Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Romeo
Ivy suggests a second drink. She's nervous. Which is sweet. It's been a while since she's had good sex. She said as much, and I can tell from the way she speaks, the way she moves.
I know, I know, I sound like the world's biggest egomaniac, but after half a decade in the trenches, I have a sixth sense.
She fixes another round, and this time, we chat. I should probably start the clock, but I don't. I'm more interested in what Daniel and Mom would think of her.
Besides, she's cute. Younger than I expected. Only a year or two older than I am, probably. Smart, yes. I do like smart women. That is true. But not condescending the way Daniel is. Curious, the way Dad was. She asks a lot of questions. More than most clients.
Maybe it is an occupational hazard, looking at everyone else's problems. Clients do ask questions, but usually they're looking for assurance I enjoy my work, enjoy their company, look forward to enjoying their bodies.
I do, mostly, but this is a job, like any other. Some clients are great. Some are terrors. At this point, I can afford to drop anyone who doesn't treat me with respect or pay on time. But I don't turn a woman away simply because she isn't my type or in my preferred age range.
Ivy's questions feel different. As if she really wants to know how I feel, what I do, what it's like to work in the trenches.
Or maybe I'm the man who thinks the stripper giving him a lap dance really wants him.
Maybe I'm mistaking her professional courtesy for interest.
Maybe I'm distracted by Daniel's wedding.
After all, I need a woman on my arm. And showing up with a doctor—
Mama would love that.
But what am I going to do, pitch the woman a business agreement? If I fuck you an hour a night, will you pretend you love me to my family for two hours a day?
I should hire a professional. Keep it simple.
But my brother—
He's too smart for that. He'll look her up. Check her credentials. No. I need someone with a good cover story. Whether that's Doctor Ivy or someone else, well—
I should stop thinking about my tragic circumstances and do my job.
We finish our second drink.
This time, when I offer my hand, she takes it. She lets me pull her to her feet.
She leads me to her bedroom and stops outside the door.
"I haven't done this in a long time." Nerves fill her green eyes.
I can't say I know. That's dismissive. And no one wants to hear you give off I don't get laid energy.
That's not what I mean, anyway. Ivy may not be a supermodel, but she's beautiful in that intelligent, quirky way.
The sort of woman who will talk to you all night and surprise you with an open mind.
And not some idiotic porno idea of an open mind, where she's willing to try anal and facials. A truly open mind.
She's willing to explore. I can sense that about her.
What would I say, if this was a real date?
I don't have the faintest idea. I haven't had real sex in a long, long time.
But I don't need to know now. She's paying me to bring the charm, no matter what I feel. She's paying me to tend to her needs. I may enjoy the action, but it won't be what I want.
That's what women want out of a night with a sex worker. Yes, they enjoy the abs and stamina, but, mostly, they want to know they can ask for anything and get it.
They want to know a man won't push them past their comfort zone or ignore warm up or complain if they struggle to come.
This isn't for real. I'm not thinking of what I want here. Only what she needs.
Ivy is a brainy type. Intellectual. In her head. Good for grades. Not for sex.
I look into her gorgeous green eyes and brush a stray hair behind her ear. "You're nervous."
She nods and her expression settles. It helps, to acknowledge the feeling.
"You're meeting a stranger for pre-planned sex." I don't mention the financial arrangement. That tends to make people more nervous. Or shameful. Unless they get off on it. But I can tell that's not her thing. "It's an awkward situation. A first date on steroids."
"For you too?"
"A little," I admit. I'm used to meeting new clients, but I'm still human. I still worry about all the usual things. "You're beautiful and intelligent and you're probably going to tell all your friends about this."
"A few." Her smile is equal parts shy and coy.
It's painfully sexy. I let the desire buzz through my veins then I take a deep breath and exhale slowly.
A technique from my early days. When I needed to learn to draw things out longer and longer. These days, it's rare I feel enough of a rush I need to pause.
I hold her gaze. I smile back, with my own blend of coy confidence. "I want to make sure you have a good story."
"You have no idea." She wraps her arm around my bicep right as she pushes the door open.
She steps into her bedroom.
It's like the rest of the space. Just decorated enough that it doesn't feel empty. The lack of extra stuff really emphasizes all these aromatherapy candles.
A spicy flower. Just the right mix of masculine and feminine. Sweet and sexy.
A side of her I doubt she’s shown anyone yet.
She stops in front of the bed. "Sorry. I am nervous. I… I did have sex, once, after my divorce, but it was horrible."
Now, we're getting somewhere. "What was missing?"
"A lot, but, mostly, an emotional connection."
I can't compete with a marriage, but I can offer something. "Casual can be connected too."
"No offense, Romeo, but that sounds like a line."
Shit. Am I that off my game? It is a line, of course, but it usually works. "Is that not what you want?"
"A line?"
"To feel connected?"
"Not if it’s bullshit," she says.
"Depends how you define bullshit," I say. "If we both agree we're playing a game of pretend, then is that bullshit? Or just fun?"
"I'm not very good at games," she says.
Okay. Maybe I need to try something different with her. Less pretending. More authenticity.
I respect that. But can I do it?
"Okay. No bullshit." I offer my hand. "I'm here, because you paid me, but now that I am here, I'm looking forward to the experience.
I want to peel off that dress. I want to taste your nipples.
I want to know what you sound like when you come.
And I want to leave, knowing you're going to tell all your friends this was the best sex you've had in a long time. "
"All ego."
A laugh spills from my lips. I can't help it. She’s right. "Part ego."
"What’s the other part?"
"You never enjoy your work?"
“At times.” She looks me in the eyes. “It will be the best sex I’ve had in awhile, but that doesn’t mean anything. I haven’t had good sex in years.”
“My ego.” I press my hand to my heart as if I’m wounded.
She smiles.
She likes some teasing. She likes that level of artifice.
"I like learning what a new person likes. And I do find you attractive. I want to see you out of your clothes. I want to see your body stretched over mine.” How far can I push her here?
Is she ready for I want to see you take my cock?
No. That’s too much. I need to slow down.
“But you’re the one who sets the terms. So, tell me.
What do you want. How do you like it? I'll do whatever the fuck you like. However you like. As long as you like."
"For one hour."
"I don't watch the clock." That is true.
Unless I have another client, I get the job done.
Despite popular belief, if you're with a woman who knows what she likes, it's not hard to make her come.
The men who struggle are the ones who aren't willing to listen.
(Though I do admit, the process of finding what she likes—that can take a while.
I typically suggest overnights for new clients).
"Teasing," she says.
My blood rushes south. I love teasing. A good thing. It's necessary in my line of work. But, fuck, with a woman who loves teasing—
Damn, it's sexy to make an in-control woman beg.
I run my fingers a soft touch. Enough she curls into the gesture. Enough she settles. "Will you show me, Ivy? Will you show me exactly how you like to be teased?"
"Do you like to play music?" she asks.
"Not this time."
So maybe next time. I'm not sure why I like the sound of it. Because she sees through me maybe. Because that never happens.
"I can lead." I try to find just the right mix of softness and hardness. To show I want her, badly, but I'm willing to wait until she's ready. "But I'd rather you show me how you like to be touched. To be teased."
"Do you kiss?" she asks.
It's a stereotype that escorts don't kiss on the mouth. Some don't. I do. "I love to kiss."
She takes a half step towards me. She stands a little straighter, so we're eye in eye. She's a tall woman, and she's wearing wedges. There is something sexy about her stature, her confidence.
Her.
Her green eyes meet mine. Her hand goes to my chest. First, her palm, flat against my suit jacket. Then her fingers roll over the wool.
Her eyelids flutter together.
Her lips meet mine.
A soft hint of a kiss. The taste of juniper and lime on her lips. Gin. It's never been my drink, but at the moment, I see the appeal.
She pulls back with a soft sigh, then she goes back in. Another brush of her lips. A little firmer. A little longer.
This time, her lips curl around my top lip. She sucks softly. Then it's a soft scrape of her tongue.
When she pulls back, she looks up at me, to see where I am. If I'm falling under her spell.
Usually, this is where I play up my interest. With her, I'm not sure how to act.
She doesn't want bullshit. So there's no need to fake it.
It's not as if I'm struggling to enjoy myself. I can show her I want her the, well, normal amount.
Well—
Maybe a little more.
The average red-blooded man isn't fucking for pay as many times a week as I am.
I copy her gesture. I place my hand on her shoulder, running my thumb over her collarbone as I bring my lips to hers.
A soft kiss to start. Then a little harder. My lips around hers.