Chapter 9: Eight

My client shivered as if pleased by my answer. Then she crooked her finger, beckoning me forward as she turned away and started out of the mudroom and into a hallway. “Follow me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I murmured quietly, moving in close so she’d be sure to feel me right behind her.

This was my first test. Initial meetings were always tricky. I had to decipher immediately whether a client preferred bold behavior or coy. And the way she responded to me breaching her personal space would be her tell.

When she glanced over her shoulder at me, I made sure to make eye contact, reading her expression and body language. There were zero ~fuck-off-and-give-me-room~ vibes, no ~I-didn’t-say-you-could-do-that~ arch of the eyebrows. In fact, she smiled encouragingly as if she liked having me there.

She didn’t mind me making a move, so I immediately scratched dominatrix off the list. She wasn’t going to tie me up and do all the work herself. She at least wanted some participation. But how much, I still had to discover. Did she want ~me~ to tie ~her~ up and do everything, or was she into equal parts labor between us? This was something I was going to have to learn before we started. And I had to figure it out without asking.

A hundred percent of the time, I knew the client had an idea in her head of how she wanted this to go down. But asking directly never worked out well. I’d learned early on ~not~ to come right out and say, “~So, how do you want it~?”

Maybe that way lacked subtlety and sounded too crass to their ears. Or maybe asking made me come off as if I didn’t really care, didn’t want to be there, and just wanted to get this over and done with so I could collect my money and go home. And as true as that might be, it wasn’t a good way to run a business. Not this kind of business, anyway.

So I never asked.

On the other hand, ~not~ asking was a total no-no as well. In the beginning, I’d bungled my way through, trying what I wanted, always to be slapped down and reprimanded for doing it wrong. It didn’t take long to realize what ~I ~wanted had nothing to do with the transaction at all. The meeting was all about fulfilling the ~client’s~ wishes. I was just a tool to accomplish that.

So, over the last year, I’d learned a fail-safe trick that never steered me wrong.

As soon as she led me up a set of back stairs and through a hallway into a dimly lit bedroom, I stepped up right behind her, set a hand on her waist, and moved my mouth next to her ear, where I paused dramatically before whispering, “So…what’s your fantasy?”

That had become my signature phrase. Every other question seemed to spill out wrong. But inquiring about a “fantasy” seemed to put the client at ease. It made the moment more personal for her, gave her options, put her in control, and it relaxed her enough to tell me the truth, because after all, fantasies weren’t real. She could convince herself she was just confessing a hypothetical daydream to a stranger…until I actually started to act the daydream out for her.

No matter how many times I asked it, the client always responded like a cat who’d gotten the cream, smiling decadently, damn near arching her back and stretching in pleasure, ready to be petted. Didn’t matter if it was the first time I asked them the question or the tenth, they always loved it.

On cue, tonight’s client watched me from hungry, glittering eyes. I knew it wouldn’t be our last encounter. She liked me already.

“They told me you’d say that,” she said, running her gaze down my body. “And yet it still managed to send a shiver straight through me. Very well done, Mason.”

The condescending tone she used rubbed me all wrong, as did the way she said my first name. I hated it when they used my name.

Patricia had a tendency to give women my full name. ~She~ must’ve been the one to refer this client to me, which made me even more leery of the stranger in front of me. Any friend of Patricia’s was not someone I wanted to spend any amount of time with.

But I was here for a job. My second semester of college wasn’t going to pay for itself. Neither were Sarah’s medical expenses or utilities on the house.

I stepped toward the woman, managing to keep good eye contact. The right amount of eye contact was key.

“So you’ve already had time to think about your answer.” Reaching out slowly, I touched her wrist, then slid my thumb along the side of her hand and across her pinkie.

She gave a visible shudder. “Damn,” she murmured, licking her lips. “You’re good at that.”

I stepped closer still, my gaze on nothing but her as my smile turned playful and mischievous. “At what?”

She set her hands on my chest and smoothed them down, over the slopes and dips that made up my pecs and abs, so she could feel each muscle through my Country Club polo.

This is where a part of me checked out. Touching them had never been a problem. Like a dentist or doctor, I could treat touching like some kind of clinical chore. Call me a gynecological masseur, if you will. But it was when they started touching me back when things turned tricky.

I don’t think I was a typical guy. I didn’t like being touched.

No, revise that. I just didn’t like being touched by ~them~.

I could snuggle with Sarah twenty-four hours a day, and if my mother ever gave me a hug, I’d probably drop dead from the euphoria. I had a feeling I’d make a touchy-feely—probably even a constantly horny—kind of boyfriend too, if, you know, dating actually ever happened to me.

But I swear Patricia had broken something inside me when she’d started me down this path. Because anytime anyone who was paying me for the opportunity to put their hands on me actually touched me, their touch just felt…vile. This creepy shiver would pass over my skin, and my stomach would revolt.

Every time.

Made me feel like a swimmer afraid of water or a firefighter scared of fire.

To overcome, I had to trick my mind and think about other shit before my body could respond in a way that actually pleased the client.

Fighting back the instinctive urge to curl away as her fingers made it to the waistline of my pants and she dipped a few inside before gripping denim and tugging me closer, I chuckled to make her think I liked the move.

Then I traced the back of my knuckles down the side of her neck and along her collarbone. “You ever going to tell me about that fantasy?”

“Mmm.” She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, a small smile playing across her lips. “Yes. I want compassion.”

I paused at her shoulder.

~Compassion?~

What the fuck did that mean?

Usually, women told me they wanted to be on top or liked it from behind or wanted to be spanked. Shit like that. Compassionate sex was not an answer I’d ever gotten before.

Since I hadn’t exactly been planning on being cold and callous, I pulled back to look at her, no clue how to respond.

She smiled at me like an adult amused by a child’s ignorance. Then she reached up and stroked my cheek.

“I didn’t marry my husband for love,” she explained. “I married him for the money. Unfortunately, he’s a very selfish lover who’s never once considered what ~I~ needed. So I want someone to give instead of take. I want to know what it would feel like if someone who actually ~loved~ me and cared about my pleasure were fucking me.”

O…kay.

Personally, I thought she’d have better luck going off and actually falling in love with someone to experience that from ~him ~instead of relying on me to fake it. But hey, it wasn’t my place to judge. I just had to give the lady what she asked for.

“Don’t worry,” I assured her as I leaned in to set my mouth against hers, because people in love kissed on the mouth, right? “I’ll make sure you come harder than you’ve ever come before.”

Grimacing, she pulled her face back and lifted her finger to set it against my mouth, stalling me.

“No,” she said, shaking her head and straightening again when I pulled away from her. “I don’t want you to just be nice and make sure I come. I said I wanted you to act as if you fucking ~love~ me.”

Huh?

I shook my head, clueless. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure—”

She sighed and waved her hand, shutting me up. “How about this?” After studying my face a moment, she stroked a finger down my jaw. “Is there a special lady in your life?”

Reese’s face flashed into my head before I could stop it.

Stupid brain.

She wasn’t special. I didn’t even ~know~ her. Why did I immediately think about ~her~? Probably because she’d been the only person to actually stir something in me in quite a while. Plus I’d just seen her tonight, so she was fresh in my mind.

Yeah, that was probably it.

No other reason.

But a smile flickered across my client’s mouth as she pointed at me. “There,” she murmured. “I saw that look. There ~is~ someone. What’s her name?”

I shook my head. No way in fucking hell was I giving this woman—this friend of ~Patricia’s~—anyone’s name. Certainly not Reese’s.

“No,” I said, laughing uneasily. “There’s not. I don’t have a girlfriend.” Did she honestly think a gigolo could maintain a relationship with anyone?

I guess maybe some guys could, I don’t know, but I wasn’t one of them.

“She doesn’t ~have~ to be a girlfriend. Maybe just someone you crave.”

I continued to shake my head in denial, but the client patted my cheek as if she already knew she was right. “Whoever’s in your mind, making you deny it so forcefully…use her.” Moving closer, she whispered into my ear, “And while your hands are on me, touch ~her~.”

An unwanted ripple of desire flowed over me. My gut clenched and cock hardened. ~Touch Reese,~ an eager, greedy part of my psyche whispered.

Outwardly, though, I shook my head, resisting temptation. “But, uh…” With an uneasy smile, I furrowed my brow. “That doesn’t exactly seem fair to ~you~.”

The woman in front of me only smiled as if she knew something I didn’t. “Trust me,” she said. “And close your eyes.”

Since my clients always got their way, I mentally shrugged before closing my eyes.

I could feel her step closer, and my muscles tensed in apprehension. Yet all she did was murmur, “Now… Don’t think of these as my hands on you, but ~hers~.”

When she touched me this time, it didn’t feel quite so vile. It didn’t creep me out.

Telling myself this was Glowing Girl with her silky straight, dark hair, bright blue, curious eyes, and exuberant, lively laugh, a thrill of need raced through me. Her fingers moved under my shirt and up my chest. Her thumbs rasped over my flat nipples, making them harden. Nails bit into the flesh at the tops of my shoulders. Her breath fell on my throat, just under my ear.

I released a breathless groan.

“You like her touching you, don’t you?”

I swayed toward Reese, wanting more. “Yes.”

“Good.”

Reese kept touching me, the occasional scrape of her nails causing my blood to heat.

“Is she making your mouth water, your heart race? What about your pecker?” A hand moved between my legs and clutched me through my khakis, making me hiss. “Just how much do you want to pound this huge, hungry cock inside her? Bury it as deep as it will go? Are you desperate for it? Mindless? Wild with the need to show her how much you want to fuck her?”

God, yes.

I surged forward without knowing I was even going to. Reese gasped in surprise—but a delighted kind of surprise. I gripped her waist and picked her up, carrying her to the bed where I tossed her down.

Before I could crawl on top of her though, I focused on her face, and my client—not Reese—blinked up at me in shock.

Oh, damn. What was wrong with me? I didn’t treat clients like this, not unless I was sure that was what they wanted.

But she’d had me so far gone into this little role-play that I hadn’t even ~see~n a client for a moment there. She had been Glowing Girl and she’d unleashed a fervor in me that had derailed out of control.

“Eyes. Closed,” the client commanded.

I obeyed, but she had to start over again, telling me to imagine that the hands coasting up the front of my thighs were Reese’s. It began to work. When she unzipped me and bare fingers wrapped around my length, I was sucked back into the game.

I crawled on top of her and pretty much attacked her, kissing, biting, licking, and repeating all the things that made her gasp and moan with pleasure.

When she clutched my hair and arched under me, pressing up against me, I growled and peeled off her nightgown, frantic to get my hands on all of her. With her nipple in my mouth and my hands gripping her ass, this was no longer a business transaction. It had become ~my~ fantasy.

This was Reese, and she wanted me just as much as I wanted her.

In a rush to consume her before I lost my chance, I shimmied the rest of the way out of my own clothes and was sitting up on my knees between her thighs, rolling on a condom, before reality intruded once more.

Just as I secured the latex into place, I looked down at the woman spread open on the bed before me, wetness glistening from between her legs and her breasts heaving from how much the foreplay had worked her up.

But she wasn’t Reese.

~Fuck~! What the hell was I doing?

I’d actually been eager to get inside her. A sudden chill of self-revulsion passed through me. I didn’t really want this woman. I didn’t even know her. It felt wrong to use her and think of someone else as I took her.

Besides, she’d requested compassion and wanted to know what it felt like to be loved and cherished. Shouldn’t that involve slow touches, long, drawn-out licks, the savoring of each stage? Not frantic, mindless rutting like I’d been doing?

I shook my head, failing as I tried to get myself back in the game.

She caught onto my attempts. Her eyes flared with panic as she reached for me. “No. Don’t stop. Keep going, baby. You were doing perfectly.”

Except I couldn’t keep going as I had been. She wasn’t Reese, and I didn’t want her like that, couldn’t fake it anymore. The frenzy inside me had cooled.

“Dammit,” she muttered, sitting up. “You’re backsliding.”

I shook my head to deny it, even as I said, “I’m sorry. But I can’t—”

“Yes, you ~can~,” she encouraged harshly. “You did it twice already, you can do it again.”

No, I fucking couldn’t. I couldn’t pretend emotions. And besides, she wasn’t Reese. End of story.

“Close your eyes,” she told me, cupping my face in her hands.

The glance I sent her was probably more irritated than I meant it to be. But I complied and pressed my lashes together, bowing my head when she began to stroke my hair.

“Picture her in your head,” a voice murmured in my ear. A voice that was most definitely not Reese’s.

But I tried what she commanded. I brought up an image of Reese in my mind’s eyes, of her bumping into the wall of my hallway and unsettling a picture frame. My lips twitched with amusement. Her clumsiness was cute.

“There,” my client cooed, slipping her fingers down my cheek, then the side of my neck, and along my chest until she made it between my legs where she gripped my condom-wrapped dick and stroked me.

“She’s ready for you. Just like you’re ready for her. Now ~show~ her how much you care.”

Beguiled into her spell, I leaned in, and she met my seeking mouth. Our tongues merged and breathing spiked. Not daring to open my eyes, I coaxed her back on the bed and moved over her, finding all the places I had just learned she liked by feel.

The pace slowed, but the intensity returned. Each stroke felt magnified. I gripped flesh and pressed in with as much passion as before, but it all happened with longer draws as if someone had pressed the slow button.

When she said, “please,” in an achingly breathless voice that begged for more, I was all on board. I lined us up, ready for that first intoxicating thrust.

Gripping her hips, I bowed my face down, clenched my teeth, and plunged.

Oh, God. ~Reese~.

She cried out from the shock of impact, clutching me and straining against me, bucking wildly, just as ravenous for it as I was. We devoured each other, unable to stop kissing and touching, heaving forward, desperate for each time we came back together.

Her muscles tensed and fingernails scored my back as I drove her to the peak.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God,” she cried, loving it as much as I did.

When she started to come, writhing hard against me, I held my breath, holding off as long as I could, waiting for her to finish before, shit, ~yes~…

I climaxed inside Reese, and it was honestly the best sex of my life.

But holy fuck. No wonder why I hated it when this was a business transaction. It was so much better when I actually ~wanted~ to be with the girl.

Burying my face in the crook of her neck, I grinned, enlightened by this amazing sensation I’d never experienced before.

Except it didn’t last. Hands shoved at my chest, propelling me backward.

“Get…off!” she screeched.

~What~? I reared back away from her, startled and confused, only to blink my outraged client into focus.

Oh, God.

Not Reese.

What the hell had I just done?

Ready for her to lay into me for being too enthusiastic, for taking more control than she’d wanted me to, for…hell, actually liking it, or for any number of other reasons, I stared at her aghast, my mouth opening and closing, knowing I needed to apologize or…~something~ to make this right. But I had no idea what to say. I’d never lost it like that before. I’d never wanted it like that before. I’d never…

Christ, it almost felt as if she’d raped my mind and tricked me into doing something I had not planned on doing.

On the other side of the mattress, she looked pissed.

“What the fuck?” she charged, sitting upright and grabbing her nightgown to hold it over her beard-burned skin. “I said to ~pretend~ I was her, not cry out her fucking name in the middle of coming inside me?”

Say what?

My mouth fell open. Oh, shit.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

Please, someone, tell me I had ~not~ said Reese’s name out loud. I wouldn’t be that stupid. That would be catastrophically disastrous. Like the absolute worst thing I could do with a client.

Arching her eyebrows, my client sniffed in one of those derogatory, I’m-so-superior ways, and cattily said, “So, her name’s Reese, huh?”

I closed my eyes and bowed my head. Dammit.

I was screwed.