Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Ivy
So much for solidarity. The second the word sex falls from Romeo's lips, I forget all about the frustration in Cynthia's eyes. But then it's probably better if I stay away from the situation.
The man invited me here to impress his family, not counsel his brother's fiancée. She has cold feet. That's normal.
She seemed madly in love, overall.
She probably just needs time.
Not advice from someone who, let's face it, didn't do so great on the marriage front.
Guilt settles in my stomach. But it dissolves as I climb upstairs and take my place in the bedroom. As it turns out, Romeo bought something for me. A silk robe in a sleek shade of teal. An expensive gift. Maybe to make it look like he'd bought me something.
Maybe for some other person.
Maybe as a part of his routine. He doesn't just make you come. He buys you presents on Valentine's Day too.
Is this real or fake? I can't tell. I'm already dizzy from all this back and forth.
I undress in my bedroom alone. There is something about being totally and completely naked. An honesty to it. Look at me, nowhere to hide, no way to pretend.
That feeling of lying naked with someone after sex—
I miss that.
I really do.
The way the act strips away the emotional and physical barriers.
Maybe we can find some of that. Not all of it. But some of it.
Or maybe the robe is a sign. That he doesn't want to get naked with me. Not that way.
After all, we're not really a couple. We're not really in love. We're only pretending.
I can't control how honest he is. Only how much of myself I share. And that's scary. Terrifying, really.
I slide on the robe. The silk feels soft and smooth against my skin. Somehow, the cool sensation is even more sensual than the warmth of his touch. The luxury of it, maybe.
The way he picked the color for me. Because I wear it a lot. Because it looks like my eyes. Because I love the ocean.
Does he really know all that about me? Or are those lines he uses with everyone?
I believe this is personal. At least to some degree. I believe I’m getting a part of him.
He knocks before I can consider the matter further.
"Come in," I say, from my spot on the bed.
He does, and once again, my desire for him overwhelms every rational thought in my brain.
How can the man look sexy in a black silk robe? He should look like a cheesy Hugh Hefner wannabe, but the silk hangs off his shoulder just so.
And, well, the way the robe falls a little too high on his thighs is just… sexy as fuck.
"You look way too good in that.” I stand and move towards him. Meet him in the middle of the room.
"I was thinking exactly the same thing about you." He smiles.
My hand goes to the edge of the robe. The spot over my chest. I want to tease him. Toy with him. I almost do. But something stops me.
A shyness.
Or maybe a desire to get through this. To play on my turf. Conversation with clothing on.
That's what I know to do.
That's how I know how to do this.
And, well—
Something tells me a little roleplay is exactly what we both need to let go. Since he's used to pretense. And I'm used to intellectualizing everything.
"Do you want to go first?" I don't quite tease him with a flash, but I do slide my fingers over the fabric, drawing his attention.
Pride fills his eyes. And something I don't expect. A defiance. Like he knows I'm daring him, and he can't wait to dare me back. There's a playfulness to it.
Or maybe I'm projecting.
I do that too much.
"I can," he says. "If you want." He moves to the bed and takes a seat. "Any fantasy?"
I nod. "Preferably one you've had for a while. Preferably one you've never filled. But any will do."
His eyes go to the wide window. With the sheer blinds down, you can't make out the image of the backyard. Only a blur of blue sky, palm trees, and ocean view.
"How honest can I be?" he asks.
"As honest as you want," I say.
"And you won't judge me if I say, I fantasize about coming on your face?"
"Isn't that a pretty typical fantasy?" I ask.
He nods in agreement. "Wouldn't you think I watch too much porn?"
"Probably," I return. "And I'm sure that's why some people have it. But it can be about acceptance too. Wanting your partner to accept you fully. Even the parts that society deems gross."
"That's a deep read on facials." He laughs.
"That's my job."
"You don't sound judgmental. You're good with that."
"You too," I say.
"It's not that."
I have to admit, even though I know why people like the act, I can't totally get on board. There's a difference between understanding something intellectually and getting it on a gut level.
And, well, things with my ex were complicated.
He didn't want to have sex. But it wasn't a lack of libido exactly. He still watched plenty of porn. He masturbated all the time.
He just preferred to experience sex in that one, single way. By viewing it from the other side of a computer screen.
A real flesh and blood woman who expected him to participate was too much, after a while.
Now, I understand the psychology of it. It's a common problem. Sometimes, it's not so severe. Sometimes, a man has trouble with stimulation or finishing. Sometimes, he needs aids to have sex at all.
And sometimes, he's even worse than my ex-husband was.
Sometimes, he's in search of more and more hardcore content.
It probably happens to women too. I've just never had any of their partners show up asking for my help. Men are far less likely to stay in difficult relationships. Men are far less likely to suggest couple’s therapy. Men are far less likely to try to change their partner.
It’s smarter, probably, to accept people as they are. To give them a chance or two to change their behavior and leave when they don’t. And, usually, they don’t.
"Where are you going?" he asks.
I don't want to talk about my ex. Not yet. And I don't want to talk about facials, really. The mental image isn't exactly a turn on.
But it doesn't disgust me as much as it usually does.
I guess it's different when someone respects your boundaries.
When you like them.
"I'd be more surprised that you hadn't done that," I admit. "I imagine you've had clients ask."
"Not often," he says. "But I have, yes."
I don't like the thought of him with other people. Which is ridiculous. I hired him to spice up my life. I’m using him for content as much as he’s using me to fool his family. This is all a game, like the ones his mom is suggesting. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it.
"Can I ask you something totally inappropriate?" I ask.
"Sure," he says.
"Do you have sex with men?" I ask.
"For work? Or fun?"
"Either, I guess," I say.
"No." He shakes his head. "That was a vow Sasha and I made when we started the business. We'd never do anything we didn't want to do. She got calls, men who wanted to have sex with men, but she never pushed me to agree."
"She turned clients away?"
"Referred them to someone who gave her a finder’s fee." He smiles. "She's savvy." He looks me in the eyes. "Why? Is that a fantasy of yours? Two men?"
"At once?" I ask.
"I've done that." He doesn't say if it's for paying clients or fun, and I don't ask. "But always with the women the center of attention."
"I have fantasized about that," I admit. "I imagine most women have."
"And what does that mean?" he asks.
"For some people, it's simple greed. Two is better than one. Sometimes, it's about sharing. Or community. For others, it's about being desirable. Or being watched. Or watching."
He shakes his head. "I don't want Doctor Vaughn's answer. I want Ivy's. What turns you on about it?"
For a moment, I hesitate. It’s awkward to share this way.
But there’s something about his eyes too.
I trust him to listen without judgement.
I trust him to give me the things I want.
"The thought of being wanted that much," I say.
"And the mastery of it, I guess? Like I'm so good with dick I can handle two at once. "
He chuckles. "I've never heard it described that way." He reaches out and brushes a hair from my eyes. "But it is true. Is that your fantasy?"
"Uh-uh. It's your turn, and I've already shared one," I say. "I'm not saying anything until you share."
"A shrewd negotiation." He nods and looks to the window. To the blur of palm trees and blue sky. "You know how everyone says if you love your job, you'll never work a day in your life?"
"It's not true," I say.
He nods of course not. "And it's worse, too. If you turn what you love into a job, all of a sudden, it becomes work."
"We've both made sex into work," I agree.
He nods. "I don't think about what I want out of sex anymore. Even when I fuck myself. It's more a training exercise."
"How does that work?" I ask.
He chuckles. "It's more a mental game than physical. I put myself in a very unsexy circumstances—a messy room, surrounded by pictures of bored workers, or truly hideous men—and I try to block all that out to find arousal. Or I put on a video, and I try to last as long as possible."
"What do you use?" I ask. "To test your stamina?"
"Is that my secret fantasy?" he asks.
"Is it?" I return.
His head drops as he laughs. "You're going to laugh and say I'm a cliche."
It's hard to imagine him as a cliche. I shake my head. "I might laugh, but I promise to call you something far worse."
"Good." He runs a hand through his hair in that coy way guys do. It's an odd gesture on him. Sexy. "I watch…" He takes a deep breath and lets out a hard exhale. "Girl on girl."
"No." I feign shock.
"I know." He points to his chest. "I'm like a sixteen-year-old boy. But it's not the tacky mainstream stuff."
"Do you pay for content?" I ask.
"Of course," he says. "Sasha would kill me if I didn't."
"If she wouldn't?"
"I know I should," he says. "As a person in the industry. But I don't always want to seek out just the right thing. Sometimes I just want to open PornHub and get off."
"I thought you only masturbated as work?"
He shrugs. "Mostly."
"And those other times, still girl on girl?"
"Sometimes."
"Other times?" I ask.
"Mostly, solo videos," he says. "Ones where women are teasing the camera. Looking right at me."
"What do you like about it?"
"The solo stuff?" He asks. When I nod, he continues. "I like seeing someone with themselves. I like that it's for my viewing pleasure. That I'm not expected to do anything but watch. That I can't see myself in it."
"And the girl on girl?"
"The way women are tender," he says. "And loving. A lot of amateur—or fake amateur—stuff is gentle. I like seeing that. The affection. The softness. The time. They aren't putting on a show. They're really there, in the moment."
"And you can't see yourself in that, either," I say.
He nods.
"Why do you think that is?" I bite my tongue. "Sorry. Therapist mode."
"Maybe that's a new fantasy of mine," he says. "My sex therapist finding me so hot she breaks all her rules." He smiles. "Or is that too fucked up for you?"
"Too real." I nod. "But I can understand the appeal. That your darkest thoughts are so enticing they make someone risk their career, violate their ethics."
"Have you ever wanted a client?"
"I've found clients attractive," I say. "I've gotten lost in their description of sex and found it appealing.
But I've never wanted a client that way.
There's something about the relationship that makes it feel wrong.
Not just morally, but sexually too, I guess.
I'm entrusted to care for them and caring for someone just isn't sexy.
" I bite my lip. "If that doesn't make me seem too cold. "
"Because you don't want to screw your clients?"
"Because I didn't like caring for my husband," I say.
Something in his gaze shifts. Away from sexy, to something serious. "Did he have health issues?"
"No more than anyone else," I say. "It was more the typical domestic labor. Sure, I enjoyed cooking for the two of us, but that was it. I didn't find any joy in cleaning after. Or doing his laundry. Or paying the bills. I didn't feel any satisfaction in keeping a home."
"Do most people?" he asks.
"I do, when it's for myself," I say. "When it's my space."
"What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing, in the abstract," I say. "But it's not great for partnership."
"Did you always feel that way?" he asks. "Or only once things were hard?"
"I don't know." It was worse, when things were hard, I guess.
I've always enjoyed getting things done, and keeping the space tidy, but I've never really wanted people in my space.
Only very close friends and family. And even then, I want my alone time after a while.
"I suppose I liked some things about sharing a life, at first. Having company.
Decorating the house together. Going to the grocery store and wandering the aisles.
It turned chores into a fun shared activity. "
"Sounds like a partnership."
It does.
"Maybe you didn't like being put to work."
I didn't. "Something tells me your mom won't like that."
"She might not admit it, but she'd understand it," he says. "Things weren’t always perfect with my father. She acts like they were, now that he’s gone, but they fought plenty. The had hard times."
"Did she talk about it?"
"No, she never let on, but I could tell. He was…traditional. She was too. She still is, in some ways."
She doesn't let on to any lack of faith in the institution, but she doesn't seem interested in firm gender roles either.
Or is that part of Cynthia's problem? Maybe Daniel expects her to stay home to raise her kids. Which is great—if that's what she wants.
If it's not—
It's hard for women who want children. They don't have any great options. Either they focus on their careers, and they're criticized as bad moms, or they focus on their kids, and they're called gold diggers. Worse, they're left totally dependent on their husbands.
”We can talk more about my parents’ marriage.” He looks at me. "But I imagine that’s not what you’re here to do…"
No. It's not. And it's not even lunch time and it's already been a long day. I might as well enjoy a little something. "We, uh… we actually have very compatible fantasies."
"Oh?" He raises a brow go on and shifts into that other mode. The flirty one.
It feels different this time.
More honest.
I can't say why. Maybe it's the curiosity in his eyes. Maybe he really does want to know what I want.
"That's one of mine… being watched," I say.
"Then please." He motions to the mirror in front of the bed. "Take the floor. I bet you put on a hell of a show."