Chapter 6
Emee
I’ve cuddled hundreds of men at this point in my career.
Some were gorgeous. Rich. Some smelled incredible. Some, not so much.
Most were troubled in some way, and in my heart, my connection to each was from a position of empathy and a desire to help them.
With this man lying in front of me now, my desires are flying around inside me like those crazy monkeys in The Wizard of Oz.
Breathe, Emee. Like you tell your clients.
Just. Breathe.
“How are you doing?” I ask, forcing ease and calmness into my voice as the hard muscle of King’s shoulder flexes under my touch.
“I’m doing,” he answers with a low snort. “I’d be better if you put your other hand on me too.”
I grit my teeth against the smile I’ve been holding back since he walked in, as warmth seeps between my legs. He’s an infuriating hockey player, sure.
But there’s an odd sweetness, even in his inappropriate comments. His crudeness isn’t arrogant or entitled, but rather honest and raw.
I clear my throat. The heat blooming in the spot where his butt cheeks are touching my lower belly is scorching. For the first time, I’m second guessing where to go with this session.
“How about I move my hand from your shoulder onto your chest? And my other hand… I’d like to rest it on the top of your head. It will create an emotional current between them.”
Tension writhes in my center, winding around my core and squeezing.
“All good, firecracker. But I’d like a little more cuddle, too. If I gotta be the little spoon here, darlin’, I wanna be spooned. Tits to toes.”
“Mr. Hertzof,” I start on a shaky inhale, knowing if this were any other client, I’d end the session with a fairly long-winded overview of what I deem as appropriate client-cuddler behavior. But there’s something about this client that makes me want to please him more than throw him out.
Still, I try to keep the train on the tracks.
“You call me King, or I’m leaving, and yeah, I know, I know, keep it platonic.” He says the last part like it tastes bad.
“Yes, thank you.” I ease my body against him, running my hand down the hard plane of his chest until I feel the thump thump of his heart under my palm. I lift my other arm, wrapping it over his head onto the pillow and resting it in the damp waves of his hair.
God, he smells so good.
The urge to wind my fingers through his hair and grind against him is almost overwhelming.
Lusty lightning zaps my skin wherever we touch, as though I’ve completed a circuit of some kind, and as King exhales, pushing his head back into me, I think he’s feeling the same thing.
Settling my hand on his head, I note the bump and the scratch of something on my palm, then remember.
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry.” I tug my hand back. “Your head.” I center my eyes on the spot where my hand was resting and hiss on an inhale. “You had to get stitches? You said you weren’t hurt.”
My heart pounds as a riotous flush explodes on my cheeks.
“I’m not hurt. I’ve had so many stitches in my head I’ve lost count. Now, put your hand back where it was. If I need some healing, it’s right there. Follow your instincts there, doc. Heal me.”
“I’m not a doctor,” I correct, easing my hand back into place and softly lowering my palm on top of the stitches. My stomach rolls and I fight to regain my focus. “Normally I wouldn’t rush things, but Dr. Hoffman said there’s a sense of urgency here. In order for me to help, I’m going to ask you some more questions, unless you prefer we lay in silence.”
“Ask away. I’ll tell you anything, baby.” His body stills, muscles hard in what I think is defensive anticipation of my questioning. I read his discomfort and change course, keeping things light.
“Okay. Cartoons or video games?”
He hesitates for a moment, the tension in his body softening. “What?”
“When you were growing up, were you a cartoon guy or a video game guy?”
“I was a hockey guy,” he says, but there’s an edge to his voice and I wonder if even my simple question has scraped a nerve. Then he continues. “But, yeah, I liked cartoons when I was younger. Never had Nintendo or anything like that until I was out on my own. I read a lot. I’ve been known to indulge in some Warcraft and Call of Duty nowadays, but that’s now, not then.”
It’s a simple line of questioning, but one that usually takes a client back to memories of childhood. I work to gain his trust by sharing something of my own. It goes against my usual protocol, but there’s nothing usual about this session. “I’m not a video game person at all. But cartoons, this is embarrassing, but my favorite was My Little Pony.”
King laughs. “The original or the X-rated version?”
“What?” I squint at the back of his head. “Original, I didn’t know there was another version.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ll show you someday. It’s not to be missed, but to answer your question, I was a Bugs Bunny, Tom and Jerry, Elmer Fudd kind of guy. Few others. I haven’t thought about it before, but, yeah, I did watch a lot when I was younger. A lot of my early memories are pretty fuzzy.”
I note the heaviness in his answer, and this crude, sexy hockey player is tugging on my heartstrings. I do my best to keep things moving forward. “Ah, the classics then?”
He laughs, and from the warm energy I feel, I keep things going.
“Who was your favorite character, if you had to pick one?”
I’m sure I can help him if I can get him to open up, especially about his childhood, even if it is cartoons.
He doesn’t respond right away. But then this enormous body fills with a long breath, delivering his answer, “Popeye, I guess.”
“Why Popeye?” I ask, shifting slightly behind him, then adding, “If you need to adjust position at any time, just do what feels right for you. I want you comfortable.”
I roll my hips, unable to ignore the little thrill it sends through my pelvis as his body moves with me, maintaining our contact.
“Life keeps throwing shit at ole Popeye. Bluto’s a fucking dick. But Popeye keeps his rage down low until he opens that can of whoop ass. The spinach is a metaphor. For finding your voice. Even if it is with your fists.” The gravely depth of his answer feels like it tickles my nipples as they draw tight. I open my mouth to say something when he adds, “And, he has Olive. She’s hot. A good woman makes all the difference.”
I roll my lips together, blinking away how that last part felt personal.
“You said you had an ‘interesting’ childhood. How so?”
“I was born on a freighter in the Pacific Ocean. My mom wasn’t married, she was from Russia and gave birth to me en route to the U.S. She died not long after on that ship. Her name was Nadia Hertzof, that’s all I know about her. When my foster parents adopted me, they made sure I kept my family name. To honor her.” His voice deepens as he lifts a hand to brush his fingertips on the back of the hand covering his heart. “There were lots of foster homes. Lots of interesting shit that went on… I never told that to anyone. You hypnotized me with those magic hands of yours.”
“No,” I say with a warm sense of pride swelling inside me. “Just the power of touch. Human connection without expectation. Did you know anything else about your mom?”
There’s a pause, and I concentrate on his breathing and the weight and warmth of his hand as it covers mine. I’m diving in deep and fast, and I wonder if it’s for his benefit or because I want to know everything about him.
“You are not required to answer anything. It’s just what I do, I ask things,” I say, a cloud of guilt hovering over me as he entwines his fingers with mine. “Let’s change the subject. You said you read a lot. What’s your favorite book?”
He takes a few breaths without answering, and I chastise myself for pushing. My radar is all off with this guy. My circuits are buzzing and my usual empathetic sixth sense is being replaced by my own selfish desires.
When he doesn’t answer, the silence gets to me and I blurt out, “Mine was Anne of Green Gables. I had this first edition. It changed my life, made me dream of something else. I loved it, read it so many times until… Well, until I didn’t have it anymore.”
TMI, Emee, I chastise myself as my energy shifts with thoughts of my own disordered childhood.
His body hardens, his heartbeat quickening under my palm. “What’s wrong?” he asks, turning his face back toward mine.
“Nothing,” I lie, angry at myself for losing control. “This is about you.”
“What happened to your book?” he asks as I grit my teeth.
“It doesn’t matter. Can you answer my question, please? What was your favorite book? Or, tell me more about your mom.”
I’ve lain like this with many other clients, but right now, it feels wildly intimate, inappropriate and erotic.
“I’ll answer…” he says, and I swallow the gathering saliva under my tongue. “But, I need to adjust my position first.” His words have a note of challenge, and it’s my turn to hesitate.
“Okay,” I agree after a pause, a new tension gathering in my chest. “How would you like to move?”
“Like this.” He squeezes my fingers on a rough inhale, his body hardens then...
Whoosh.
Before I can mount a protest, he flings me up and over. I’m airborne and weightless for a moment, then land on my back with a bounce, the air expelled from my lungs, looking up into those maniacal blue eyes as I fight for a breath.
His weight presses onto my belly, down to my knees, as his rough hands take control of my wrists, pinning them above my head.
I bury my teeth into my bottom lip as he stares down at me, frozen in the moment as I open my mouth, my lungs burning, but there’s no air.
His rugged face shows a note of victory, and I feel something hard poking into my belly as tension gathers down in my core.
I would never have allowed any other client to speak to me the way King has, let alone put their hands on me.
But the squeak that falls from my lips betrays me. The sudden flood of liquid desire between my legs solidifies that this client is not like the others.
Flashes of porn-worthy images play behind my lids as I blink. In the space of a few seconds, I imagine being taken.
Owned.
Like he said.
“I don’t know anything else about her,” he growls, bringing me back to the moment, his eyes dilating to a thin blue band around the blackest centers. His jaw works and his Adam’s apple moves as he swallows. “Because we were eight miles from the United States coastline, the courts decided I was American. Jus soli, or something like that. It means I was born here, so I get to stay.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, knowing I should stop this, but he grinds his body against mine and all I can do is bite back an involuntary moan. Our eyes lock. His have a look so vulnerable and somehow strong, my lips fall open as I fight the urge to buck my hips upward and find the glorious friction I desperately need.
As I lie under his weight, his face tells a million unspoken stories. I wonder which scars are from hockey and which ones might be from other things.
His body bears down, his face so close the warmth of his breath mixes with mine. A hint of coffee mingles with the expansive scent of his cologne or bodywash, or whatever it is, and I tell myself that lying here like this is how I can help him.
As unconventional as it may be.
“I was in foster care until I got adopted at ten,” he continues, and I absorb every word down into my soul. “My new dad was an ex-hockey player. He introduced me to the game. The game means everything to me…saved my life.”
A stuttering breath climbs up my throat as I open my hips in a silent invitation for him to move against me.
He doesn’t miss the small movement, and his weight drops onto my belly as his hips rock until he’s dry humping me, his hard length applying the most decadent friction. There’s no denying this is no longer platonic, or ethical, yet I’m rapt.
Frozen.
I’m imbued with his masculine force, helpless to stop the unprofessional train wreck that’s happening on top of me.
“You like that, little firecracker?” His hoarse voice slides into my ears in a forbidden invasion.
I nod, blinking rapidly, digging deep for the will to derail this chaotic shift in the session.
“This is inappropriate.” It comes out in an unconvincing whisper.
“Well, this is a new kind of therapy. You said you wanted to help me, didn’t you?” His hips move in an agonizingly slow circle, barely detectable except that the granite shaft beneath his sweatpants is gloriously massaging the tight bundle of nerves, hell-bent on orchestrating my downfall.
“Yes, I do,” I stutter, his lips poised over mine, tempting me, and from this close the blue of his eyes looks like fractured ice.