—and slid onto the stool beside her. The scent of his cologne, something expensive and spiced, cut through the stale bar air. He didn’t look at her at first, his gaze fixed on the amber liquid in his glass as he swirled it absently. "You come here often?" he asked, the cliché so painfully obvious it almost made her smirk.

Tania turned her head just enough to meet his eyes, her own gaze sharp and knowing. "Often enough to know when someone’s looking for more than just a drink." Her voice was low, smoky, the kind of tone that wrapped around a man’s spine and pulled him in. She saw the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, the way his fingers tightened around his glass.

He exhaled through his nose, a rough sound, before leaning in just a fraction. "I heard…" His voice dropped, so low she had to tilt her head slightly to catch the words. "I heard this place has connections. For, uh… companionship."

Tania didn’t react—not outwardly. But inside, she felt the familiar thrill of the hunt, the slow uncoiling of anticipation. She let her lips curl into a slow, knowing smile. "Companionship’s a broad term, darling." She reached for her martini again, her nails—sharp, painted the same crimson as her lips—tapping against the glass. "Some men want a dinner date. Some want a tour guide." Her eyes flicked up to his, holding his gaze. "And some want a real good time."

Manish’s breath hitched. She saw the way his pupils dilated, the way his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. He was already imagining it—the press of soft skin, the taste of perfume, the slick heat of a body that wasn’t his wife’s. Tania could practically smell the lust rolling off him. "I’m not looking for a tour guide," he said, his voice rougher now, the pretense of casual conversation slipping. "I want…" He hesitated, then forced the words out. "A Russian girl. For the night."

Tania set her glass down with deliberate slowness, the clink of ice sharp in the lull of the bar’s ambient music. "Russian, huh?" She arched a brow, letting her gaze rake over him, assessing. "You’ve got taste. They’re expensive."

Manish’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t flinch. "Money’s not an issue."

Of course it isn’t. She allowed herself a small, satisfied smirk. "Good. Because the kind of girl you’re asking for? She doesn’t come cheap." She shifted, turning her body toward his, her knee brushing against his thigh beneath the bar. The contact was accidental—or so it seemed. "But lucky for you, I know just the agency. Best in Goa."

His breath came faster now, his chest rising and falling with the kind of anticipation that made men stupid. "What’s the process?"

Tania reached into her clutch—a sleek black thing that matched her dress—and pulled out a slim, unmarked brochure. She didn’t hand it to him immediately, though. Instead, she let her fingers trail over the glossy cover, her nails clicking against the laminated surface. "First, you tell me exactly what you want. Because we’ve got options, sweetheart.