Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Romeo
I'm not bluffing.
Not exactly.
After all, I'm not kidnapping the poor woman. She's an adult with free will. If she wants to go, she can.
But I'm not nearly as okay with it as I suggest.
Watching doubt creep over Ivy's expression, I suddenly understand why most people don't make use of my strategy.
Sure, it's easy to let my family believe I'm off working contract gigs (even if they don't quite buy it). It's smart to use a fake relationship to convince them I'm capable of commitment.
But there's a cost.
My lack of honesty means a lack of intimacy too. My relationship with Daniel is built on the years before I started this line of work. He doesn't believe a thing about my new life.
He sees through it, senses the dishonesty.
That's why he doesn't trust me. It's not the only reason—he saw me as a screw-up for a long time—but it's part of it.
I'm too used to transactional relationships. To pretending I'm whoever the client wants me to be. To people who know I'll leave the second they tire of me, who know I won't come back unless they pay my fee.
There's a transparency to trading money for company, but it breeds another kind of dishonesty. After all, they're paying me to pretend I'm interested. And I'm asking them to believe the ruse.
Sure, I'm good at this game. But maybe I'm not good at any of the rest.
I wipe my hands on my slacks. They're wet. Why are they wet?
I don't sweat over women's responses. I don't get nervous.
But the body doesn't lie—
I'm terrified.
And it's not because I might lose my brother's trust. Not solely, anyway.
Ivy takes her time considering the question, leaving me in suspense. She's not an impulsive person. I'll give her that much.
"No." She looks me in the eyes. "I don't want to leave."
My shoulders fall in relief. I don’t want her to leave. I want her here. Even if it’s only as long as we play this game. I really like her. I really, really like her.
"But I don't want to pretend to be someone I'm not either," she says. "I'm not rushing to get married again. Or be the perfect wife. I don't even know if I want to be a wife again."
"Okay."
"That simple. Okay?" she asks.
"This was my idea," I say. "You never promised results."
"But isn't that our trade…" There's something in her voice. An insecurity.
This is about sex. Because this is her payment for sex. But I can't explain how I feel without putting her on the spot. This is an education for me, too. This is something I need, too.
And, well—
I do like her—
And that makes things different.
"It's not a burden," I say. "I enjoy our evenings."
She presses her lips together. "But they're not exactly… what are they?"
It's a good question. I don't know. They're still transactional. Transactions are the only thing I understand, apparently. "Two people, enjoying their time together. I'm not doing anything I don't want to do."
"So, if you weren't in the mood to have sex, you'd say that?"
Not in the mood. What a strange thought. As if I ever consider whether or not I'm in the mood anymore.
I went straight from horny twenty-something to professional. As a college student, I rarely thought about how much I wanted sex. I took advantage of the opportunity for sex. I assumed, as a man, I must want it.
"Honestly?" I ask.
"You should never say, 'honestly.' People will always agree. No one is going to say, please lie to me."
That's fair. "Even so. Do you want a full explanation?"
She nods.
"I don't know that I'd recognize the feeling.
I've been having sex, as a job, for a long time.
Before that, I was young. I had sex because I wanted to, yes.
But also because I thought I should. Because I was supposed to want sex with a beautiful woman.
Because I was supposed to want sex when I wanted it.
And I did want it all the time. It wasn't until it became work that I didn't. And now… I don't know how to untangle the two."
She studies my expression without judgment. Therapist mode. Or maybe that's what an interested partner looks like. It's not like I share.
"I'll try," I say. "To check in with myself. But I doubt it will be the situation. I find you very sexy."
Her cheeks flush.
"And the fact you're a professional too—it does something to me. Gives me this drive to prove myself to you. To connect on some other level that other people won't understand."
"What could I possibly know that you don't?" She laughs. "You've got all the hands-on experience."
"I bet you know all sorts of weird shit I don't."
"Probably."
"What about you?" I ask. "Does your job take over your thoughts of sex?"
"You keep turning it back to me. Do you realize that?"
"And you keep pulling out Doctor Vaughn."
She nods, accepting the accusation without offense.
"It's still true. And I don't mean it as a competition, exactly. I am trying to share. It would be nice if you did, too. I’m not offering to go because I don’t like you. It’s because I do.
Because I want this to work for you, and I just… I don’t know where I stand.”
“What do you want to know?”
“It would help if you showed me more honest parts of yourself. That's all."
"Do I seem dishonest?"
"Not exactly," she says. "It's more that you play this role. The suave professional. You play it in front of your family too, but a different flavor. I can tell there's a falseness… but I can't see what's under it."
"Whereas you're not afraid to reveal yourself."
"No." She shakes her head. "I'm afraid. But I'm trying. Maybe I should try harder. Admit the really ugly things." She pats the spot on the bed next to her. "Maybe we could try it like this. Side by side. It can be easier."
"As pillow talk…" I offer. "That can be easier."
"Are you trying to change the subject to sex?"
"The subject is sex," I say.
She laughs. "I guess that's true. But it's a different sort of take."
"And that's another way to share."
"Oh?" Her eyes perk. "Do you have another fantasy? I'm listening."
"Yes, but that's not what I mean." Maybe I do want to use sex as a way to hide. But I also want to use it as a way to reveal myself. "Remember my apartment? The way I made you seduce me?"
Her blush deepens. "I do."
"I want to do that. If I have your permission. To do exactly what I want with you."
"You mean in a dominant sort of way?"
"No. That isn't my thing. Too rigid and intellectual. It's more permission to be selfish."
"Most men don't ask permission."
That's probably true. "You can still use a safe word. No. Promise to use it if anything is too much. Or painful. I know that's an issue for a lot of women."
"Are you going to rush things?" she asks.
"No. I like slow." I always have. The anticipation is half the fun. That's the thing I love and hate about my job. There's no mystery. No question to whether or not we'll have sex and how it will go. Just the roles we've both agreed to play. "But I might not be quite as attentive."
"Right now?" she asks.
"If you're game."
She smiles. "Okay. But I still want to talk to you after."
I offer my pinkie to swear.
She smiles as she hooks her pinkie with mine. "So how does it work, if you're not issuing orders?"
"I take what I want. You take what you want. Either of us can stop at any moment."
"So, you could get me almost there and stop?"
"And you could too."
"That's a very evil idea," she says. "I might turn it around on you."
"I hope you do."