 
Pleasure Extraordinaire 1

by

LIV BENNETT

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 by Liv Bennett

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 by Liv Bennett

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. The uploading, scanning, and distribution of this book in any form or by any means—including but not limited to electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the permission of the copyright holder is illegal and punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

 1 - The Contract

 2 - The Condition

 3 - The Encounter

 4 - The Decision

 5 - The Interrogation

 6 - The Sex Bomb

 7 - Lies - ACE

 8 - The Heartache

 9 - The Game

 10 - Ice and Fire

 11 - The Lover

Read an excerpt from The Pursuit of Passion

 About The Author

Michael Hawkins is mature, rich, and drop-dead sexy. He is also gay.

And for some strange reason, he wants me to be his pretend girlfriend in exchange for a big sum of money.

He has one condition, though: I cannot get close to a man, or be seen with one during the one year I'm contracted with him. I thought it'd be a piece of cake, until I meet his two grown-up, gloriously handsome sons, who won't take no for an answer.

Including from me.

I'll not fall for their cheap tricks even if it means I'll have to close my eyes each time I see them. And each time I close my eyes, I imagine their naked bodies doing sinful acts on mine. God help me before my physical urges get the best of me, and the contract blows up in my face.

*

_Macey Williams_ _is an alias for the villain of The Pursuit Of Passion. Her name was deliberately changed to keep the mystery for the readers who have not read them._

The Contract

Iron Slap.

That's what they call me, because I killed a woman with just the slap of my hand. It wasn't the slap that killed her actually. It was the hook that pierced her head that took her life in a matter of seconds.

However, for some reason, that crucial fact didn't register in people's minds. When I say people, I mean millions of them, because Macey Williams, the woman I killed, had put up a video recorder so the entire world could witness her barbarity as she tried to kill my sister. But it turned out to be just the opposite of what she'd initially aimed for, and instead, recorded how her life was sucked out of her lungs.

As a result of the video spreading like wildfire, here I am, stopped almost every time I show up in public by strangers asking for a picture of my glorious hand, or an autograph drawn by the said hand. Some folks go as far as asking me to slap them. And not always on the face. I would gladly honor those airheads' wishes if I was sure my hand wouldn't hurt.

Some YouTube guy made an amateur music video of the brief second of my hand hitting the face of my sister's kidnapper, using a horrible electronic melody of his own creation as the background music, and that ridiculous video has gotten over twenty million viewers. That's nothing compared to the two-hundred and twenty-five-million visitors the original video had received in its one-week life on YouTube, before it was banned for violating the website's terms and regulations against violence.

It's amazing how such a simple, self-defensive act made me famous nationwide. I have been approached by insurance companies, detergent manufacturers, food chains, and whatnot to appear in their commercials. Hell, even a tow truck company wanted to use my hand as their logo. I'd think it was funny, only it wasn't. I haven't, and will never, use the fame of the hand I killed someone with to make money.

Not that I feel what I did was wrong.

Having been haunted by guilt for the majority of my life for being the cause of my mother's death—because she died while giving birth to me—not even a drop of guilt has formed in my heart for intentionally causing Macey's death. If I hadn't killed her, she would have killed my sister.

Now, over eight months after the incident, my life has settled into some sort of normality. I've recently moved into a tiny one-bedroom apartment in Miracle Mile, the same district in Los Angeles where Taylor, my sister, lives with her husband. The only thing missing to complete the feel of normality is a job.

My resumé rocks for a recent graduate with a double major in Math and Statistics, but the dark-haired, middle-aged recruitment officer who's interviewing me right now looks as if she has a truck driver sitting across from her, wanting to fill the data-analyst post.

"Miss Doheny, you have an excellent background in programming," she says with an expression less than enthusiastic attached to her words. Her suit is as black as her long hair, and her shirt a crisp white. No wrinkles apparent. Her sterile office with its modern furniture is just a continuation of her perfectionism.

I just nod, because I don't feel like saying 'thank you,' as there's nothing to thank her for— she's just stating the facts.

"Please, tell us about your previous work. It says on your resumé that you worked for only one year in a New York based company. Is there a specific reason for not continuing your duties for longer?"

There's only one reason why she's asking that question directly, and that's because she knows why I left that job.

"I took up the post, knowing that I was going to leave it someday, because I wanted to come back to L.A. sooner or later."

It's not the answer she was fishing for. I can see it in the slight twitch of the corner of her lips, the brief narrowing of her eyes.

"I see." She lifts a hand and places it on the black desk, tapping her perfectly manicured nails lightly on the surface. "How was your relationship with your former co-workers? Did you get along with everyone on your team? Positive interpersonal relationships among co-workers are of vital importance for us, since you'll have to work together for several hours a day under extreme stress."

Extreme stress, my ass! It's not like they're saving lives in an emergency department on a daily basis. "I have no problem cooperating with colleagues in a professional environment. I can assure you that I'll be supportive and encouraging of everything that's related to my team's success. But, if you want to know if I'll just bow my head and won't say anything if one of those co-workers tries to take advantage of me sexually, I'm going to have to disappoint you. My supervisor from my previous job tried exactly that and is now facing five years in jail."

A smile of triumph curves up her lips, and her eyes brighten as if she's just found a treasure. Perhaps I should have just kept my mouth shut and my face straight. But, I'm sure she already knew that fact about my previous boss and his attempt at raping me, and if she rejects me for practicing my basic human rights by suing him, this isn't the right workplace for me anyway.

She asks me a few more questions about my experience with software without really listening to my answers, because she's already got the answer she'd wanted to hear. She must have already crossed me off her final list of candidates, and I can't blame her for acting out of caution. For all she knows, I might be one of those crazy gold-diggers who won't refrain from lying about a non-existent sexual harassment case to squeeze money from companies. And, with the fame I have, if I file a lawsuit against them, the company's prestige will be destroyed in a matter of days.

After the lawsuit, the work environment at the company became unbearable with colleagues talking behind my back, insinuating that I started it all by seducing him. There was nothing I could do except leave and look for another job. That proved to be wishful thinking, because no other company wanted to hire me. I became completely unemployable in the entire New York State, and it would probably be wise for me to accept the fact that it's the same here in Los Angeles. I should start considering the embarrassing option of asking my sister for a post at her construction company.

Reluctantly, I shake hands with the interviewer at the end of the briefest interview I've ever attended and leave her office. Tears sting my eyes, but I work hard not to cry as I walk past the cubicles. I studied my ass off to finish two degrees and then worked more than sixty hours a week as an employee for a full year. For what? To end up having to ask my sister for a job?

I walk toward the bus stop, since my fifteen-year-old coupe is broken, and sit on a bench beside an elderly Latina lady. Construction workers behind us whistle shamelessly and say something I don't understand despite the four semesters of Spanish I took at college. I ignore them and return to my self-pity session.

Every month, I pay twenty-five hundred for my tuition loan, fifteen-hundred for rent for the smallest one-bedroom apartment in L.A., and another five hundred for everything else. The longer I stay unemployed, the less chance I'll have to land a job, and the settlement I received from the sexual-harassment lawsuit will be used up before I can invest it in something productive. The fact that I'm uninsured is another big factor that's more a fear than a motivator.

The bus comes, and I help the lady get on it and then settle in a seat in the back row. My phone rings with an incoming email, and I tap on the screen to read it. An ad from an airline, as if I can afford to go on vacation at the moment. I scroll down the inbox to delete all the other spam mail but stop when I notice an email from Hawkins Media Group. It was sent to me two weeks ago, but I haven't noticed it until now.

"A position opened up at Hawkins Media Group that matches your profile. I'd like to invite you to an interview at our headquarters in Sherman Oaks on behalf of Michael Hawkins. Please, contact me as soon as possible to set up your interview with Mr. Hawkins.

Julie Meadows,

Assistant to Michael E. Hawkins.

Hawkins Media Group"

I read the email again with a strong suspicion about its authenticity. It's most likely another spam or a cruel joke from a friend, since no detail is provided about the nature of the job post except for the fact that it matches my profile. How do they know my profile? Oh, I see. They might have seen my resumé online. And Michael Hawkins did offer me a job interview about eight months ago at a business lunch he had with Taylor. How silly of me that I completely forgot about that.

I call Taylor's secretary and ask for the phone number of Michael Hawkins' assistant. It's the same number as on the email. Does that mean the email isn't actually some spam? There's only one way to find out. I call the number, and a woman with a deep, confident voice answers the phone.

"Michael Hawkins' office. Julie Meadows is speaking. How can I help you?"

"Hello. This is Lindsay Doheny. I received an email from you about a possible job interview, and I wanted to make sure it's real and not spam."

"Hello, Ms. Doheny. I'm glad you called back. The email is real. A position opened up a few weeks ago, and Mr. Hawkins personally recommended you. We would be pleased to have you over for an interview. Would three p.m. work for you?"

"You mean today? In two hours?"

"Yes. Mr. Hawkins has the afternoon free today. He'll be leaving for Atlanta tomorrow."

"Oh, okay." If I can arrive home in half hour, I'll have only an hour to shower and change into fresh clothes and another half hour for the ride to the HGM headquarters. "Do you need me to bring any documents with me to the interview?"

"Thank you, but that won't be necessary. I'll send a company vehicle to pick you up for the interview."

"Really? Is that normal? What kind of position am I going to be interviewed for?"

"I'm not aware of the details, but Mr. Hawkins will gladly provide you with all the necessary information during the interview."

After I give her my address for the company car to pick me up and thank her, I disconnect, eyeing the phone in my hands suspiciously. A chauffeur will drive me to the interview where the CEO will be present? It's unusual, unless Michael Hawkins is planning to recruit me as his CFO.

I shouldn't get my hopes high, but since I don't have anything else planned for the afternoon, the interview will be a nice distraction, even an additional opportunity to practice my interpersonal skills. Not that I'm lacking any practice in the interview department after having been interviewed more than twenty times in the last couple of months. And, if I actually manage to land a job, I'll forget all those frustrating interviews ever happened.

I run to my apartment and hurry while getting ready for interview number two of the day. The company vehicle, a black stretch car no less, arrives at exactly two thirty in front of my apartment building, and a middle-aged man with blond hair and brown eyes climbs out, walks around, and opens the door for me.

"Good afternoon, Miss Doheny. I'm Seth. I'll be your driver today."

"Nice meeting you, Seth." Feeling a little dizzy at the unusual kindness of the driver, I nod and get in the back seat. This is not normal. No way.

Michael Hawkins, the owner and the CEO of Hawkins Media Group that runs two TV networks, one music recording label, and several smaller-sized advertising agencies throughout California, is sending out the latest-model stretch car for me, and I'd be a dumbass if I seriously believed he's considering me for a job related to my majors.

I remember, with a cringe because he was actually flirting with me that day, the only occasion we met: I had accompanied my sister to a business lunch. I didn't mind it at the time, after all, he's a gorgeous man, tall, athletic, and mature. And, I bet he knows what he's doing in bed. I might have felt a little attraction to him during the lunch, but those superficial qualities shouldn't matter to me if we're to establish a work relationship.

During the twenty-eight-minute drive, I count the number of red cars I see on the way. I spot exactly one hundred-and-six red cars, if I don't count that one car that had two black doors but was red everywhere else. I have to eliminate it, or I'll end up having an odd number and my job interview will flop.

Among all the numbers, it can't be a number that ends with seven because I hate seven. My birthdate, which is also the date of my mother's death, falls on the seventh of June. I found out the truth about my mother's death when I was seven. That jerk of a colleague in the previous company where I worked tried to rape me on the seventh of February. Macey Williams kidnapped Taylor and me on the seventh of May. And surprise, surprise, the street number of the house where Macey held us captive ended with seven as well. It was a clear sign that I shouldn't have entered the house in the first place. And, there are many more things that aren't just coincidence about seven. Not to mention the deadly sins that are what? Seven. Nothing good ever comes of anything related to seven.

That's why I'm keeping that clown of a car out of my total sum, and the imminent interview will be nothing but a light conversation filled with laughter and compliments about my work ethic, accomplishments, and well, good looks. Of course the flattery about my looks should come from Michael and Michael alone, or I may have to file for another sexual harassment lawsuit and that would most likely label me as unemployable for eternity in California, as well.

I straighten my black pencil skirt and adjust my matching-color clutch under my arm as I climb the stairs in front of the high-rise that's only the most luxurious building I've ever seen. The girl at the front desk greets me with a full-tooth smile and informs her colleague of my arrival through her earphone. "Take the elevator to the twenty-fourth floor and check in with the secretary. She'll direct you to Mr. Hawkins' office."

I wasn't aware that the interview would be held in Michael's office. I should probably stop calling him Michael in my head to prevent any accidental slips of the tongue. I thank the girl and hurry straight for the elevators.

When the elevator doors open, I'm confronted with a tall and very slim girl who, judging by her extravagant looks and the familiarity of her face, must be working in front of the camera or in fashion. Her leather jacket and skinny jeans make me feel too overdressed in my black skirt suit.

I step in, nodding at her briefly. She doesn't return my gesture, just flips her long, dyed-blonde hair behind her shoulder. I notice the button for the floor twenty-four is already pressed, which means she's going up to the same floor as I am. I feel her heavy stare on me as I hit the button for the doors to close.

The twenty-fourth floor? Very high for my edgy nerves, but at least it's not an odd number. I inhale the strong scent of the girl's cologne, willing my nerves to calm.

"I wouldn't bother going all the way up. My father isn't in today," the girl says, glancing at her long, pink nails with a bored expression on her face, and I realize why she's so familiar. She's Chloe Hawkins. Michael's, ahem, Mr. Hawkins' only daughter.

"Okay. Thanks for the information," I reply, hoping the disappointment in my voice won't show and stare up at the numbers on the pad. It might not be such a bad thing, after all. I'll probably concentrate better on the interview questions without the distraction of a beautiful man.

I don't know the first thing about her, so I shouldn't judge her by the brief two-second vibe I'm getting from her, but I can say, almost with certainty, that she and I will never be BFFs.

I shove my shoulders back and lift my chin nonchalantly to keep a straight posture and stand as tall as I can be beside her five-eleven figure, regretting wearing flat pumps rather than high-heels.

The elevator doors slide open, and Chloe elegantly walks out of it, swaying her non-existent hips left and right. I follow her, hoping the secretary I've been told to see will be in that direction.

I clutch my purse, unable to stop my fingers from squeezing it with anxiety as I see the brand of the skinny jeans Chloe's wearing, 7 For All Mankind. Among all the clothing lines available, my potential future boss's daughter has to wear clothes from Seven Jeans.

Seven!

My first instincts about her were correct. It's crystal clear she and I will never make it beyond two strangers. That is, if I'm lucky.

I spot a desk and a brunette in her early twenties in a dark-blue suit. She stands and greets Chloe as she walks past the desk without returning the secretary's gesture, and enters through the large glass doors. I hesitate asking the girl at the desk about my interview, but I do it anyway.

"Miss Doheny," she says, giving me one of the most heart-warming smiles, calming my agitated nerves a bit. "Welcome to Hawkins Media Group. Mr. Hawkins is waiting for you." She comes around her desk and opens the same door Chloe has just passed through a second ago and gestures with her hand to an anteroom. "Julie, this is Miss Doheny. Mr. Hawkins' three o'clock appointment."

Julie welcomes me briefly, dials a number and informs someone of my arrival, while I quickly scan her large office. The desk and the file cabinets are an exquisite mahogany, while the carpet and the walls are light cream. My old office was half the size of this one, and didn't even have a tenth of the luxury this one has. Julie's salary must be also several times higher than mine, although I bet her science knowledge doesn't go beyond high-school level. She must have other qualities that make up for her lack of science knowledge to get her such a nice office.

I'd continue analyzing Julie and the choice of her dress, but the sudden opening of the French doors at the other end of Julie's office saves her from my critical evaluation. I gasp when Michael appears from behind the doors, looking more gorgeous than I remembered.

"Michael... Hawkins," I blurt out, wanting to kick myself in the gut for calling him by his first name.

"Just Michael, please. I'm glad you decided to give Hawkins Media Group a chance." He stands at the doorway, offering me his hand to shake, giving me a bright, knee-weakening smile.

Right. I'm giving them a chance. I work hard not to roll my eyes at his words and much harder to not let the sultry scent of his cologne get the best of me. If only it was just his cologne that was distracting my senses and making my brain go all mushy in an instant! His full head of black hair only streaked with gray above his ears, his warm brown eyes flashing beautiful and sexy suggestions, his Zeus body. Oh god, that body deserves a medal of honor for each and every curve beneath those undeserving clothes. Even the wrinkles on his face create an aura of sensuality that's hard to ignore.

I bet with his years of experience, he's developed some mind-blowing tricks to overwhelm the poor women who are already mesmerized by his beauty.

I'm torn between wanting to replace Julie to be as close to Michael as possible and work at the bottom floor so I won't do something foolish around him.

My heart is beating as fast as if I've just finished drinking half a dozen cups of coffee as I close the distance between us and reach for his hand.

Somehow, I notice Chloe sitting at the edge of a large desk situated in the middle of the over-sized office and feel grateful for the sneer on her face for keeping me focused on something other than Michael.

"Hello, Michael," I say and leave his firm grip. He points toward his office with the same sunshine smile playing across his lips, and I walk to the middle of the office and stop to wait for him to close the door. Only he doesn't.

"Chloe, be a darling and give us some privacy, please," Michael says with a warm, fatherly voice.

Chloe doesn't say anything as she practically leaps toward the door with fury steaming from her red ears.

Michael approaches me and leads me with his hand on the small of my back toward the long, rectangular table on the north side of his office. "Lindsay, I thought you'd never call. I'm very happy to see you again."

"Me, too, Michael. Chloe told me just a minute ago when we met in the elevator that you wouldn't be in today," I say loudly enough for Chloe to hear while she steps out of the office. I smile with satisfaction, when she flashes me a contemptuous look seconds before she bangs the door closed.

"She's a little over-protective of her old father, but she's harmless. Ignore her caprices, and you'll be just fine."

I want to correct him and say he's far from old, but I don't want to be perceived as a bootlicker. So I just let my body follow where he's directing me.

A man, whose presence in the office I've just noticed, pulls a chair for me and nods with his head. He's blond, as short as I am with my pumps, and wearing an expensive navy-blue suit.

"This is my assistant, Edric."

"Pleasure to meet you, Edric." I shake his hand and sit on the edge of the chair he pulled out for me. My agitated nerves won't let me relax. I drop my purse behind me, keeping my spine straight as a rod, clasping my shaking hands together under the table to hide them.

"The pleasure is mine." Edric settles across from me once Michael takes his seat at the head of the table.

"You'll interact with Edric more often than you will with me." Michael laces his hands and rests his elbows on the table, instantly sending me into a daydream about my naked body manhandled by those hands. I wish I could fan the extreme heat out of my body. "He'll be responsible for everything related to your recruitment. So make sure he's informed about every little detail concerning your life, be it filing your income tax return or your choice of tampon."

I come close to choking on my saliva at the word tampon, but I must say his words help me forget my nervousness. "I don't think I heard that right. Why would Edric have to know what I use during my period?"

"Oh, I apologize. My bad. You must be thinking I'm going to recruit you for a post at the network."

I shiver briefly with disappointment. I was counting on getting a job here and skipping that headache-inducing, motivation-killer job-hunting stage. "I won't be hired?"

"Oh yes, you will. But not for the type of post you're expecting to have."

One of my eyebrows arches without my control, as confusion clouds my mind. "What kind of post do you have in mind?" I ask hesitantly. Okay, I like him. Maybe a lot, but I won't work as a prostitute if that's what he has in mind. Those wealthy people. All of them are too spoiled to see the value in each individual, and they think they can buy their frozen hearts' desire. Where's the good, old fashioned way of taking the girl out to a nice restaurant for dinner? He's so gorgeous; I would probably end up in the same bed with him before the clock turned twelve.

"I want to hire you as my girlfriend."

There you go. My fury surfaces with the mere sound of his words, and I jerk to my feet, pushing the chair back. I should get out of this office before he tastes my iron slap. I don't want to deal with another lawsuit.

"Please, listen to what I say before you decide."

"I'm not a whore."

"I didn't think you were one. I just need you to appear as my girlfriend."

"Oh, I see." I smirk. Has he stooped that low? "You want to take advantage of the fame of my iron slap? I thought your business was better than that."

He shakes his head, an unnerving smile across his lips. Funny how that same smile melted me into a puddle a minute ago. "I want you to pretend to be my girlfriend because of your honesty and trustworthiness. It'll be a lie if I say your selfless act to save your sister had no influence on my decision. It did, but it just confirmed what I initially saw in you."

"Why do you want to hire me to appear as your girlfriend exactly? All you need to do is take me out to a restaurant a few times, and you'll have a girlfriend with an iron slap. Are you scared I'll reject you?"

He throws his head back as his loud laughter fills the room. I sneak a peek at Edric and see him mirroring Michael. I shouldn't have made it so clear that I have a special interest in Michael. Ahh, my uncontrollable tongue.

"Isn't she lovely?" Michael asks Edric and then turns to me. "Believe me, you'd be on the top of my list of potential girlfriends, but you see, I can't have a real girlfriend."

I frown, trying to imagine why such a rich, gorgeous man can't have a girlfriend. If STDs are his problem, isn't that what condoms are for? And he doesn't even need to use protection since there must be dozens, if not hundreds of pretty girls out there with STDs.

"You don't get it, do you?" he asks, his eyes searching my face, and I shake my head. "It's because I'm gay."

"Huh?"

"And I'm not ready to come out yet. I probably never will be. It would destroy my business and the life I've worked so hard to build. My children would be affected and my employees. The public opinion regarding homosexuals might be getting more liberal every day, but if the word gets out that I'm into men, it'll be my end."

I plop back on the chair, unable to register his words. My lips are glued together; my brain is blank. The one man who managed to grab my interest after long months of abstaining turns out to be gay? That can't be. I've met and befriended enough homosexual guys to distinguish who's gay and who's not, and Michael looks far from being gay. With his strong features and overpowering command, he is, in fact, the very symbol of masculinity. It must be a cruel joke. Fucking rich people! One of their hobbies is messing with the feelings of ordinary people, like me.

My eyes jump between Edric and Michael. I wait anxiously for them to break into laughter and make fun of my foolishness. I'd rather have that than lose Michael without even having a chance with him.

But the laughter never comes, and instead, Michael continues with his speech. "I need a strong, opinionated and trustworthy woman beside me to keep my image as a straight man. You'll be compensated with a generous salary for your help, have access to all kinds of luxury products, travel across the world with me and have a chance to learn the insights of the media business, if you want to. Please, don't decline my offer without giving it thorough thought. "

"I wish I could help you, but I don't lie. Ever. I promised to myself years ago that I'd never lie, and you're asking me to lie to millions. That's not gonna happen."

"Now, there is no way I'm letting you go without having you sign the contract," Michael says with a soft, easy tone in his voice and turns to Edric. "I was right with my instincts about her. She's a treasure."

Edric confirms with a quick nod.

Pushing my purse to my side, I flop against the back of the chair and let my muscles relax at last; still unable to comprehend how my inability to lie is in any way beneficial for them in this situation. "I don't see how you're going to make me sign it without bypassing my number-one rule."

"By not lying," Edric replies.

"And, how is that going to be exactly?" I ask and, by the curious expression on his face, I'm sure Michael is wondering the same.

"We'll hire you as an employee, for any position you want. Doesn't matter. And, you'll go out on several dates with Michael. We don't need to officially announce that you two are in a relationship," Edric says. "The media will just assume it if they see you frequently going out to restaurants and events together. They'll help spread the word without you having to label what's going on between you. You can even claim to be friends only. That statement is never taken seriously by the paparazzi, but that's not your problem."

Michael lifts his hands to clap them in the air and then pats Edric's shoulder in an encouraging and not-so-gentle way. "Once again, you've proved to me why you're my right hand man."

I stare at the two men, wondering if it might work. "I'm not convinced this is the right solution to my problem."

"Why not?" Edric asks. "You and Michael will spend time together out in public or private to get to know each other and hopefully become good friends. I promise you, it won't feel like a job at all. He's an incredibly cultured, generous and amusing person. You'll never get bored with him. I'm not saying it because he's my boss. He really is someone very special." He glances at Michael, who's all smiles. "As long as pictures of you together appear on TMZ, your job is done."

Yeah, I can see he's someone special. If only... Anyway. There's no point in beating a dead horse. I'll get the job of my dreams and a salary for spending some enjoyable time with Michael without having to lie about what we are. It shouldn't be so difficult. Besides, I'll have a chance to see countries that I'll probably never see if I continue working as a mathematician.

"In addition to that, since we'll hire you as a regular employee, your salary officially will be associated with your work and not your relationship with Michael," Edric continues. "Currently, we have three positions that match your profile. But don't let it limit you. You can have any job in any department you want, and it doesn't have to be in the area you studied. HR, marketing, management, finance. You can even work as an actress for one of our TV shows if that's what you want to try. Just decide which one is right for you and I'll arrange everything else."

"As much as I like Edric's plan," Michael says. "I don't want to rush you into a big decision. Take as much time as you need."

I let out an exasperated breath and shake my head.

"Please, don't say no without considering everything."

"I've already decided."

Michael's face drops and his skin goes pale with disappointment.

"I'll take your offer and it better include at least a one-week trip to Japan."
The Condition

"You'll not be treated any differently than the other employees," Michael continues after congratulating me for making the right decision. "You'll receive a monthly salary and the health and pension benefits. You'll have the same rights and obligations as every member of Hawkins Media Groups."

I can't help wondering what my salary would be. I used to make fifty-thousand a year in my previous job as an entry-level data analyst in New York. It wasn't much, but I'd felt lucky for landing a job only two months after my graduation. If I'm expected to be treated fairly, I should ask for at least three times that amount.

Edric clears his throat, I guess as a gesture to ask for permission to take over, and when Michael nods, he offers me a stack of papers, which I guess is the contract. At least the preliminary version, because I have a feeling I shouldn't just settle for whatever they require. "This is the standard contract Mr. Hawkins' previous girlfriends received, but feel free to point out whatever bothers you. You'll be provided with a car of your choice, as well, and it'll belong to you."

"Really? Even if I want the latest model of Mercedes?"

Edric turns to Michael for help, and Michael simply nods to me.

"You'll also be given a company credit card to cover the expenses of your clothes, shoes, beauty salons, whatever is necessary to make you look top notch," Edric adds as I gaze down at the four-page contract. "You can ask for a personal assistant to help you buy the right clothes for your style, but Mr. Hawkins is of the opinion that you have a natural flare and should keep it that way to give your appearance a personal taste."

I glance at Michael's sunshine face over my shoulder, feeling my cheeks getting warm. Even that small piece of compliment pinches at my heart for the steamy moments I could have had with him. Perhaps it's a good thing he's gay. I'm already on the way to falling for him; what would have happened to me if he wasn't actually gay and still wanted to hire me as his girlfriend?

"How about my salary?" I ask, trying to distract myself from the daydreams that are pushing to occupy my mind.

"Hundred grand," Edric replies.

I roll my eyes. "Only that?" For all the trouble I'll go through for being in a kissing distance with Michael and not being able to kiss him?

Edric turns to Michael again as if communicating telepathically, and Michael nods. He's easygoing, too. Is there anything not attractive about this man? "We can go up to one-hundred fifty, but you should know that no other previous girlfriends of Mr. Hawkins were paid more than hundred."

"I'm glad I'm that special," I joke with a low voice.

"Your total annual salary will be one point eight million," Edric says, earning a loud "What?" from me. The hundred grand they offered initially was for a month's salary? I negotiated the total sum without being aware of the right amount. Misunderstandings aren't always bad, apparently.

"Have I made a mistake in the calculation?" Edric tabs on his phone, most likely to use the calculator.

"It was my mistake. I thought one hundred grand was the total sum, not a monthly salary. But you can't take your offer back." I work hard not to laugh at the million-dollar confusion. They could get me with ten-times-less money than they initially thought but holy cow! One million and eight hundred thousand fucking dollars will be paid to me to appear as the dumb girlfriend of some rich tycoon for a year?

As if that sum wasn't enough, I can buy what I want, practically move into a spa and will also own the car of my dreams? This is not actually happening, right? I must have been in a deep coma caused by a terrible car crash on the way to the interview and am dreaming all this stuff.

"Read the contract carefully, make sure you understand and agree on every condition listed and get back to us in two days," Michael instructs with a gentle tone in his voice.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Two days? Many things can happen in two days. They might find another, a much prettier and better-fitting girl for the post. Someone who is more experienced in the world of money and glamor and has a real fashion taste. "Just give me five minutes to go over it, then I'll sign it."

Michael stands and calls Julie to bring drinks for us. Shamelessly, I ask for a scotch. I'm signing a huge contract. I might as well celebrate it with some tasty liquor.

My eyes scan the words floating on the paper, but none of them actually register in my brain. I don't need alcohol, as the contract is making me feel drunk already.

When Julie comes back with my drink, I give up on trying to understand the terms of the contract and glance up at Michael who is now standing beside the window by the table. "I'll just sign it. I'm too agitated to understand a word, but it's okay. I'd spend a year in jail for an income like that," I blurt out a silly joke and hear Julie's laughter.

Michael dismisses her with a stern gaze. "We can modify the rules even after you sign them, but there's one rule you have to adhere to, no matter what."

"Oh, which one is that?" I look down at the paper, working hard to concentrate on the words but, damn, it's hard.

"You can't have a boyfriend, a male friend with benefits, one-night stands or anything that can put our pretend relationship in danger. Any other man you get involved with, even with an innocent kiss, is a reason to terminate the contract immediately, and you'll have to pay back everything you earned to the last cent, including the car."

Even the inmates have a right to conjugal visits. One year without sex, not even a kiss? Just when I was dreaming about the feeling Michael's tongue would leave in my mouth, on my skin... That means the upcoming year will be a reflection of my previous year. And I didn't earn a penny from the abstinence last year. But, will I be able to keep my physical needs in check, particularly if I keep getting turned on each time Michael is around?

I drop the papers onto the table and gather my hands on my lap. "I don't know what to say."

"Edric, will you please give us a minute?" Michael asks, and when Edric leaves, he pulls the chair on my other side and sits beside me. "May I ask what exactly it is that's stopping you? Are you dating someone?"

I shake my head and stare at his hands that are tapping gently on his knees. "I'm not dating anyone. I don't actually see any problem for not dating for a year. That's not the issue."

"Will you share with me what the issue is?"

"If it will stay between us, and you won't think anything bad about me."

"You can trust me on that."

I raise my regard, look directly into his eyes and see a fatherly concern in them. My heartbeats slow down, and my muscles relax in the warmth his presence radiates. "I'm a very physical person. I live for touches, kisses, and cuddling. I haven't had any of that this past year, and I don't think it'll be easy if I pass another year without being intimate with a man."

His eyebrows arch up. His eyes widen, and his lips part with a smile. "I guess I've never had a woman so honest with me in my entire fifty-six-years of life."

He's fifty-six? I would have guessed forty-something. Even that would be too old for my twenty-three short years of existence.

Michael's hand reaches over and covers mine. "I don't want you to lack any physical satisfaction, especially not when I'm hiring you to have the man I love close to me."

"Really?" He has a male lover? Ouch! Then again, why am I even surprised?

"I'm going to make an exception for you, for being honest with me." He pulls his wallet out of his pocket and grabs a black business card out of it. Handing it to me, he says, "You still cannot have a boyfriend or date anyone. However, you can use the services this company provides."

I glance at the delicate card in my hand and run my fingers on the engraved letters in cursive red. "Pleasure Extraordinaire?"

"It's a high-class Lady's Club where ladies can hire attractive men for sexual pleasure."

"Like a brothel?"

"Yes, but only men work in that club to serve their female clientele. That's the only place I can trust for confidentiality. They don't accept everyone, and they run background checks on the applicants and make them sign NDA to protect the confidentiality of the other clients. Which is why I prefer them to the other similar business venues."

I smirk because he's really considering the possibility of me going to a brothel for sex. I might not have had sex for a while, but I haven't stooped so low. Yet. "I don't know aboutyou, but I don't think I'll get pleasure from a man, knowing he's doing it for money."

Laughter shakes his body, and he pats on my hand gently. "It's not the kind of place you imagine. At least half of their employees are well-educated, wealthy men, who simply enjoy the idea of a woman paying them for a night of passion."

"Such men exist?"

"Go see it for yourself. You'll be surprised. I wish they accepted homosexuals, but it's only for ladies. As for the contract, don't rush yourself into it. Take as much time as you need and come back to me if you have questions."

"I'd like to have a day or two to think about it, but I'm afraid while I'm busy trying to decide, another girl will come and swipe the post away from my hands."

"I promise I'll not consider another candidate until I get an answer from you." He gets to his feet, and I stand beside him, clutching the contract and my purse.

My physical needs aside, I'm going to have to find a way to explain my situation to Taylor, anyway. Or am I not allowed to talk about it to her either? "Michael, one more thing."

"Sure." Michael slips his hands into the pockets of his black slacks and stares down at me with curious eyes.

"How much of this can I share with my sister?"

"Taylor Garnett? I'm afraid no part of it."

"She will be against the notion of me dating you, because you know, you're one of the clients of her company. She'll worry that if something goes wrong between us, the construction project you have with her company will be affected."

He takes a step back and gazes at something behind me, his hand cupping his chin. "That's a good point, something I haven't considered."

I try to picture how Adam, Taylor's husband, will get all neurotic and paternal in an infantile way when he finds out I'm dating a man thirty plus years my senior. Worse if he learns the real reason behind it. I guess the easiest way to handle it is to keep Taylor and Adam in the dark regarding the contract, at least for the first months, until they get past the initial shock of me dating Michael.

"I can assure you the arrangement between us will have no effect whatsoever on the construction project. However, if it will reassure you, I'll add that to the contract, so you can be sure about my word," Michael suggests, and I find myself nodding in agreement.

"Sounds like the only way to go." I grab my purse from the table and stuff it under my arm, while holding the contract in my hand. "I'll let you know as soon as I decide."

"Have Edric set up an appointment for you over at the Pleasure Extraordinaire before you make a decision. His cellular number is on the contract as well as mine. Don't hesitate to give either of us a call any time of the day."

"You're being so helpful. I don't know how I'll have the nerve to decline you." I give him a shy smile, hoping he won't smile back and break another of my defenses. Why, God, why? Why do you create such a beautiful man and not allow us women to relish that level of beauty?
The Encounter

Michael opens the door for me and gestures out with his hand. "I'm looking forward to your call."

As I walk past him, a brief touch of his hand on my shoulder sends small tremors through my body.

"Have a good day, Michael," I offer, as I step out and encounter the carbon of Michael's brown eyes staring at me. My legs stop cold, and I gulp down a lump of shock as I analyze the rest of the face of the man staring at me with a curious expression. Michael's pointy nose and shapely lips seem to have cloned themselves on this man. He must be one of Michael's sons. Zane or Chris.

An awkwardly long moment passes before anyone speaks, while Michael's clone and I stare at each other.

"Zane, I'm glad you're here, son. This is—" Michael's words are cut off by the hand Zane raises sharply.

"Miss Lindsay Doheny," he says, approaching me with slow steps and grabs my hand gently. Rather than shaking it, he lifts it up for a kiss. His lips softly brush my knuckles, and I feel the moist tip of his tongue tingle my fingers, moistening them. My stomach flutters as if an entire colony of butterflies is flapping their wings at the same time inside me. I manage to give him a quick once-over, taking in as much as of his sturdy figure, the exquisite way his navy-blue suit hugs what I imagine is an athlete's body. "Iron Slap herself is in the same building as I, yet nobody cares to warn me about it."

Oh, Iron Slap. When will I ever lose that label? I guess never. I offer a shy smile, working hard, very hard, not to show the aphrodisiac effect of the touch of his soft hand on my overly sensitive skin.

"You look much lovelier in real life."

I realize I've yet to make a comment; I need to say something or I'll risk appearing dumb. "Thank you," I whisper without breaking our eye-contact, nor pulling my hand out of his grip.

If I could spend a night of passion with this man, I'd sign the contract with Michael right away. I'm sure as hell Zane will take me to places that'll provide me with enough sexual satisfaction for a whole year. I might be praised for my honesty, but there's no way I'm sharing that naughty thought with anyone.

"Lindsay, this is my oldest son, Zane," Michael finally says, and I feel forced to pull my hand away from the gorgeous man in front of me. But not my eyes. They're still glued to his chocolate-brown irises. "Zane, Miss Doheny is already taken."

Zane flashes a one-sided, seductive smile that feels like it has a direct connection to my sex. I find myself taking a step back to save myself from his strong aura and glance up at Michael. He gives me a warm, calming smile, probably reading my overreaction to his son. Never in my life have I felt so uncomfortable around men, as I do right now with Michael and Zane.

"What do you mean she's already taken?" Zane echoes my thoughts. Oh, the contract. I don't look at him but shiver, hopefully not visibly, at the warmth of his breath reaching my face.

"I should probably go," I say to Michael, and both men step back to give me space to walk through. "I'll call you in a few days." I wave at Michael and my eyes land for a second on Zane. That brief moment of seeing the fire in his eyes has me gasping. I pace toward the door to hide the embarrassing reactions my body is having. Julie mentions something about a company car waiting for me outside to take me home and opens the door for me.

I hurry down the corridor and punch the elevator key. It'll be better for everyone involved if I leave the building as soon as possible. The elevator doors slide open with a ding, and I step in. Just when I spin on my heels to press the button for the lobby, my elbow bumps into someone behind me. That someone being Zane. Oh, my frigging shit.

He winces in pain, pressing his hand on the spot where my elbow hit his ribcage. "You're damn strong. Now I have first-hand proof that your video was real. If just your elbow causes so much pain..."

I cover my cheeks in shock, feeling the heat of complete embarrassment flashing across my face. "Oh, my god. Zane... Ahh... Mr. Hawkins, I'm so sorry."

The elevator doors close and open again as Zane stands in between them.

He steps in beside me, a hint of smile curving up his lips. "Don't worry. I'll survive."

"In my defense, I didn't see you."

His smile broadens and he stands beside me so close that the sleeve of his jacket brushes against my arm. "You're probably the only woman who's told me that."

I frown, trying to process what he's implying, then grin once the bulb in my mind flashes with realization. Oh, I clearly see you that way. "I'm really sorry. I should have paid attention. I was lost in my thoughts and moved without looking."

The elevator doors close at last, but no one dares push a button.

"What kind of thoughts?" Zane asks. "Oh, yeah, I can guess what kind. It's not easy to be my father's pretend girlfriend."

He knows. But, why am I surprised that he's aware of his father's sexual preference. In any case, I shouldn't speak any further about the contract if he's unaware of the details of the arrangements Michael undertakes to hide his sexual liking.

"He might seem easygoing at first, even friendly," Zane starts. "But he's a demanding man. He'll want to get involved in every aspect of your life. You'll not be able to go out for a simple lunch with friends without first having his permission. He'll ask you to read what he wants you to read, watch what he wants you to watch and eat what he wants you to eat. He'll follow your every step. You won't have the freedom to breathe without his permission. Losing your independence isn't worth the fame being with my father will bring you."

I search his face to catch a glimpse of what he's actually trying to say. "I'm not doing it for fame. I'm famous already, remember? Iron Slap." I start to lift my hand to emphasize my point, but he steps closer to me as if the distance between us wasn't small enough and grabs my arm with a tight hold.

"That's right. Then what is it that you're after, Miss Iron Slap? Wait a minute. Did he offer you money? He's never offered money to his fake girlfriends. Only a few jewelries here and there and clothes to wear at the events he takes them to. But, money. Never."

I yank my arm away and finally press the button for the lobby, putting a safe distance between us. "I'm not really allowed to talk about the contract, although I haven't signed it yet."

"How much?" he asks as if I haven't just told him about my unwillingness to give him any more details. "Ten, twenty, fifty... Hundred?"

I stare at the buttons, ignoring him, or at least trying to pretend as if I'm ignoring him. In reality though, I'm hyper-aware of his firm body, his deep voice, and his musky scent. What's that sexy fragrance? If I inhale just a tad more deeply, I'll drop down on my knees and finger myself to cool down the fire between my legs.

"More than a hundred?" he continues with his self-talk, because I'm neither responding nor looking in his direction. "That's insane. It's not normal. He must have something else in mind to hire you, and I'm sure it's not related to your fame. He doesn't spend a penny without making sure he'll get at least three times more. If he's paying you the amount I have in mind, you can bet your ass he has no simple intentions, like covering up his homosexuality."

"Please, Mr. Hawkins. I'm in no position to discuss this with you." The elevator stops, and I step out to escape him and his words.

Michael wants to hire me because he needs a pretend girlfriend. Nothing more, nothing less. What else can I possibly have that a multi-millionaire tycoon would want? My encounter with him was perfectly by chance. No secret agenda, no dangerous plans. It's not like I have access to governmental data or know his competition personally. A girl he can trust is all he needs.

I don't tell Zane any of my thoughts, because I'm afraid I'll breech the contract without even having signed it. I just nod my head and wish him a great afternoon before the elevator doors close.

Only when I leave the building, I feel how hot with anger my body has become. The cold hits me and makes my chin tremble. Holding on to my jacket, I hurry toward the car that's waiting at the base of the stairs.

Michael's son might be too handsome to be true, but he's also nosy, mischievous, and definitely disloyal for speaking so badly behind his own father's back. I realize my hands are shaking with irritation as I give my address to the driver.
The Decision

I purposefully stay away from Taylor and Adam to gain some time to think over the contract without having their opinion influence me. I've been restless for two nights, going back and forth between the decision between continuing with my hopeless job hunt to take the higher road or signing the contract to fatten my bank account.

Can Michael have ulterior motives for hiring me?

I still fail to see an advantage in any area that an ordinary girl like me could bring him, besides the one he's openly and honestly hiring me for. If I was a rare beauty, I might have a slight suspicion about Michael planning to sell me to his clients, but I am not. My short height, ordinary face, dark-brown eyes and hair, and b-cup breasts barely meet the requirements to be called cute, but not really beautiful. I'm just an insignificant drop in the ocean of single girls in L.A. What could I have that a wealthy and powerful man might want besides the obvious?

As I always do, I turn to the internet for answers. After two days of staring at Michael's Wikipedia page, I've practically memorized every word on it, and I must say it's a long one.

His accomplishments start with Hawkins Radio Corporation. He started working at a small radio station in San Diego at the age of sixteen. Then five years later, he bought it when it was about to close down, turning it into the area's most popular station, despite the presence of TV. Thus at the tender age of twenty, he laid the foundations of today's powerful Hawkins Media Group.

He didn't study, didn't even finish high school, but managed to turn an humble radio station into one of the biggest and most influential networks with twelve subsidiaries, making me feel embarrassed of my unemployed status despite the double majors I hold.

Michael married his wife at the age of twenty five, had his first kids, Zane and Chloe, in the two consecutive years right after their marriage. It's clear; Michael doesn't waste time. His third child, Chris, was born five years after Chloe's birth, which makes him twenty-five now.

After losing his wife to cancer a decade ago, Michael hasn't married again. I wonder at which point Michael realized his homosexual tendencies. Perhaps he knew it all along but went for the traditional life style with a wife and kids to boost his image as a successful businessman by being a beloved father and husband. Or, he was just a late bloomer.

Zane works as the CFO of Hawkins Media. Realistically, he wouldn't have that title, even for a small-size company at the age of thirty-one, if it wasn't for his father. Chloe's Wikipedia page, however, doesn't state anything beyond her family. As if her only accomplishment is to be born to that family. As long as she doesn't bother me, she can spend her entire life shopping for all I care.

Chris Hawkins, on the other hand, doesn't even have a Wikipedia page or other information regarding his personal life or career.

On the final day, I wake up, fully convinced that I should accept Michael's offer for no other reason than getting to know a jewel like him. He's gay and not interested in me, but he's, driven, dedicated, mature and full of life experiences about business, people, cultures, anything and everything. And, really, I'd be an idiot for turning my back on the job of my dreams. Even if I'm expected to hold the position at Hawkins Media Group for one year, it'll be proof to the other companies that I'm a professional and not in it to make money with sexual-harassment law suits.

Before signing the contract though, I call Taylor to ask her to meet up for breakfast.

Just as I expect, Taylor shows up with Adam, dragging him everywhere with her as if he's her bodyguard.

"Hey, what's up?" Adam gives me a half hug and shuffles my hair. I hate it when he treats me as if I'm one if his little sisters.

"Stop it." I push him away playfully. "I've got big news for you, but I won't say anything until I get my coffee."

"I just want some orange juice," Taylor says and takes the chair across me, while Adam heads to the counter for our orders. "We, too, have some news," Taylor whispers, her eyes scanning the other patrons at the surrounding tables suspiciously.

"You go first. Mine can wait." It will give me some time to compose myself and think through how I should pop the news. All this time, I've been consumed with trying to decide what the right thing to do is, without giving a thought about Taylor's reaction. Now that she's before me, my decision seems more real than ever. And, I'm afraid with my news, I'll awaken a new part of Taylor's personality.

The angry.

"Well." She rubs her hands together, biting her lower lip. "Adam and I are going to give it another try."

"Give what another try?"

"Having a baby."

"Oh." If I'd gone through what she had suffered last year, I'd never even consider getting pregnant again. She's brave to want to go through all that agony again. I have to give her that. "Are you sure?"

"Kind of."

"You can't give it another try if you're only kind of sure. What if it happens again?" I shouldn't have said that. Her gaze drops to her hands, and her lower lip trembles. I reach over and cover her hand, giving it a tight squeeze. "I'm sorry, Taylor. I just don't want to see you hurting again." Damn, I was mortified with what happened to my niece, I can't even begin to imagine what battles she must have been going through all this time.

"I know. But, I just can't not try it again."

Adam comes with our beverages, saving us from Taylor's threatening tears. She's turned to a puddle of raw and sensitive emotions after what happened with Macey Williams. Rightly so.

"What news have you got for us?" Adam places a cup of coffee in front of me and a bottle of juice for Taylor.

I take a sip from my coffee and inhale a deep breath. This's going to hurt. "I'm going out on a date with Michael Hawkins."

Both Adam and Taylor stare at me suspiciously, before turning to each other and screaming, "no way," in chorus.

What am I? Fifteen for asking for an adult's permission to date a man?

"I know, guys. You're afraid it'll harm your construction project, but I promise nothing ever related to my relationship with Michael will have even a slightest effect—"

"Relationship?" Taylor interrupts. "You just mentioned a date, now you're talking about a relationship. The project can go to hell. Michael isn't the right guy for you. He'll use you, your youth and beauty, then move on to his next target. You don't need men like him in your life. He has a bad reputation with women. I can't allow any men hurting you, much less a man-whore like Michael Hawkins."

"Look, I'm only twenty three. I'm not thinking about marrying at this point of my life. I just want to have some reckless time before finding the right guy. Since Carl, I've never felt anything for a man until I met Michael." At least the last part isn't a lie.

"Which Carl?" Adam's eyes search my face for an answer.

"My ex."

"Why didn't I..." Adam starts to ask but Taylor raises her hand to stop him.

"He's a gentleman," I begin reciting what I've been preparing to tell them. "He knows how to treat a woman. And I really do find him very attractive."

"We're talking about the same Michael Hawkins, right?" Adam asks.

"Yeah, I know he's old. But, that's okay for me since I'm not planning to marry him."

"You're gonna get hurt." Taylor shakes her head, moving her body away from the table, away from me. "We women aren't like men. When you get involved with a man, you'll start having feelings for him. What you think now —that it will never happen— will inevitably come true, and you'll begin dreaming about having him only for yourself, marrying him, and having his children."

"Children? Are you serious? He has kids older than me," I reply, but she's right with every word, from her point of view, not knowing the truth about Michael's sexual orientation and the contract.

"Which goes to prove my point."

"I'm an adult now. Please, let me act as one. Let me have some adventures while I'm still young and let me get hurt too, if that's what I'll have to experience at the end."

"Lindsay, love." I can see tears welling up in her eyes. Oh, shit. She's going in for the kill. "If you're hurt, I'll be hurt too. You may not feel it that way, but you're a part of me. It tears my heart when you're sad."

I slide onto the chair next to her and put my arm around her shoulder. "I feel the same. I do, but I promise I won't be sad because of Michael. If anything, I'll feel alive and thrilled. Wasn't it you who was telling me the other day to do something fun with my life? That's exactly what I'm intending to do."

"Do you honestly find him attractive?" Adam asks, his hand laced in Taylor's. "I can't picture you with him."

I snort. "Can you picture me with any other man?"

"I didn't mean it that way. Of course not. But, Michael has two sons who would be more suitable for you than him."

"That's not helping, baby." Taylor shakes her head, glancing at Adam, and pulls me in closer. "Zane and Chris have even a worse reputation with women than Michael. Don't you ever read the tabloids? I'd rather have Michael as my brother-in-law than either of his two sons laying a hand on Lindsay."

"I'm not going to marry Michael. Ever," I say, wondering how much Taylor knows about Zane. I don't have the slightest idea about his attitude toward women, but I can easily see him dating more than one at the same time. That's probably the reason behind the brief preaching he gave me in the elevator. He might be interested in sleeping with me, make me one of the thousands on his list of the women he banged, but knowing the contract will prevent me from any sexual affair, he tried to stop me. I'm not even sure why he'd want me, actually. He has the looks and the money to attract all kinds of ladies. Older or younger, promiscuous or virginal.

Taylor glances at her phone and turns to me. "We have a meeting with a client in half an hour."

"Oh, okay."

"Be very careful," Taylor says, and I let out an exasperated breath. "And please, please, please, don't go to bed with him for at least a month. Ask for STD-test results beforehand. Your feelings will eventually recover if he decides to find someone else, but a genital herpes is permanent, so is AIDS."

"Oh gross."

"Do as I say. You won't be harmed."

"Okay, okay. I will."

Adam and Taylor finally grab their drinks and give me a hug before leaving me, and I remain staggered and paralyzed in my seat for several minutes.

I play with my phone, pondering whether I should call Michael or drive to his office to give him my positive reply. Calling seems to be a better option, because if I pay him a surprise visit, he might not be able to receive me with his busy schedule. My best bet will be meeting with Edric, but I'd rather see or hear Michael's first reaction when I break him the news. I don't know why I expect him to be anything more than just fine with my acceptance. After all, this is a contract, just like any of the other dozens of contracts he must be signing on a daily basis.

Still, I dial Michael's private cellular number that's written on the contract, and he picks up on the first ring. "Lindsay Doheny. I'm glad you're calling back."

"Hello, Michael. How are you?"

"I'm good, though that might change depending on your answer. Have you made up your mind yet?"

"Yes, I have. That's the reason for my call."

"I'm all ears."

"I'll sign it."

"Fantastic. Thank you very much for sparing me another month of searching for a substitute. Have you had a chance to visit the Pleasure Extraordinaire?"

"Oh, that." I totally forgot about it, and even if I'd remembered about it, I wouldn't go anywhere a mile near it anyway. "Frankly, I'm a little uncomfortable with the idea of using a service as such."

"Well, I won't allow you to sign the contract if you don't at least go see the place."

"You're kidding me, right? It can't be a requirement? There's nothing about it on the contract."

"The contract you have isn't the final version, and we haven't signed it yet. So yes, I can demand additional conditions before we finalize it. I'm going to send over a company driver to take you to their mansion in the afternoon. Bring a photo ID with you. All your expenses there will be on my account, so don't worry over money if you want to indulge yourself with the most expensive dish on the menu, and I'm not talking about food."

Oh, shit! What's he thinking of me? I think I presented myself under a terribly bad light by admitting my need for physical closeness. "I'd rather skip that step and directly sign the contract."

"That's not up to you to decide."

After a minute or two of trying to convince him otherwise, I finally give up and tell him to send his driver to pick me up at three p.m. to get a few hours for preparation. I might as well get myself beautified and primed for the unusual occasion.
The Interrogation

I don't know what to expect at the Pleasure Extraordinaire mansion, but one thing is clear. It's a place for the wealthy and distinguished, not to forget the sensual.

I pick out my most-expensive and also very revealing dress, which is a white, strapless, mid-thigh dress that hugs my body tightly. It has golden laces that start right below my breast line and go until the hem of its skirt. With white stilettos and a clutch, I'm ready to go.

I find myself very nervous on the ride, more than when I drove to Michael's office for the interview two days ago. Why, actually? I'll probably just look around, scan the menu, and drive right back home. Even if Brad Pitt is offered, it's highly unlikely I'll find enough lust in me to see past the money issue associated with it. I wonder what kind of wealthy men would want to be part of a sex club. Certainly the greedy ones for wanting to make more money on something their bodies—penises to be specific—are programmed to do easily, anyway.

Besides, Michael is going to have to sink big bucks into our contract. Why cause him more loss?

My mind is so involved in what is awaiting me that I forget to count cars, which in itself is a disaster because I'll have absolutely no clue about the imminent hours.

The driver stops in front of a closed gate, then answers to the intercom by the gate that he's driving Mr. Hawkins' guest. The gate doors open at the mention of Michael's name, and I spot a four-story beige building with small balconies, in the middle of tall oak trees. If I didn't know, I'd think it's a mid-size boutique hotel. As the car drives around, I realize the mansion is much larger than what I originally thought and is connected through tubes to two other buildings of the same style.

It can probably host over a hundred clients with ease. Are there that many women in the city who'd be willing to pay for sex?

A young man, a boy actually, with sun-kissed skin, short brown hair and big, brown eyes appears beside the passenger door to open it for me. "Welcome to Pleasure Extraordinaire. I'm Nick. I'll be your assistant throughout your stay." His eyes follow my face intently as I make myself get out of the car and stand in front of him.

He's lean and very tall, just the way I like, but also too young for me. Is he offered on the menu, too? There must be some women who're into young, inexperienced men, but it's not my cup of tea.

"Hi, Nick," I say, feeling guilty for my superficial thoughts about him. I have just stepped into the Pleasure Extraordinaire territory and have already started seeing people as if they're meat to purchase.

He offers me his arm, and I slide mine through as we walk up the stairs and into the mansion. Extravagance isn't adequate enough to describe the décor of the large foyer, decorated in a dark hue of red and softer beige. The thick Persian rug is soft beneath my feet, and the red roses hanging on the walls accentuate and lift the heavy air.

Oh, and not to mention the best of all decorations; half a dozen men, each more handsome than the one before, lined up at either side of the door. Taller, shorter, younger, older, blond, black. A small sample that covers any type of man a woman can wish for.

I admit my pulse accelerates and my sex clenches at the sight of the naked torsos, save for the red boxers, a short distance from my fragile body. Okay, I may have been rushing my judgment about my opinion on having sex with a man in exchange for money. Mostly because, each of these men gaze at me as if I'm the piece of meat they'll enjoy and not the other way around. More than a couple of them have an apparent hard-on, too.

I turn to Nick for help, most likely blushing, as I have no idea of the protocol here. Am I supposed to pick a guy now? As much as my vagina is already pulsating, I'd rather have a general introduction to the place, before throwing a guy into a room, or better yet, being thrown by one of them.

As if reading my confusion, Nick urges me ahead with a friendly smile on his face. "Mr. Preston is waiting for you in his office. He'll register you as a new client and explain to you the rules of Pleasure Extraordinaire."

"Sounds fair." I smile at him with a wink, a response totally unusual of me. I don't wink. Like, never. But only a few seconds into this mansion and it is already getting into me. Could they be using some kind of sprays to calm down the clients and pull their slutty selves out? I shouldn't rule out that possibility, although there isn't anything I can do about it. "But, who's Mr. Preston?"

"Ace Preston is the owner of Pleasure Extraordinaire, also the manager."

"Oh." With my arm still embracing Nicks, maybe a little harder than at the beginning because I'm nervous as hell, I walk, climb more steps, and walk some more until we stop in front of a door on which 'Ace Preston' is engraved in cursive letters.

Nick knocks on the door briefly and then turns the handle down without waiting for an answer. "Mr. Preston will be taking over now. I'll be waiting for you here." He points at the chair across the corridor.

"Thanks," I say and take a step into Ace's office. A tall man in a crisp, white shirt and black slacks and with blond hair down to his shoulders stands in the middle of the room. His ice-blue eyes are staring at me without a hint of friendliness. I find myself hesitating to take another step toward him. Contrary to Nick's pleasant company, this man is radiating coldness and spite. I can easily picture him yelling at his employees or demanding impossible tasks from them with bitter consequences if they don't comply. I think Ice, as a name, suits him better than Ace.

Mr. Ice.

His gaze is making it impossible for me to examine the office. For all I know, the room is entirely empty, but I can't, for the love of god, take my eyes from his chilling regard.

"Miss Doheny, I'm Ace Preston. I've was expecting you sooner." He approaches me, and I force myself not to flinch away with irrational fear. He will not hurt me. I try to mentally talk some sense into myself. I'm a client, and I'm here for him to make money. "Please, take a seat," he says and lifts his hand to point at something.

My eyes finally break free from his gaze and follow the direction his hand is gesturing. A chair. Huh? Why am I so surprised? He doesn't wait for me to sit, nor does he offer his hand to shake mine; he just goes ahead and takes his seat behind a large, mahogany table that carries a large computer screen and stacks of paper. In addition to his extreme coldness, he's lacking in the social-manners department as well.

"Mr. Hawkins and I had a talk earlier this morning. He's willing to pay all your expenses at Pleasure Extraordinaire for a full year. We have a variety of options for you to take full advantage of, but before coming to that part, I'd like you to answer a few questions." He looks at the computer screen and types on the keyboard.

"Sure." I nod and take a seat across him.

"Do you have any STDs?" Mr. Ice asks. I bite my lower lip to stifle my smile for the nickname my mind has picked for him.

"No."

"Have you been tested recently?"

"No."

He reaches for a cell phone on the table and dials. "Mindy, I have a new client in my office... Okay... Yes, right now." After placing the phone back on the table, he turns to me. "We have a lab in our building. Our nurse will draw your blood and run tests to identify if you have any diseases."

"Okay."

"Are you on the pill or using another birth control method?"

"No." It seems like all my answers to his questions will be negative.

He types something on the computer. "Are you in a relationship?"

I don't know how to answer that one. Does the contract I have with Michael count as one?

"To be more specific, do you have a man with whom you have sex on a more or less regular basis," he asks without looking at me, and I'm glad for that because his questions aren't exactly the easy ones.

"No." Huh, another no.

"Good. How many sexual partners have you had?"

"I don't see why it's relevant to my experience as a client here." Particularly when I'm not even sure if I'll use their services.

"These questions are prepared by my employees. They want to know their clients before bedding them. I guess that's not too much to ask considering the nature of our business. Your answers will be registered in the database under an alias for my employees to review. Only those interested in your looks and answers will appear on the list of potential partners for you."

"Does that mean I won't get to pick any man I want?"

"That's right. Now, where was I?"

"Three men. I slept with three men." That number would label me as a slut in my aunt's eyes, but here, I guess I'll be perceived as virginal.

Mr. Ice doesn't show any reaction hinting at his perception of me though. His face muscles are so rigid, they don't even move except for when he speaks. How would he look while having sex? Likely with the same indifferent, robot-like look on his face, even while he hits the heights of orgasm. A sudden urge to laugh makes me snort at the thought of him sweaty and breathless, but his damn lips remain pursed as if he's reading politics in the Los Angeles Times.

He tears his eyes from the screen to glance at me, his eyebrows rising. Finally, a reaction. "When was the last time you had sex?"

I look away, hardly stifling the laughter. "I'm sorry," I say, my voice coming out high-pitched with my laughter. I bet he thinks I'm laughing because his questions are making me uncomfortable. That thought is better than the real reason behind my laughter, namely seeing his robotic face while climaxing.

I try to distract myself, while trying to remember the exact date of my last sexual encounter. It was when I was in New York with a guy I met in a bar. I don't even remember the guy's name, but at least I remember using condoms for the two times I let him fuck me. "About nine months ago."

He turns his solid gaze back to his computer, his face not revealing any emotion. I want to slap his face just to get some reaction out of him.

I examine his face harder to figure out what he's thinking, but it's not an easy task because I find myself distracted by his good looks, the long blond lashes framing his blue eyes, the strong jaw, thick, pursed lips, and the perfect and spotless pale skin. His shoulder-length, wavy hair is full and shines like in shampoo commercials. He's like a painting, beautiful to perfection but motionless. The pink shades on his cheeks make me wonder if he has dimples, but what good would it do to have dimples if he never reveals them along with a smile.

"What kind of sex do you enjoy?" he asks, pulling me out of my silent reverie. "Vaginal, anal, oral? How about sex toys or orgies?"

I can't believe he can ask all those below-the-waist questions so casually as if he's talking about the weather. Perhaps the lack of reaction in his demeanor is what's called for in this situation, just like my gynecologist keeps a straight face when she's fingering me or lowers her head down to between my legs to check me. If that's the case with Mr. Ice, I should be praising him for his professionalism rather than making fun of him.

What kind of sex do I enjoy? Not a very hard question. "Vaginal, for sure." Is there any woman who doesn't enjoy it, save for health reasons? "I don't do anal. At all. I like oral," I say, feeling heat spreading over my body.

"On you or..."

"Both." More heat radiates over my face and also down to my pelvis region. Strange how talking about sex, even with an emotionless guy like Mr. Ice, can awaken my sexual desire.

"Regular fellatio or can you do deep-throating too?"

Fellatio? I roll my eyes, unable to look at him, while I feel his gaze on my face. "Yeah, deep throating, too. But it has been a while. I'm not sure how my gag reflex is doing at the moment." It shouldn't matter, right? I'm the client here. The skillfulness of the men working as gigolos here should matter more than my gag reflex. But no, I am interrogated as if I'm being interviewed for a prostitute opening. No pun intended.

He nods again nonchalantly like our talk is the most ordinary talk two strangers can have. Yeah, the weather is a bit windy today, don't you think?

"Sex toys?"

"Only dildos," I reply. "I bet you want to know about the size of my favorite dildo, too." I smile as mischievously as possible to draw a reaction out of him.

"That was my next question. What size?"

My smile spreads, and I cover my mouth to hide it. "Ten inches."

Okay, that's an exaggeration. My biggest toy is seven inches, but what's the deal if I tell him an over-the-top number? Will his ego be wounded to know that we women like it bigger? Will his world shudder with the fact that the size-doesn't-matter cliche is a big, fat lie produced by male magazines to keep their male readers' egos to the highest level? Not sorry to burst your bubble, hun.

I wonder how big his is. You never know with men. Some very tall, handsome men, like the last guy I had sex with, have only the length of my middle finger, and some men with an unusual body shape and average height have close to nine inches. So, there's no way of telling how big Mr. Ice' is without directly looking at it. When he's hard.

His skin is light golden and spotless, making me wonder how his penis looks. Must be light-colored as well, with a pink head. That thought makes my wetness grow by the second, and I wonder if he's also available on the menu.

I find myself gazing at his stomach beneath his shirt, the last point that's not concealed by the desk he's sitting behind, when I hear him clear his throat. Ooops. I snap my eyes back to his face, hoping my shame for being caught while analyzing his body won't show on my face.

"How often do you masturbate?" he asks.

"Do you have more absurd questions to ask? Because I'd prefer answering them on a piece of paper than directly to you."

"I'm sorry. Did I offend you in any way? This is the usual procedure that I conduct with each new client. The main point with this interview is to get to know you better so we can accommodate your needs the best way possible. Reading your answers on a piece of paper won't give me half the information I'm getting by having you answer my questions directly to me."

"All right. Once a day, sometimes twice."

"The frequency of your masturbation?" he asks.

I nod, trying to avoid his gaze. I haven't shared that information even with my ex, while we were together.

"Does it go up to four or five times?"

"Yes."

"How often does that happen?"

I laugh again, shaking my head. "Are you sure this information you're collecting is going to be kept confidential? Because not even my gynecologist knows so much about me, even though she has seen my private parts."

"We'll come to that, too. And, yes, Miss Doheny, the information will be confidential. Only my men and I will have access to it. So, will you please answer my question?"

He'll come to what? Is he going to examine my vagina too? I shouldn't be surprised after those questions. But there's no way I'll let him see whatever I have beneath my dress.

Speaking of dress, I glance down at the skirt of my dress and notice it's way past my usual mid-thigh level and bordering close to my panties. Nonchalantly, I shift in my seat to pull its hem down, while trying to remember his last question. "It happens every once in a while, but mostly when I'm closer to my menstruation or just past having it."

"Do you watch porn? If yes, what kind of porn?"

"Yes, I do. But, not often. It's mostly what you'll call soft porn with only a man and a woman having vaginal and oral sex."

"Do you have special interest in pegging?"

"I don't even know what that is."

"That's fucking a man's anus with a strap-on dildo."

I cringe. "Eww, no. Not interested at all." Is there any woman who might like it?

A knock on the door makes him stop shooting more questions, and a beautiful Asian woman, possibly in her thirties, enters with a white box in her hands. "Hello," she says to both Mr. Ice and me and sets the box on his table, while pulling a chair beside me to sit on. She holds my arm and sticks a needle so gently I wouldn't have noticed it, had I not been looking. But, a rush of pain hits my arm when she starts filling small tubes with my blood. Hell, I'd rather have a dozen inappropriate questions by Mr. Ice than this pain.

"Hasn't Dr. Smith arrived yet?" Mr. Ice asks.

"No, sir. He called in sick," the nurse answers.

"Among all the employees, he has to call in sick," he says. Oh my god, was that a joke? Has he just made a joke? "That means, Miss Doheny, you're saved from a medical check-up for today."

Shall I be happy about that?

"Which means we will not be able to add you to our database yet," Mr. Ice continues.

"I can live with that."

"Maybe you can, but I promised to Mr. Hawkins to give you a taste of our services. But, you can't have sex with any of my employees without the medical checkup and test results. That puts me in a difficult situation with Mr. Hawkins."

I try to glance at the nurse with my peripheral vision to see if she's giving me judgmental looks. She must be thinking what a whore I must be for coming to a place like this, but she's not even looking in my direction, instead, she busies herself with the tubes, and leaves us alone in a matter of seconds.

"That's okay. I don't have to have... sex with anyone today."

"No, I can't accept that. This problem might change Mr. Hawkins' opinion about paying for our services. Let me think for a second," he says and cups his chin between his thumb and index finger. His expression softens as his gaze looks far away, his mind deep in thoughts, making me think, or even hope, he's not as harsh as he's presenting himself to be in his private life. Maybe he has a cat at home, helps out at the food shelter, or has a sick mother whom he visits frequently.

He opens his mouth and rubs his lips together to moist them, taking me away from my assumption about his personality. "I think we can still give you a glimpse of what you can experience at our establishment."

He grabs his phone to place a call and orders someone named JJ Triple X to his room. I squeeze my arm in pain to swipe away the laughter that's coming upon hearing the name. JJ Triple X. It's obviously not his real name, but why the hell would someone choose that name as an alias?

Not a minute passes before a knock on the door makes my head turn, and a gorgeous man appears at the doorway. A tiny voice in my head is whispering to me that I should be mad at Dr. Smith for not showing up at his work today.
The Sex Bomb

Tall figure. Straight, brown hair reaching down to his ears. Shimmering honey-colored eyes. Sun-kissed skin covering firm muscles. And, yes, no shirt concealing those pecs and abs. Only a pair of blue jeans wrapping up his long legs. That's what the guy who opens the door looks like, and I think I'm beginning to like this place. If all the men are going around shirtless, I'll even consider moving in here.

Unlike Mr. Ice, this man is radiating warmth and easiness. His stunning looks aside, I can easily picture myself being friends with him. Friends with benefits, that is.

"Well, hello," he says, bypassing the niceties with Mr. Ice, and moves toward me. "I'm JJ Triple X, and I'll be at your service this afternoon."

I gaze at my hand getting lost between his and shiver when his lips leave a moist kiss on my knuckles, while one of his hands moves down and brushes my forearm. Tickles spread all around my arm, making goose bumps multiply.

I smile. It's impossible not to smile while looking at the contagious grin on his face. "Hi, I am—"

Mr. Ice cuts me off. "Don't share your real name."

"Oh," I murmur.

"I'll call you Beauty in White until you pick a name for yourself. And, you can call me JJ." JJ lifts my hand above my head and makes me spin around, while judging me appreciatively with his hot gaze. "A beauty, indeed."

"Thanks," I say, feeling dizzy with the spin and the tiny distance between us.

"We don't have her medical reports yet. That means no action for today. Condoms won't protect you or her against genital herpes. Do you understand, JJ?" Mr. Ice warns.

"What a bummer." JJ pulls me gently toward him, letting our bodies crush into each other, and my body turns into a high-alert mode at the feeling of his hot skin against mine. "We can still have fun together, right?" He stares down at me with enigmatic eyes, an eyebrow raised playfully, and my sex clenches in response. Oh, he's a professional all right, for turning me on without even kissing me.

"Let the fun begin." He heads toward the door, and I have no option but to follow him as his arm is wrapped around my waist.

"Wait. I'm not sure what this is supposed to be." I manage to tear my gaze away from JJ and turn to Mr. Ice. "I just came here to check out the place."

"That's exactly what you're going to do, sexy," JJ answers.

Mr. Ice nods. "You won't do anything you don't want. You're the client. Your comfort and pleasure are our responsibility. Go, enjoy a few hours with JJ in one of our luxurious suites. Order whatever you feel like eating and drinking. Everything is on the house on your first day at Pleasure Extraordinaire."

I should give it a try. I should give it a try. How many times in my life will I get a chance to have a day at such a posh place? Likely, this is the only time. "Nothing will happen without my wish?"

"Absolutely," JJ says. "You'll be my queen for the afternoon."

"No action," Mr. Ice reminds us, and I roll my eyes. I may have had a one-night stand with a random guy but to my defense, I was drunk. So there's no way I'm going to let any cock inside my body with the clear head that I'm sporting right now. Or not?

"Follow me, my queen." JJ pulls my hand and ushers me into the corridor. Nick stands and nods at me, wishing me a wonderful afternoon. JJ rubs the back of my hand with his thumb as we enter an elevator. "You'll have an unforgettable afternoon with me. It's a pity we can't enjoy each other fully, though." His scorching eyes leave me light-headed as we press our backs against the wall, and I figure I might not need alcohol to get drunk.

He leads me into a suite that's larger than my apartment and gestures at the queen-size bed in the middle of the room. It has dark-red bed covers, matching the armchairs and sofa across from it.

"You go lie down, and I'll order lunch for us," JJ says.

"I'm not hungry."

"Well then, I'll order some hors d'oeuvres and champagne."

While he gives our orders on the phone, I toss my handbag on the sofa and throw myself to the bed. The soft mattress pulls me in, helping my tense muscles relax. I can't let go fully though, because JJ is watching me with lustful eyes. Does he really find me attractive, or is this just a show to make me, as his client, feel special and open up easily to him?

After the phone call, he moves toward the bed, each step cautious, each movement precise. I sit up straight and pull my legs together, straightening my short skirt over my thighs without much success.

Instead of sitting on the bed beside me, JJ kneels down in front of me on the floor, and grabs my foot, taking off my shoe.

"You have beautiful legs," he says while running his fingers on my toes.

"I don't feel comfortable when you shower me with compliments," I blurt out.

"Why? Do you think I'm lying?"

I don't reply and let my silence answer his question.

"Oh, girl. Then, you haven't understood the main criteria behind this enterprise. The clients don't pick us. We, men, pick our clients."

"Is that true? How could you pick me? You didn't even see me."

"I saw you through cameras, when you entered the building. I liked your looks instantly. You made my cock stir when you tried to pull down your skirt while you were getting out of the car, and if I may be so blatant, I'm still hard."

I don't dare to look down below his waist to test whether what he's saying is correct. Not yet. "Weren't there any other men interested in me?"

"Who cares about others? I was the first to press the button, and I'm here with you right now. That's all that counts."

"There's a button?"

"There's always a button," he says, smiling mischievously, making me wonder whether we're talking about the same button.

"How does that work?"

"The permanent ones who live here have access to the camera recordings and get alerts when a client arrives at the mansion. Those who like the guest press a button. Sometimes the first one gets the guest. Other times, the one with higher ratings gets lucky. I'd get you anyway. I'm one of the highest-ranking permanents here. So tell me, do you find me attractive?"

I grin, most likely blushing, and bite my lower lip. "I don't believe there exists a woman who wouldn't find you attractive."

"Oh, nice." His hand moves up to my knee, then my thigh, but I stop him, grabbing his hand, before he can go any further. "I was just going to get rid of your nylons to massage your feet. Would you let me?"

I loosen my hold on his hand and spread my legs for him, aware of his intense stare at my panties.

"I'm a certified massage therapist and reflexologist. I can make you come without touching you there."

I bet he can make me come without touching me at all, just with his hot gaze. I'm at the mercy of one of the highest ranking gigolos. If it wasn't for the medical records inhibiting us, I'm sure I'd end up letting him take me in any way he wants by the end of the afternoon.

Gently, he hooks his finger at the hem of my thigh-high and pulls it down, then repeats the same thing with the other. "Just lie down and enjoy the moment."

I do as he says, watching him intently between the mountains of my breasts, while he fondles my foot, caresses my toes, and rubs the sole. My body is alternating between a complete relaxation and an all-consuming arousal with each touch of his magical fingers.

"Are you aroused?"

I don't respond, and instead put my other foot on his shoulder.

"I can see you are." He moves his hand and grabs my ankle, leaning down to lick the inner part of my lower leg. His tongue sweeps higher and higher to my knee, and I'm forced to moan out my arousal. Damn, he's good.

I begin moving my hips in small circles against the pressure of my soaked panties.

"I want to lick your kitty."

I grin, my eyes hooded. "You can't."

"Not now, but soon."

I'm forced to look away, up to the ceiling, because I don't want to provide him with more proof of his sexual power on me.

"Want to feel how hard you've made my cock?"

I inhale sharply. I actually do. I prop on my elbows and glance down at his jeans. He picks up my cue and moves up to the bed beside me, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans on his way.

My mouth is watering in anticipation. His must be beautiful; I can see it in his confidence as he takes off his jeans and stands on his knees beside me.

My hand moves automatically over to his gray, silk boxers, anxious to feel his thick member hiding underneath. His cock jerks as I slip in and my fingers circle it.

JJ closes his eyes and pushes his hips against my hand. "Take it out and lick it."

Wasn't I supposed to be the queen? Why do I get orders after orders? But I don't mind this last one, because that's exactly what I'm dying to do right now.

Pulling down his boxers, I reveal his cock to my absolute pleasure. It's thick, smooth, and bigger than the dildo I have at home. It'd rip me apart if he thrust it hard into me. Oh, shit, I want him to. I want to feel him inside me, pulsing and twitching.

"You want it, don't you?" He's grinning above me. "Have you had any cold sores?"

I glance up at him, confused by his question. "I used to when I was a kid, but not anymore."

"The same with me. I don't see any sores around your lips. I'm clean too. I get tested regularly. You can enjoy my cock as you wish."

I move forward, sticking my tongue out, and give it a long, wet lick.

"Fuck, take it easy, sexy. I'm only a man."

Encouraged by his words, I take the head of his cock into my mouth and squeeze it between my lips. Another curse escapes his mouth along with the heavy breaths. He might be a professional fucker, but that won't stop him from losing his control in my mouth. That's the exact reason why giving head to a man is as good as letting him fuck me. I love how they break apart, oblivious to what's going on around them, and are totally at my mercy.

I suck him viciously, pulling him in deeper, pressing the back of my tongue lower to hold back my gag reflexes. His cock feels bigger in my mouth with each lick and throbs with desire. His body is stiff except for his hips moving in synch with my sucking.

I place my hands on his stomach to push him down so he can lie down while I suck him to climax, but he doesn't budge.

He opens his eyes, glancing down at me in a haze. "It won't be fair if you don't get your release."

I let his cock slip out of my mouth, but continue stroking it with both hands. "We can't have sex."

"You're forgetting the sex toys." He pulls himself away from my hold and leans on his side toward the drawer to get a long, thick dildo in a plastic wrap. "It won't feel as good as my cock inside you, but it'll do for now."

Unwrapping it quickly, he washes it with soap in the sink across the room and dries it with napkins. "I don't think you'll need lube."

I shake my head shamelessly, thrilled by the prospect of having that large toy inside me.

"Take off your dress. I want to see you naked." JJ moves toward me, his cock still as hard as it was in my mouth not too long ago, and gets on the bed.

I stand on my knees, unzip the dress, and slowly push it down, enjoying the blatant look of lust on his face. He grunts, when I pull down my bra and reveal my breasts.

"Come here." He places the dildo beside him and points at the spot in front of him, and I walk on my knees on the bed. As soon as I'm within reach, he slides his arm around my waist, pulls me against himself, pressing his moist, hard cock between our bodies, and leans down to suck my nipples.

Oh, Heaven and Hell.

His soft lips are callous against my nipples. His teeth graze my skin. His hand roams down, cupping my ass cheeks, a finger sliding between them. I want his hand to move down to feel my wetness and finger me there. Then, I want his enormous cock ripping me apart, overwhelming my senses. I don't care if it hurts. I prefer the pain to emptiness.

"Let me fuck you, sexy." He pushes me down and, with just one move, settles above me on his hands and knees, his cock facing my mouth, my vagina toward his face. As soon as I feel the plastic toy sliding across my slit, I mouth his cock and suck him hard until I hear him shudder. I draw in air when he eases the dildo into me to the hilt. It's a massive toy, much bigger than what I'm used to.

"Didn't you say you had a ten-inch at home?"

How does he know? Did he listen to me being interrogated by Mr. Ice? Before I can ask, he pulls out that damn thing and slams it back into me, urging more juices to gush out of me. I take his cock deeper into my mouth till it hits the back of my throat, while my hand caresses his testicles. His moves with the dildo become sluggish as I feel him approaching his climax.

"I'm gonna come soon. Are you anywhere close?"

I shake my head and hum to his erection inside my mouth, earning another curse from him. He thrusts the dildo fervently into me and rubs my clitoris, but it won't be enough, and I know why. I can't concentrate on both giving head and climaxing at the same time. So I apply more pressure to his cock, sucking him with all my power, obliging him to give up and pump his load deep into my throat. He does and I lick him clean.

"Shit, shit, shit. I'm sorry," he says and rearranges the dildo inside me, sliding it in and out with more uniform moves. Now that my mouth is empty, I can focus better.

Each thrust threatens to push me over my own cliff of climax, making sweat break out all around my body. I picture JJ's large cock inside my vagina, tearing my flesh apart, instead of a lifeless toy. That brief yet powerful image is the last drop, and I come apart and jerk on my back, when the waves of orgasm take over my body. JJ keeps the dildo inside me, waiting for the convulsions to subside and my breathing to become less frantic, and then lies down next to me, hugging me with his big arms.

"Your mouth is terrific. I haven't come like this for ages, and I'm not saying it because you're my client."

"I'm glad to help." I snort between breaths, and he laughs into my hair, brushing his own sweaty body against my back.

"Will you come to me again? I want to feel how you convulse around my cock."

"I'm not sure if I'll come here again."

He lifts his head to see my face. "Why? Didn't you like it with me? Have I come too fast? Don't you like me?"

"No, it's none of those. You're fantastic." I roll on my back and look up at his beautiful face. How can he even consider I might not like him with such a beautiful face? "I'm not that kind of girl. As much as I enjoy being with you, I'm sure I'll go home and feel dirty for what I have done. You see, I'm against all sorts of prostitution. I'm sorry to say that, but I think it's demeaning for everyone involved. I feel like I took advantage of you, because you need money and I have access to it."

He shakes his head, his expression sad. "It's not the way you think. We aren't kidnapped sex slaves or something. I applied for this job to become what I am now. I studied medicine, but gave up on becoming a doctor in my last year of residency. I simply couldn't do it. I'm a hedonist. I hate responsibilities, but I enjoy women more than anything else. I'd do this job even if it paid nothing. I live for pleasuring women. There's nothing else in the world I'd do instead of this. I don't need money. I can leave this place today and would live in luxury without having to work, because I've saved enough money."

He hugs me tightly and dips his head to give me a kiss on the lips, and I notice he hadn't kissed me before. He tugs at my lower lip, grazes it with his teeth, and then sticks his tongue gently into my mouth. We kiss for minutes, enjoying each other's taste without breaking even for breathing. He's a great kisser, and I don't remember having been kissed like that ever in my life, but I shouldn't be surprised by that. He's perfect at everything related to sex.

Each stroke of his tongue is restoring my arousal, and I wish I could feel him inside me, making love to me.

As if reading my body's reaction to him, he says, "You'll get sore if I fuck you with that ugly dildo again."

I flash him a tired smile. "How did you know I had a ten-inch dildo?"

"I listened to your talk with Ace. But don't worry, because only I got to listen to you since I was going to be with you today."

I stare at his glowing face, admiring its unique beauty. "You're beautiful."

He shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders. "You're stealing my line. I was going to say that to you. Your beauty shines through walls. I can't take my eyes away from you even for a second."

I close my eyes, enjoying the melody of his velvet voice, trying to convince myself that he's being honest with me.
Lies - ACE

Everyone lies. Every person in my life, from my housekeeper to my employees, has in one way or another lied to me. The women in my life have provided me with enough lies that I could fill an encyclopedia-sized book with them. Even my goddamn parents lied to me for years. So when I meet a person, like Lindsay, who hasn't lied during the half an hour debriefing in which I had her reveal the most personal information about her sexuality, it's very normal that I feel bewildered.

She blushed. She giggled. She looked away. But, she didn't lie. Well, except for one occasion about the size of the dildo she owns. That I'll let it slip, because I know her purpose wasn't lying per se, but to make me feel uncomfortable about the size of my cock.

If only she knew...

How do I know about her honesty, you will ask? Just as with all my new clients, I made her sit on a special chair that's connected to a biofeedback machine that measures the changes in her body temperature and pulse rate to detect if she's lying. It's one of my favorite moments of my job. Asking some obscene questions to clients and watching their reactions both on their faces and on the screen of my computer.

However, it was more fun with Lindsay than it'd ever been.

I don't usually ask past beyond birth control, STDs, and some general questions about sexual likes and dislikes of the clients. However, with Lindsay, I felt intrigued. Her honesty to my interrogative questions drew more offensive ones out of me. I have no doubt she'll be mad at me if she ever finds out she's the only woman for whom I know the frequency of her masturbations.

Five times she can get off without the stimulation of a man? Without any touching or kissing? I wonder how many times she can fuck a man in a day.

And, I absolutely loved how she avoided facing me when she talked about her deep-throating skills. Not just because her shyness was adorable, it was. But, because I feared I was going to show how instantly that information turned me on.

Lindsay, deep-throating a massive cock.

That must be some show to watch. And, watched her I did while she rocked JJ's world, making him come in record time. That counts as something, because, to say JJ can last hours is an understatement.

If the word about Lindsay's mouth gets around, she'll have hundreds of my men lining up to test her skills. I can't exactly say I'm comfortable with that idea. Times like this make me wish I could be one of the escorts working here, and not the cold-hearted boss whom everyone hates.

However, how I feel doesn't matter. Pleasure Extraordinaire is my life, my home. My employees are my only family; my clients my livelihood. I should help Lindsay get the best out of my life's work while she can, because honestly, after one year is over, she will be a fish out of water, back to the mundane life where men are selfish jerks who don't know how to treat women right.
The Heartache

JJ and I stay in each other's arms kissing and caressing each other for long minutes, ignoring the hors d'oeuvres and champagne. When I notice it's getting dark outside, I slip out of his embrace, feeling cold without his hot body wrapping around me. I grab my dress, which is now wrinkled, but I couldn't care less about it. Pain pinches at my heart when he gets off the bed and puts on his jeans. I slide inside my dress and let him zip it up.

"Promise you'll come back for me?" he asks while doing up his fly.

"I will." As if there's any other way. This beautiful man, tender and sexy, would've never entered my life if it wasn't for the contract I'll sign with Michael. "Do you want to have dinner before you go?"

"No, I'm not hungry." I straighten my dress and slip into my shoes. JJ grabs my hand, guiding me out of the suite, back to the red corridor and into Mr. Ice's office.

"I need you here for a few more minutes if you don't mind?" Mr. Ice asks and motions toward the chair I sat in which I sat some hours ago. "JJ, you should stay too."

JJ nods and takes the chair beside me, smiling down at me when I glance at his face. So close, yet so distant.

"I must set up your profile page so my interested employees can check it out to decide if they want an encounter with you," Mr. Ice begins explaining. "The profile page usually includes information about the hobbies of the clients, their sexual habits, likes and dislikes. And, I also recommend adding pictures to make it easy for the employees to pick. But, due to your circumstances, we can't place any picture of you on it. And, only employees who happen to be watching the camera recordings when you enter the establishments can see you and that depends purely on luck and will make it difficult for you to have access to as many men as our other clients do."

"Don't worry," JJ interferes. "I'll pick you whenever you come here."

"We, very much, try to avoid having our clients getting stuck with only one or two employees," Mr. Ice continues. "That's why I decided to gather a jury to give a rating about your looks in place of putting pictures. A rating of eight should be as good as nude pictures taken by a professional photographer."

I frown, unsure about how to react. "As long as I don't have to do a catwalk in a bikini before that jury you mentioned, I'm okay with your suggestions."

Mr. Ice just nods. "JJ, you'll be part of the jury." Then he turns to me. "I invited Alexander to be the third member of the jury. He used to work for a fashion magazine and knows about beautiful women inside and out."

JJ smirks, flashing a look of dismay toward Mr. Ice. "You don't need to work for a magazine to recognize a beautiful woman. Being a man should be enough to qualify for it automatically."

"Fortunately, Alexander happens to be a man," Mr. Ice replies, unperturbed by JJ's teasing tone.

"Who's going to be the other member?" I ask. "You said there'd be three people on the jury."

"Uh." Mr. Ice pulls his eyebrows together, an unusual reaction in the midst of his composed responses. "Me," he states, turning up a side of his lips into a barely-there smile. His expression isn't perverted or judging, otherwise I'd be only seconds away from making my way out of the door and building.

A knock on the door, and heads turn to the third member of the jury. A man well into his fifties with gray hair and tanned skin enters the room, and his eyes land on me, ignoring the two men. After a quick introduction, he takes his place on the other side of my chair, while I get up, upon Mr. Ice's request, for all three men to get a better look at me.

I can't say I'm completely comfortable by three sets of eyes roaming around my body. Except for JJ's lustful stares, though, both Mr. Ice and Alexander glance at me as if appreciating an exquisite painting, without any hint of a sexual or demeaning air attached to their expressions.

"Clearly a ten out of ten." JJ takes the lead. "She's a beauty through and through." I bite my lips to stifle a smile, when he winks at me and gives a full-on once-over to my body. He's the king of flirtation.

Mr. Ice shakes his head. "Take another guess. You're biased because she just blew you."

I turn to him. Shocked, disgusted and embarrassed. "How do you know?"

"I'm sorry. I had to check up on you and JJ for security reasons," Mr. Ice answers.

Shit! He saw me while I was at my sluttiest. Had I known I was being watched, I wouldn't even have sat on the same bed with JJ. The tiny voice in my head corrects me. Yes, I actually would.

"Wait. Wasn't it supposed to be anonymous voting?" Alexander asks and Mr. Ice nods in agreement.

"I guess we can do it without hiding our votes if you don't mind," Mr. Ice asks me, breaking my telepathic flirtation with JJ.

I shrug my agreement.

"In that case," Alexander says. "I'm between seven and eight. Eight for her sex appeal and seven for her beauty."

I guess Alexander's grading is more objective compared to JJ's, but I can't help but feel disappointed after having been rated a ten by JJ.

All eyes turn to Mr. Ice for his rating, and he clears his throat and shifts in his chair before stating his opinion about my appearance. I have no idea what kind of women he prefers—if he prefers women at all. After my shock with Michael's, I don't trust my abilities to guess men's sexual preferences anymore. For all I know, both Mr. Ice and Alexander are both homosexuals.

"Four," Mr. Ice says, and my mouth plops open in surprise. "I think she's a four."

"Out of five?" JJ asks.

"Out of ten," Mr. Ice replies.

"Oh, man. You definitely need glasses for missing what a catch she is!" JJ laughs, shaking his head.

"Beauty is a personal taste, but I can break down my rating for you if you like. She's on the shorter side of the height scale. What's your height, 5"2, 5"3? Her breasts are barely b-cup. Yes, she's slim but not in an athletic way. A couple of extra pounds will immediately show around her belly and hips. Her hair can use some trimming and styling."

"Cut it out, will you?" JJ interferes, probably having seen the shock on my face. I know I'm not the prettiest girl out there, but to be criticized about my small breasts, which I don't think are that small, and none-athletic body by a man I met only a few hours ago makes me want to hurt someone. "Those aren't the things to say to a lady," JJ adds.

"You asked for it." Mr. Ice turns to his computer and types on the keyboard.

"What the hell?" JJ's mad voice echoes my own thoughts. "This isn't the way to speak in the presence of a lady." JJ stands and approaches me, holding my hand.

Mr. Ice continues typing while he says, "Would you have preferred discussing it behind her back? I'm taking two points from your rating because you aren't objective in your judgment."

Mr. Ice inhales deeply and looks up at me with his ever-neutral face, simply ignoring JJ's attitude. "I added Alexander's rating as 7.5 so the average is six point five."

That's actually close to how I think I look. I always thought I'm a six. Well, despite Mr. Ice's low rating, the average turned out to be close to the truth.

"That's absolutely wrong." JJ doesn't seem to be giving up any time soon.

"Different men, different tastes." Mr. Ice pushes his chair to stand and walks toward me. "I have no doubt you'll have a lot of my men interested in you."

JJ grabs my other hand, too and pulls me toward him for a kiss. I feel extremely self-conscious while opening my lips to let his tongue slide into my mouth in front of two other men, but he has this magical touch that I want to savor as much as I can. "You don't need other men. Just let me know you're in, and I'll come out and give you the pleasure you desire."

I giggle, like a little girl, despite Mr. Ice's presence just two steps away from me. JJ kisses me on top of my head before letting my hands go. "I'll see you around," he says and leaves with Alexander.

I stay, watching them go, feeling awkward beside Mr. Ice, now that I know his low opinion about my looks. It shouldn't matter, anyway. He wouldn't make it to the top of my list of men I'd love to have sex with either, with that cold attitude of his.

"Like I said before, you should avoid hooking up with the same man unless you're sure you're in total control of your emotions," Mr. Ice says, making me pull my gaze away from the door. I hesitate to glance up at his face, but when I do, I see concern on his expression. Why? "It's better for you to spend time with as many men as possible to avoid confusing physical pleasure with love and affection. We strive for pleasure, but romance should stay far away from our business. JJ is an experienced escort. He knows women better than women know themselves, and he uses his knowledge to get the best out of his clients. He's a master manipulator when it comes to getting as many women as possible to have sex with. It's not bad for business, but money isn't everything. I wouldn't want you or any of my clients to get hurt in the process."

"I won't."

"I do hope so." Another rare smile brightens up his face, and I find myself forgiving him for giving a low rating for my looks. Why should I be mad at someone for being honest with me, anyway? Honesty is what I treasure most. "I'll send a memo about your participation in our enterprise to the external employees and let you know about the interested ones. You'll receive a password and with that, you can log in to our database and review the profiles of my men who want to pleasure you."

I grin, picturing myself going through the profiles of L.A.'s gigolos. Considering the nature of their jobs, they must have lots of X-rated pictures in their profiles. Which will be actually fun to examine. "I have a question."

"Go ahead."

"How much is the usual price for a night with one of your employees? How much would you have charged me for the few hours I was with JJ?"

Mr. Ice inhales deeply, lifts his hand to undo the first button of his shirt, a clear sign of the discomfort he must be feeling at my question. "I have about three-hundred external employees, and their fees usually start from two-hundred-fifty for a three-hour meeting. We charge about a thousand dollars for a beginner, permanent escort. JJ is one of the most wanted men I have, and a three-hour hook-up with him costs five grand. Ten if you want to hire him for an entire day."

Holy fuck! JJ wasn't lying about having saved enough money to live in luxury for the rest of his life. Seriously, though, are there women delusional enough to pay that much money for a few hours of pleasure?

As if reading my mind, Mr. Ice says, "don't let the money confuse you. I have over two-hundred regular clients who come here at least once a month. JJ alone serves close to ten percent of them."

Is he telling me that to make me jealous? Because it's working. JJ has twenty women in his harem, throwing bags of money to feel his beautiful cock throbbing inside them. For several hours long? The jealousy that's spreading through my body and making me feel physical pain isn't a good sign. Mr. Ice is right. I'm confusing sex with romance.

"I see," is all I can say with the turmoil going on inside me. As I walk toward the door, Mr. Ice hurries and opens it for me.

"Miss Doheny, before you leave, I must ask you another question. Which alias should I enter for your profile?"

"What?"

"You need an alias for your prolife in our database. I can't use your real name. Would you want to keep the alias JJ chose for you? Beauty in white?"

I snort. That alias would be misleading, since I'm barely seven on the beauty scale. "Seven," I say. "My alias should be Seven." Since it's clear I'll encounter nothing but disasters here in the Pleasure-Extraordinaire Villa.

Outside, Nick is waiting for me. I say my goodbyes to Mr. Ice and slide into Nick's arm. When we arrive at the lobby, I realize I don't have my handbag. I try to remember if I forgot it in Mr. Ice's office, but no, I didn't have it there with me. I must have left it at the suite.

"Nick, I think I forgot to take my handbag from the suite, but I don't remember where exactly the suite is."

"Don't worry. I'll go get it for you," Nick says.

"I'll use the restroom, while you're at it."

Nick bows his head, with a sweet smile on to his lips and walks me to the nearest restroom before letting me go. I can't say I'm bothered by the over-attention I'm getting here from everyone I've come across.

After I freshen up and apply makeup, I leave the restroom and stroll toward the windows down the hall. The view is thick with luscious trees of various sorts. The grass is long and adorned with flowers. Everything is pleasure here, one way or another. Even the landscape.

I hear the murmurs and giggles of a woman on the other side of the hall. It must be another client with one of the escorts here. I shouldn't look their way, I know, but I'm curious to find out what kind of woman comes here to satisfy her sexual needs. Would it be too judgmental of me if I think usually older, uglier women must choose to be here rather than chasing uninterested men outside, in real life?

Not just judgmental, but wrong too, because the woman walking beside one of the boys I saw at the entrance is neither old, nor ugly. If anything, she's beautiful enough to appear on the cover of Hustler with her curly, blonde hair, long legs, and ample chest. She's coming here while probably a dozen men outside must be waiting for their turn with her? That's unthinkable and outrageous.

I swallow hard and turn around to hide my gaze from her, looking in the direction Nick left. A familiar sound startles me, and my eyes search around for the source of that velvet voice. Sensual laughter erupts and I realize it's JJ's, and he's standing before the beautiful woman, kissing her hand, the way he kissed mine not long ago.

I feel the same physical pain pinching at my chest at the sight of the two eyeing each other intimately, revealing hints of the imminent passionate minutes, or hours, ahead of them. Why? Why does it have to be him and not another one of the hundred permanent escorts, wrapping his arms around that woman? Not even a full hour has passed and he's already preparing to get another woman beneath him.

Mr. Ice was right. Physical pleasure doesn't come alone for most of the women. Feelings get attached to it. This is the downside of being a woman, I guess. While a man fucks and moves on without even remembering the name of his fuck-body, a woman has sex and immediately starts envisioning walking down the aisle beside him. It was stupid of me to think of JJ as more than who he was. A professional gigolo who has only fucking as many women as possible in his heart.

I should get out of here and forget the afternoon with JJ ever happened. I run toward Nick, as soon as he appears with my bag in his hand. He notices the sudden change of my mood, I guess, but doesn't ask anything and wishes me a great evening before closing the passenger door.

I was right in picking Seven as my alias. The disasters have started right on my first day and won't stop if I remain a client.
The Game

The day after my visit to Pleasure Extraordinaire, I call Michael's cell to inform him about my decision. I'll sign the contract. I might not do it for the right reasons—I don't think there exists any logical reason for choosing to be some wealthy guy's fake girlfriend, including money—but I'll sign it anyway.

I'm both thrilled and panicky about the next twelve months. It's been only a few days since Michael explained the contract to me, and I've had some very unusual experiences. I can't even begin to dream how these upcoming months will turn out. I don't think it'll be anything less than exhilarating, and I desperately need some exhilaration in my mind-numbing life.

The phone beeps several times before Michael finally picks it up. "Hello, Lindsay. How have you been?"

"Great so far. Thank you. How are you?"

"I'm good, too. I'm about to fly to Russia in a few minutes."

Russia? I could have been boarding the same plane with him for a fascinating trip in Russia, if I'd signed the contract sooner. "I just wanted to let you know that I paid a short visit to Pleasure Extraordinaire and now I'm ready to start our fake romance."

He laughs into the phone. "That's fantastic, but it'll have to wait a couple of weeks until I come back from my business trip. Would that be okay for you?"

"Yes, I suppose."

"You just go ahead and sign the contract and hand it to Edric so we can start paying you."

"All right. Will do that."

"I'll see you in two weeks."

"Have a safe flight," I say and disconnect.

I send Edric an email about my phone conversation with Michael and my decision, and receive his reply in just two minutes from clicking send. He wants me to drive to the company to go over the details of my salary and the car I'm going to have. Oh, the car. I don't have the slightest idea about which car I should pick, but that alone is enough to keep me excited for several weeks.

I drop my phone on the vanity table and head to the bathroom for a quick shower. I have the feeling that I'll see more of Edric than Michael, so it won't hurt to look my best for my appointment with him.

Just when I leave the shower, I hear the doorbell ring and wrap my wet body into my bathrobe to get the door. A delivery man carrying a large, brown package in hand offers me a friendly smile. "Miss Doheny?"

"Yes."

"This package is for you. Please, sign here."

After I scribble my initials on the device he's holding, he hands me the package and leaves. I stop dead in my tracks when I look at the sender on the package. Mr. Ice, himself, from Pleasure Extraordinaire sent me this mysterious box. I shake it to get an idea of what's inside, but hear no noise. It's feather light, too.

Feeling curious and irritated in equal parts, I slam the door, place the box on the table, and look for a knife to rip it open. I get a little disappointed, when all I find inside the box are papers. I don't know what I was expecting, maybe some sex toys?

The papers look like a contract. I groan loudly and throw the stash of papers on the table. Not another set of rules and regulations that I should read carefully and adhere to from first to last.

I enjoyed those sexual hours in JJ's arms, but I'm not sure whether I'll ever be able to be strong enough to perceive it just as sex and nothing more and be fine with the fact that the men there are whores and care only about the hours they have a girl under them. Maybe, all my mind needs is fucking another man or two to become one of them. To distinguish feelings from casual sex. To feel no pain if I see my temporary lover kissing another woman after I'm done with him.

The handwritten letter on the top of the stack grabs my attention, and I lift it to read.

"Dear Lindsay,

Your blood results came out to be all negative for STDs. Also, I received Mr. Hawkins' signed confirmation that he's taking over your expenses. You're now officially a member of our exclusive club. My hearty congratulations. Welcome to our family.

Your profile in our database is all set. You can find information about how to access your profile and our database together with your password in the package I'm sending you.

Let me politely remind you to keep this information to yourself. Please, start using contraceptive pills and avoid shaving to prevent razor burn and get waxed instead for your next visit to Pleasure Extraordinaire.

Sincerely,

Ace Preston"

Waxing instead of shaving? I toss the letter back to the stack and go back to putting on my clothes. A part of me wants to go back there and take full advantage of the pleasures offered, but the other part of me, the sensitive side, tells me I won't be able to distance myself from the emotional variability of the equation called sexual intimacy.

I take a cab to the company headquarters and find Edric in his office. He stands when I enter his office and sits on the sofa with me. "Mr. Hawkins is very pleased that you agreed to sign the contract. It was getting harder and harder finding a reliable person suitable for the job. Although we have had all other previous girls sign an NDA, the danger of one of them spilling information was still there. You know how famous Mr. Hawkins is, which is also a disadvantage, because if the word gets out that he's gay and has been hiding it for all these years, his image and entire business will be endangered."

"I'm well-aware of the magnitude of the problem and happy to help in any way I can."

"That's fantastic." He gets up to bring a folder, which I assume has the contract in it, and hands me a pen. "Please, sign this so we can authorize your employment with us."

I sign the entire set of papers and get my copy of the contract with Michael's signature on it. Once everything is done with the contract, Edric places it back on his table and hands me an envelope. "There's a blank check in this envelope so you can buy yourself the car you wish to have. The limit is seventy thousand, which is, I guess, the right amount. But if you find something a little over that price, just let me know so I can give you another check. You're also given a company credit card with the monthly limit of twenty grand. That's in addition to the salary you'll be receiving. So, don't be stingy about using that money on luxury items. I also opened an account for you at some of the designer clothing stores so you can shop for clothes for the events you'll be attending as Mr. Hawkins' girlfriend."

I'm not sure if Edric's words are real or the product of my imagination, but each word has the happy-making effect of chocolate and candies on me. I listen to him as if I'm a little girl, listening to my favorite fairy tale from Taylor's mouth. I didn't think I was a materialistic person, but here I am, thrilled by the fact that I'll be boosting the economy with several shopping sprees in the upcoming months, and it'll be part of my job duties. Who would have thought that?

After going through a few details about my duties, Edric escorts me to my new office and introduces me to my future colleagues in the marketing department, where I'll be working as a chief data analyst and have my own project. Everyone seems friendly and welcoming. I know looks can fool, but with my dedication and hard work and Michael's support, I shouldn't have anything to worry about regarding work. I'll officially start the beginning of next week and can't wait.

At the end of the brief tour, Edric instructs his assistant to arrange a company car with a private chauffeur for me until I buy my own car.

I can easily get used to being spoiled like that, and the best part is I'll have a ton of money saved after completing the full year, a funding I can use to build a financially secure future. When the secretary confirms the driver assigned to drive me around is waiting for me at the parking lot of the company building, I thank both of them and head out.

The chauffer greets me warmly and opens the door for me. I ask him to drive me to a chic restaurant nearby for lunch so I can christen the credit card I've been given.

He drops me off at a restaurant that serves select international dishes from Peru to Malaysia and tells me he'll be waiting for me. No hassles with taking a bus or worrying over the taxi fares. This is going to be just fantastic.

I enter the restaurant, feeling dizzy and happy as if I'm flying over the clouds, and nod at the girl at the front desk. "Hi, I don't have a reservation, but I'd like to have lunch if you have a table for one."

She looks down at the list in front of her, wincing a little. "I'm sorry, we're fully booked for lunch."

"It's okay." I hear a man saying behind me. "She can join me."

I turn around to see who and am stunned when I realize it's Zane Hawkins. Michael's son.

"Hello, Miss Doheny." He's as handsome as I remember him. No, not true. He's more than his image registered in my poor memory cells, because I hadn't realized until now how his brown eyes twinkle when he smiles. The dimples on his cheeks, the wind-ruffled mass of beautiful hair, the infinite width of his shoulders.

"Mr. Hawkins," I whisper, willing my heart to stop pounding against my chest. "What a nice coincidence."

"That's true." He offers his hand, and I hold my breath while his fingers are brushing the sensitive flesh in my palm, across the back of my hand, my fingers. Hell, all my skin turns into a ball of sensitive goose bumps at his touch. I hope he won't notice his effect on me.

When our server comes, greeting us, I pull my hand back and direct my focus to her. Unsuccessfully, though, because even if I'm not looking at Zane, he has my full attention.

The girl at the front desk motions for us to go in while talking to the server. "Show Mr. Hawkins and his guest their table. It's number seven."

I sigh between my parted lips. Why does it have to be table number seven? And why do I have to hear it? "I... I think I won't have lunch."

Zane stares at me with curious eyes. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

"Sorry. I should really go." I turn on my heels, but before I can take a step, Zane's hand catches my elbow and twirls me back to him. I have no choice but to explain to him my super-creepy superstition. I wish I had a more functional superstition than my fear of seven, like hand-washing and checking the locks for a dozen times before leaving home. I'd totally be happy if certain disasters in my life depended on the frequency of my hand-washing. At least, it'd keep the germs away.

"What's the problem?" Zane asks.

I glance at the two girls now staring at us and lean in toward Zane to whisper to himmy problem. "I've a kind of allergy to number seven, and our table number is seven." My mind spins and my heart leaps as his soapy scent hits my lungs. I tilt my head to look up at him, and it's a long way up thanks to his tall stature. His eyes are smiling at me, not believing my words. I wouldn't believe it either. It sounds a lot like an excuse to escape a lunch with the son of my fake boyfriend.

With a heart-melting grin attached to his lips, he faces the two girls. "Can we get another table, please?" I fear he'll explain to them the reason for changing the tables. "Somewhere by the windows would be nice."

"With pleasure," the girl at the front desk replies, stressing the word pleasure, reminding me of the letter I received from Pleasure Extraordinaire. Has Zane heard anything about that place?

"Shall we?" The server walks through the tables, and Zane and I follow her toward a table for two by the window.

"This is nice. Thank you." Zane pulls the chair for me, and I hang my purse around it and sit.

After we order our drinks, Zane shoots for the question I was afraid to hear. "What's your deal with number seven?"

"Long story." I try to put on my most neutral face to show him it's not actually that big of a deal.

"I was planning to take a long lunch break anyway."

"I don't feel comfortable talking about it."

"Would you prefer talking about your relationship with my father?" He grins pointedly. He's good at the game of locating people's weaknesses, I guess.

"It's not just one thing, but a combination of several events leading up to my reluctance to like that number."

"Okay, I'm all ears to learn about the events making you hate a lovely number."

"Right." I roll my eyes, grinning. "In math, seven is both odd and prime. Actually, it's one of the worst of the prime numbers because it's double Mersenne Prime, and I always had issues with Mersenne Primes while studying. Those are minor issues however, compared to my personal problems with seven. Where to begin? My mother died on the seventh of June."

He nods, prompting me to explain. Isn't that a reason enough for him?

"She died while giving birth to me." A response, something resembling empathy would be due at this point, but he just keeps staring at me.

"I found out about the reason for my mother's death when I was seven years old. I broke my leg on June 7, a few years ago. I came close to being raped on February 7. The street number of the house I killed Macey Williams in ended with seven. The exact hour I killed her was seven oh seven."

"All look like simple coincidence to me. If you fixate on any number, you'll always find something to complain about it."

I shake my head in disagreement. "I don't believe it. None of the things that happened to me related to seven were coincidence. I'm cursed with it. That's why I try to avoid that number as much as I can."

"Seven isn't all as bad as you might think. How about seven Heavens?" he asks.

"If I believed in Heaven and Hell, that might have been a valid argument, but I don't."

"Seven days of the week?"

"Which goes to show seven is simply wrong for everyone. I'm sure you'll also agree that we'd be all better off if Monday didn't exist."

He laughs. "The movie Seven with Brad Pitt and Gwyneth Paltrow? That's one of my all-time favorites."

"Are you kidding me? I had nightmares for a full week straight after watching that movie."

The server brings our orders and asks if we need anything else. I simply shake my head and thank her, watching Zane mirroring my behavior. I can't believe I've just spilled out my most private, uber-personal secret to a man who's not just the son of my boss—yes, Michael is my boss—but also working in the same company where I want to gain hands-on experience.

Good job, Lindsay. I couldn't have found a better way to embarrass myself if I'd put on a skimpy bunny costume.

He starts eating his entre, which I think has no meat in it.

"Are you a vegetarian?" A safer topic than my fear of seven.

"Yes, I am."

"For the love of animals?"

He nods, smiling.

"I hope you won't try to convert me, because I love meat." I fork a piece of beef and pop it into my mouth, awkwardly aware of Zane staring at my lips. "You can try my meat if you long for it. I promise I won't tell anyone." Wait, that came out wrong.

His smile widens. He's clearly noticed my unintended pun. Talking about seven doesn't sound so bad right now.

"I read a report on Macey Williams," he says. "Her doctors at the clinic diagnosed her as paranoid schizophrenia and manic depression. She killed a nurse assistant and a doctor the night of her escape, and the police believe she'd been involved with five other murders before she came after your sister. Allegedly, she killed her biological father and his wife."

"Yeah, I know all that." I shiver, as I always do when the topic is Macey Williams. Only someone with mental issues can shed so much blood without blinking an eye.

"You know that, yet still you continue with your irrational belief that being kidnapped by her was something to do with bad luck."

I frown and tilt my head to the side, gazing at him while trying to understand his logic. "You just said she was a serial murderer, and I was kidnapped by her. I can't think of any scenario with worse luck than that."

He lifts his hands, waving his index finger at me. "I agree to disagree. You see, I watched the video of the kidnapping, so you know I have an idea what went on in there. The fact that Macey Williams kidnapped you, among all people she could have kidnapped to lure your sister in, was in fact a very fortunate event. Imagine if she'd kidnapped your brother-in-law instead of you. Because, he's a man and so physically superior, Macey wouldn't let him stay without securely tying him up. Your sister and your brother-in-law wouldn't have had much chance to escape. But, you. She let you be without ropes. She underestimated your physical capacity, didn't see you as an actual threat. Do you see where I'm going with this?"

He doesn't wait for my response to continue. "The simple conclusion is that you got rid of a murderer, spared tax-payers' hard-earned money that'd have been spent on her and saved lives she could have taken if you hadn't killed her. Here's another point to my argument; you killed her in the easiest possible way. It wasn't even your intention to kill her; otherwise you wouldn't have just slapped her. But, it was indeed your slap that pushed her against that hook, which killed her. You killed a blood-thirsty maniac and a potential mass murderer without intending to do so, and so your conscious must be cleaner than if you had to shoot her with a gun."

I realize I'm not holding the fork anymore, and my mouth is wide open with food still waiting to be swallowed. I haven't thought that way of the kidnapping that led to Macey's death. If I hadn't come to L.A., Macey would have found another way to get to Taylor and most likely succeeded in killing her, considering the physical conditions Taylor was in with the pregnancy.

I finally remember to close my mouth, swallowing the food, and lean back against the chair. "I don't know. My niece died that day."

He nods. His expression softens. "I know, but I also know that the baby was expected to die at any moment. And, in spite of the low quality of the video recording, it raised awareness among millions of people about that specific type of birth defect. And who knows, it may prompt scientists to focus and research on that area and help researchers get funds easier now that it's becoming a widely known topic, thanks to the video. It might even influence the national policies regarding organ donations for infants. We just don't know, but I'm sure your niece's death caused a domino effect for big things in the future for science."

Tears well up in my eyes. "Shut up or I'll start crying."

"I was just trying to show you things aren't inherently bad. That'd be like judging Van Gogh's Starry Night by only looking at a corner of it, without seeing how beautiful the whole picture is."

"How about my mother's death? Was that also a chain of lucky events?"

"I can't say because I don't know how sick your mother was. But, I'm sure if she was asked who should have survived that day, she'd have given your name."

"Enough already." I shade my face with my hand, looking away through the window to hide my tears.

"I'm sorry. People will think you're crying because I'm dumping you."

Unexpectedly, loud waves of laughter take over, accompanying my tears. I dare look up and see he's laughing with me. He'd managed to pull two strong responses out of me in just a matter of minutes. What does that say about him? "Just so you know, if you were dumping me in reality, I wouldn't be just sitting and crying. You'd be the second one tasting the iron slap, and who knows what your head might just land on with the force of it."

"I'll keep that in mind." His laughter gets louder, and he throws his head back while his body shakes with it.

When we both finally calm down, I take a sip from my water, while watching him drinking from his wine, his lips still curled up, ready for another round of laughter.

I'm not sure what I should make of his words. I've hated seven for so long, it's become a part of who I am. And, even if my perception toward seven changes someday, I'll never start celebrating my birthday. That's a fact that's as permanent as if written in stone. However, no need to dwell deeper on it and make Zane think I'm a complete freak—if he hasn't already come to that conclusion.

"So," I say. "How does it feel to direct one the most successful TV networks in the nation?"

He frowns, looking confused by my words. "I don't know. You have to ask that of the CEO's of the big four."

"Come on. Don't be so modest. HBC airs two of the most-watched shows, and I'm a big fan of both."

"Let me guess, Frat House."

"You guessed right." I smile, a little ashamed that he could guess I was a big fan of a sitcom about four overly handsome college hotties and their sexual encounters between classes. "The good looks of the actors aside, the whole idea is simply genius. It's hilarious, sexy, and engaging. If you pay close attention, you won't see many females outside at nine p.m. on a Thursday night."

"Unfortunately, the ratings don't agree with your observations. The interest in that show has dropped immensely compared to last year. We're even considering not renewing it for the next year."

"What? That'd be like the worst decision one can ever make in terms of making money in show business. I'm telling you, if you cancel it, you'll have a very angry female audience. It may even jeopardize the future of the entire network, because when women get angry, things get dirty."

He bursts into another laugh attack, although I didn't intent it to be a joke. I seriously love the show to the level of obsession. "You should share your opinion with the board of the shareholders. They have a different opinion about the show."

"Oh, I see. Let me guess, the shareholders are all dinosaur-aged and overly conservative men, aren't they? Of course they won't see the merit of Frat House."

"Correct guess about the age, but unfortunately they have a say in our decisions. They were never content with the show to begin with, and now they're using the drop in the ratings as a reason to cancel it. This information is confidential, by the way," Zane says, cutting a piece of mushroom.

"Of course." I turn to my plate, seriously let down by the prospect of the cancellation of the only TV show I look forward to watching every week. These people must be delusional if they can't see how profitable the show is. I hope another TV network will see the truth and snap the show away from those ungrateful pricks' hands.

When the lunch is over, to my absolute dismay because I really enjoyed the half-hour therapeutic chat with Zane, we stroll outside. I walk slowly on purpose, enjoying the warmth of his hand at the small of my back. I won't lie, he's arousing physical reactions that I shouldn't have for the son of my boss. And, I feel I won't have the strength to decline him if he shows even a little interest in me.

That's why I shouldn't fully give up on Pleasure Extraordinaire. If I'm sexually satiated, I will be more resilient against Zane's advances. If he makes any advance on me, that is. But, I don't see any harm in being prepared.

"I'll see you around," he says as he takes my hand in his to kiss.

Oh my.

I inhale the spicy scent of his cologne—a huge mistake because my head starts spinning with the lust that his scent is awakening in me. All of my body is reacting to him. My hardening nipples, which I hope aren't showing through my blouse. My sex is getting moister by the second as if his lips were close to them.

I'll have to book an afternoon over at Pleasure Extraordinaire so the sexual need growing in me from just the simple touch of this man won't drive me crazy. Is this why men turn to brothels? How seriously wrong it is to be forced to turn to brothels to be able to function, as if I'm just made to copulate.

Despite my confusion, as soon as I arrive home, I dial Pleasure Extraordinaire and secure Saturday afternoon for a few hours of sweaty and exhausting fun.
Ice and Fire

The car pulls up, and the driver nods to me through the rearview window. I look out of the window to see who's going to walk me into the sensual four-walls of Pleasure Extraordinaire this time and am stunned when I see none other than Mr. Ice leaning down beside the car to get my door.

"Seven," he hums with a heart-melting smile that reaches up to his eyes. So unusual of him. I thought being serious was his signature, his natural state. But, I'm not disappointed at all. Particularly because that smile is strong enough to make my heart trumpet and my sex... well, it shouldn't be about my sex anyway. He's not an escort. He's the owner of the establishment.

I climb out of the car and straighten my beige, mid-thigh sheath dress that's on the rather sluttier side of the appropriateness scale. "Mr. Ice," I blurt out and immediately see my mistake. Shit. He's Ace, not Ice. And definitely not Mr. Ice. When will I learn to think before speaking?

He blinks at me first, and then the shy smile turns into a full grin once he realizes my nickname for him. "Is there a particular reason why you call me that?" He offers his arm for me to slide my own arm around, while gazing at me with his big ice-blue eyes, curious for my answer.

"I'm sorry. It doesn't mean anything. Just a silly joke about your cold attitude the first time we met."

"My cold attitude? Well, I apologize for that, and I'm not offended in the least for the alias you picked for me, though." He moves forward toward the entrance of the Pleasure Extraordinaire building, pulling me with him. He might pretend to be cold, but his body heat is enough to keep me warm in my skimpy dress.

A different set of young men, again naked except for jeans, are waiting at either side of the hallway, each greeting me with the most gorgeous smiles. I guess they line up here, at the entrance to pump a steady gush of arousal into the clients, right from the start. And, hell it's working.

I feel Mr. Ice's eyes on me, while my own eyes roam over the athletic bodies of the youth. One must have a certain amount of exhibitionism in him to be able to do what they're doing. Well, a well-defined chest won't hurt, either.

I'm curious about my new encounter. He's not among the permanent escorts in the house and instead has a life and a real job outside and only does this as a hobby. I doubt he'll be as sexy as JJ, my first encounter. But if what Mr. Ice said about their stringent criteria for selecting their employees is anywhere near correct, my lover for the day will be sexier than the three guys I slept with outside Pleasure Extraordinaire.

In addition to their requirements, I, the client, get to add my own. If this enterprise is going to make thousands out of me, I'll of course demand high standards, like height of at least six feet with an athletic body and a cock of seven-inch length and five-inch girth. One can say I'm into numbers. He should also be an excellent oral-giver and last longer than fifteen minutes at one go, too.

I wish I could see Mr. Ice's face when he was reading my additional requirements. Although I was thinking I'd never find a gigolo who meets all those requirements and wants to have me, here I am, inside the luxurious brothel, only a few minutes away from meeting my dream lover.

I try not to think about JJ, while Mr. Ice and I walk toward his office. JJ was great in every sense, from sexy looks to having the right attitude and knowledge about how to get into me. Both literally and figuratively. But, it'll be dangerous for my weak heart to be around him, and I hope I won't see him today or any time soon until I desensitize myself to his charm.

Mr. Ice leaves me alone with my thoughts until we reach his office door and then takes my hand into his to lead me into his office.

"Big Boy sent in the dress he wants you to wear for the afternoon with him," he says as he slips out of his jacket and hangs it into the closet beside the door.

I giggle. "Big Boy? Is that my lover's alias?"

"Yes." Mr. Ice comes out, holding a super-short, blue dress. If I thought the dress I'm wearing was slutty, I have no words for the semi-transparent barely-there dress in Mr. Ice's hand.

He opens another door to a suite and gestures inside with his hand. "You can get changed here. Feel free to use the shower, towels, and makeup set."

I nod, grab the dress by the hanger from his hand, and enter the suite. After taking a quick shower to wash my body only, I dry myself and put on the blue dress. Since my lover asked specifically for me to be makeup-free for our union, I skip the makeup set and only apply moisturizer on my face and neck.

When I glance at the tall mirror and see my nipples poking freely through the fabric, I feel the urge to cover them. How am I supposed to go out and face Mr. Ice, while each and every contour of my body is displayed generously?

A knock on the door shoots up my anxiety. Before I can answer, the door opens, and Mr. Ice stands at the doorway. What the hell? Why didn't he wait for my answer? I might have been fully naked now. Maybe catching me like that was his intention. I reach up and cover my chest.

"We don't have much time," he says apologetically. "Big Boy is expecting you in fifteen minutes."

"I'm ready to go." I hesitate to pull my arms down. It's a good thing I'm wearing panties, or Mr. Ice would have a clear view of my sex through the thin fabric of the dress.

"Not yet. Big Boy requested you to have coconut oil applied to your lady parts."

"I don't remember reading anything about that," I snap. Coconut oil in lady parts? What kind of fantasy does this Big Boy have in mind?

"He entered that request only an hour ago, but it's not hard to fulfill. I have here a bottle of coconut oil for you." He places the bottle on the table beside him and begins pulling up the sleeves of his shirt.

I stare at the bottle, and then him, baffled and also a bit amused. "What are you doing?"

He looks back at me, more confused than I probably must look, as if I asked him if he was a girl. "I'm getting myself ready for the oiling."

"What does that mean?" I laugh at his suggestion. "If you're thinking I'll let you anywhere close to my vagina, much less let you apply oil there, you're completely delusional."

"Who would you have preferred? JJ? I don't think he'll enjoy the idea of preparing you for another man."

"JJ? I don't want JJ or you. I have two functioning hands right here." I lift my hands for him to see in case he's missed that point, and his eyes drop to my pointy nipples beneath the dress. Shit. My hands go back to where they were, covering my breasts.

"No." He shakes his head. "It has to be a man, because it's not just about the oil, it's also about awakening your sexual desire for the afternoon session with Big Boy. It's his own explicit desire, and I'm bound to fulfill it."

What kind of fucking request is this? He's a fucking gigolo, for shit's sake, getting paid for having sex with a young, willing girl. Why can't he just accept that fact without asking for anything additional?

Had I known he'd turn out to be so demanding, I'd also request him to have his dick oiled by another man for half an hour straight. How would he like that? I don't think the female prostitutes get to be half as demanding as the male escorts here in Pleasure Extraordinaire. Even as prostitutes, they won't stop demeaning us, women. Fuck them all.

"No way. I won't let you rub me if that's what you have in mind. I just can't. Don't ask me anymore."

"That means we have a big problem here. I'll have to go ahead and call off your session for today. But, because of our cancelation policy of twenty-four hours, you'll be charged fully for it, which is two-thousand dollars."

"Two what? Fuck you and your cancelation policy."

He laughs at me, opening his mouth widely, roaring out his amusement. "Would you want me to call Nick to do it instead? Although it's not among his job duties, I don't think he'll say no."

"Are you kidding me?" I roll my eyes in frustration. Either I'll back down and let him apply that fucking oil to me, or I'll go home, causing Michael to pay two-thousand dollars for an afternoon of nothing. "I may let you do it, but I have a condition."

"What is it?"

"If you're going to see me naked, I should see you naked, too."

The amusement is erased from his expression on the spot, and the real Mr. Ice, the cold, distant one from our first encounter, reveals his face again. "You don't need to be ashamed with me. I already saw you naked when you were with JJ during your last visit. Remember? I had to watch the security cameras."

Yeah, right. I bet he did that out of necessity. "All the more reason for me to see you completely naked."

He lets out a breath of shock and exasperation. Oh, I guess Mr. Ice is irritated at being forced by some girl to show his wiener. I want to laugh at him to his face for being such a pussy about it, but I don't want to scare him away and cause his wiener to slink back to where it came from.

After some seconds of inner speculation—which he shows no signs of on his rigid face, so I'm left to guess it—he reaches for the buttons of his shirt. "Fine," he hisses out through his gritted teeth.

I drop my arms to my side, because there's no point in hiding my nipples anymore. He'll see my pussy upfront, and I'll see his dick. What're some pointy nipples compared to that?

I have to stifle a shiver at the sight of the hard muscles bulging out in his upper body as he takes off his shirt and places it on the chair. I can clearly count his six-pack. Oh, my. My breath catches in my throat.

He doesn't need to rub me down there to awaken the inner slut in me. The mere sight of his toned body does exactly that. Next, he reaches for his belt, and I find myself drawing in air and taking a step back with shock. I'm getting wet already. What if he notices my arousal and thinks he's the reason for it? Shit, I'll give him a bigger pleasure that way than letting him just oil me.

When he drops his slacks on the floor and gets out of them, I keep my eyes trained on his face, not daring to look down even for a second. He takes his time on the last thing that's keeping his dignity. His boxers. His eyes are locked on mine as his hands slowly pull that damn fabric down.

He's completely naked now, and we're running a staring contest. I bet he's dying to see me lower my eyes to his dick and watch my reaction. My eyes are burning, but I won't give him the satisfaction. Ever.

He's the first one to break the eye-contact and turns around to grab the bottle, leaving me enough time to examine his member. Unfortunately, there's not much to be impressed about because it's flaccid. I admit I'm a little disappointed, because I expected him to be as turned on by my nearly naked body under the dress, as I'm turned on by him.

"Get on the bed," he orders sharply. What's the deal with the men of Pleasure Extraordinaire and ordering around? "Pull up your dress, sit on the edge of the bed, and spread your legs." He's enjoying his little revenge, all right.

I throw away my high heels, wiggle out of my panties, and turn my back toward him as I head toward the bed, slowly rolling the hem of my dress higher and higher until it's well above my hips. I don't need to look at his eyes to know he's assessing my ass. Luckily for me, my ass is my biggest asset. Biggest being the keyword. Even when he complained about my short height and B-cup breasts while he was rating my appearance, he didn't make any comment about my ass. Which goes to show something. That he likes it.

I sit at the edge of the bed, spread my knees, just as he said, and look up at him, while he's taking slow steps toward me. And, oh god, his dick is growing by the second.

I giggle like a little girl and cover my face in shame. I feel fingers encircling my wrists and pulling my hands away from my face.

"Please, don't make it any harder than it already is," he says, and I have an uncomfortable feeling he's not talking about the moment as being hard. When my hands aren't covering my face, all I can look at is his dick, which is only a few inches away from my face.

"It's pointing at me." I enter another fit of laughter, slapping at my thigh, bowing my head to hide my face, but keeping my stare on his dick, while he kneels in front of me. The truth is, I don't know what I'll do if I'm not laughing. The sight of him, his hard member now showing its full length, which I'm sure is no less than nine inches, is taking my breath away, making my mouth water, and eliciting even more tantalizing reactions from my sex. Shit and fuck.

And, he'll know about those reactions once he touches me.

"Lean back and place your hands on the bed. Just relax and let me do my job." Dipping his fingers into the bottle, he gathers a generous amount of oil while I sit upright and relax my hands on the bed on each side of my body.

"Push your hips forward."

I do, spreading my knees fully and opening up my vagina completely to his view. There's nothing to hide, and he's staring at my core with intense focus. I wish I could know what goes in that secretive mind of his. Oh, wait. I know it already. If the thickness of his erection is a sign of anything, it's the depravity of his thoughts. The important detail is how. In which position? Is he fantasizing about pushing me flat on my back and just sticking his cock into me, or is he dying to fuck me with his tongue too?

What does a man who has seen every type of sex think about when he has a girl naked in front of him?

The touch of his oily finger on my inner thigh interrupts my speculations, and I'm forced to look down at his hand slowly making its way to my center.

"Whoever did the waxing did a great job." He glances up at me, while drawing circles on my skin with his wicked fingers. "You feel soft as if you're naturally hairless."

"It didn't come without pain." I bite my lower lip, because his hand moves upwards and lands on my mound.

"Is it painful now?" He caresses my skin from left to right, spreading the oil all around, slowly going downwards, but not quite touching me there yet.

"No, not at all. It feels good..." A loud breath escapes me when his finger touches my sensitive flesh around my clit. I swallow. Hard.

He pulls his hand away to get more oil and applies it on each of the lips patiently as if he has the entire afternoon. "You feel good, too."

I jerk my head to the side, because I don't want to see the lust in his eyes. I've come here to be with another man, and if I continue staring at the burning desire in Mr. Ice's eyes, I'm sure I'll think of him while fucking another man, and I don't want that.

His massage is causing outbursts of desire starting in my core and spreading through my body. My breasts, my hips, my throat demand the same attention my sex is getting. My lips are begging to taste his. Big Boy's plan is working in full. I'm becoming a growing ball of lust, threatening to explode too soon as the lips of my vagina are pulled and kneaded in Mr. Ice's slippery hand.

"You look absolutely breathtaking," he says, his eyes fully focused on the job his hand is doing. I swallow hard. My body's reactions are getting harder to control with each pinch of his hand. My hips buck against his hand without my intention. His fingers are both soft and rough, and I'm afraid I'll explode way too soon.

I watch his hand, unsure about how much longer this sexual agony will last. I wish I could have the guts to end it now.

Abruptly, he dips a finger inside me and pushes his thumb against my clit, earning a loud moan from me.

"Is... this... necessa... urghh," I cry out when he pushes at the point in me where all my nerve endings seem to be meeting. This is real torture, being so close to climaxing, but not allowing myself to do it. I don't want my first climax of the day caused by him. His mere fingers. And much less do I want to give him that pleasure.

Fucking escorts of Pleasure Extraordinaire and their insatiable demands. What kind of man would ask his lover to be finger-fucked by another man beforehand? Is that Big Boy's kink? Oh, god, he might even be watching me at this moment and see how I shatter to a thousand pieces with just a finger of Mr. Ice.

Fuck it. My desire to explode is getting out of hand with each press of the murderous fingers on and around my clit, my entrance. I'm moaning nonstop now and can't even think of stopping it. My mind is all foggy, all my senses focused on one small area between my legs. This can't be normal. His fingers can't have that much power over me.

There must be something in that oil.

I scream from the top of my lungs as he finally pushes another finger into me.

"Stop it." I jerk back, staring at his wild eyes. "What's in that bottle? You're drugging me with it, aren't you? You, fucking pig."

He ignores my wish and thrusts his fingers deeper into me, making me groan and double over with pleasure, but I just can't allow it. I yank his hand away and drop on the bed on my side.

I can't for fuck's sake take it anymore. The urge to come is too powerful to handle. I have to do something about it. Before pondering it to death, I sneak my hand down between my legs and slide two fingers inside my body. The oil and my own juices have made my sex very slippery and too damned sensitive.

I fuck myself with my fingers with the same pressure as my seven-inch dildo would have given me.

Stoke, stroke, stroke.

I'm all fingers and vagina and nothing else besides those two matters. There could have been a bomb attack near my ears, and I wouldn't be able to stop fucking myself.

My sex feels like an independent being, squeezing and sucking my fingers, as if it has its own mind and producing more juice. My usual spot of orgasm seems to have spread all around inside me, making it hard for me to focus on one point to climax.

I rub each of the demanding spots of my swollen flesh with brutal strokes, trembling with the force arising from my core. I fear for the upcoming. I fear it'll come bursting and swallow me up to nothingness. But more than that, I'm terrified it won't show up, that it will leave me at the edge before letting me reach my climax.

I push my hips against my fingers and my fingers against my core. And then it happens. With all its beauty and devastation. Chilling me down and warming me up at the same time. I yell, pant, groan, and shiver through the tsunami waves of an explosive orgasm and see the light growing in the middle of darkness.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I grovel as my inside muscles jerk deliciously around my fingers. As my senses slowly return, I feel sweat coating my body like a second skin. My hand squeezed between my legs throbs with pain, so does my face sunk in the bed. I don't even remember when I lay down on the bed. And I don't care. All I can hear is my heart pulsing in my ears.

With my breathing still short and quick, I open my eyes and turn my face to the root of my unusual act. Mr. Ice. I've never masturbated in front of a man, much less a stranger.

He's standing and leaning against the wall across from me, giving his own sexual organ a rough rubbing. I should have known the level of desire in me would infect him too. If he's half as lustful as I was seconds ago, he must be burning in the seas of desire.

There's fire in his ice-blue eyes that are now fixed on me. He doesn't need to tell me out loud what he'd have preferred doing, rather than using his hands for his pleasure. The thought of my afternoon lover watching us fills my mind. He must be having a kick out of my little performance. But, I wonder how he'll feel about what I have in mind.

I slide down to the floor and walk on my knees toward Mr. Ice. My dress is still above my waist and wet with my sweat, but I don't care. I reach up to his hips when I stand before him. He's staring down at me wild-eyed. I should let him jack off and watch how he explodes into nothingness to take my revenge from him. However, despite my recent orgasm, I'm too lustful.

"You tricked me into this," I state, in case he's thinking otherwise, and lean toward his raging erection. His hand is still firmly grasping it. "Let go," I order with menace in my voice, and he does what I say.

I run my fingers on the oily limb before circling them around it. It's so big my thumb can't reach my other fingers. I wish I could be a man for a day to get to know how they feel the sexual desire. Is it all around their dick with equal amounts or located more on certain spots?

I send him a mischievous smile, before licking his dick from base to head, and then slip it into my mouth. He groans, a hint of panic widening his eyes. I lower my head to get him deeper, and the head of his dick hits the back of my throat. I don't feel any gaging reflex whatsoever—must be the orgasm that's relaxed all my muscles—so I bob my head up and down around his dick without caring about gaging.

I can hear his breathing getting deeper and louder. His legs begin trembling under my hands. I push them to stop the annoying movement and pull his dick out of my mouth, glancing up at him for his reaction. "You're not allowed to come yet."

I grip his shaft right below its head and squeeze it gently to stop his sperm from shooting, enjoying the pulsation of his dick in my palm. When his moment of orgasm is gone, together with the trembling of his legs, I mouth him again and grab his balls to massage them. Slowly, my hand sneaks below them, rubbing the region between his testicles and butthole.

The trembling of his legs returns, and I'm forced to take him out of my mouth again to prevent him from climaxing. I'm not yet finished with him, and I'll make him pay several times more for what he did to me.

He has yet to open his mouth to speak his objection. His speechlessness is only adding to my pleasure. If my afternoon lover is indeed watching this, he must have already come. Maybe even a few times. Not good, because he won't have any more fuck left for me. Which goes to show I should enjoy the moment with Mr. Ice now that I have him in my hand. In a literal sense.

I shower his cock with the vast amount of saliva my mouth is producing and take him into my mouth again. My finger sneaks back between his legs and reaches up his butthole. I wonder if he's ever been touched there. I have no idea if he likes men too, and lets anyone fuck him there. I probe the entrance gently and a bundle of firm muscles push my finger back.

Looks like a no.

When his legs start shaking again, I start to pull back, but this time he fists his hands through my hair and thrusts his dick deep into my throat. I'm not upset by having him take control, just shocked.

He fucks my mouth with a primal force, hitting the head of his cock deep into my throat. The heat and desperation his body is emitting is making my sex itch with a fully renewed desire.

I continue stroking his balls and prostate while I suck him with vigor and determination, remembering the hurricane in me only a few minutes ago. Just when the thrusts get furious and the trembles stronger, I push my finger into his hole. His body stiffens on the spot, but I keep my finger there, probing his muscles gently for permission to enter. The second I get my permission and slide my middle finger inside him, he sprays hot spurts of sperm, blasting into my throat. Before I know it, though, his hand yanks mine away.

"Nobody touches me there," he growls and pulls himself out of my mouth.

I drop on my butt and watch him storm out of the room. What's got into him now? Has the little game he started turned out to be not so much fun for the crybaby?
The Lover

I take another shower to wash away the sweat from my body and put on the dress I came in with. If Big Boy decides to decline me because I'm not wearing the sweat-soaked dress he picked out for me, then he can go fuck himself, because I'm not going to put up with any more of his caprices.

Once dressed, I find the bottle of coconut oil and apply some to my vagina, expecting it to revitalize the desire that the shower diminished to some degree. I remind myself to buy a bottle or two for myself for later.

After I'm done oiling myself, I wash my hands and head out, a little nervous about meeting Mr. Ice after his stormy exit. I open the door to his office and meet his composed expression as opposed to my wild heartbeats.

He's a little distant, I can tell, but otherwise, the usual coldness on his face is replaced with a warm smile. "Nick is expecting you outside and will walk you to your suite."

"Thanks. I... I had to take a shower but I applied some of that coconut oil."

He nods and snaps his eyes from mine, in shame? Perhaps I should apologize for having tested the forbidden waters of his buttocks, although he's the one who'd started everything. But, I feel bringing up the topic will embarrass him more than it'll do any good.

"I'll go now."

He stands, walks around to open the door for me and tells Nick to take me to the winter suite before wishing me a great afternoon.

I masturbated in front of a man and then sucked him out, but I don't feel the slightest shame in me for going to another man for another round of sex. And, no trace of the heartbreak I felt after being with JJ. Am I finally getting desensitized toward sex?

The thing I did with Mr. Ice can hardly be called sex, though. It was like fucking in an animalistic sense. We didn't even kiss each other. No words of admiration were exchanged, only plain sucking and fingering.

Maybe that's exactly what I need to do to truly enjoy the delicious fruits this place has to offer. No kissing, that will make my heart flutter or cause emotional attachment and no talking afterwards. Just meet, fuck, and thank you very much. It sure worked with Mr. Ice. I feel nothing for him. No resentment, no heartache after we were done. Why shouldn't it work with the man I'll meet in a few minutes?

I'll test my assumption, and if that's indeed the key to my problem, I'll have a hell of a lot of hot, sweaty times in these four walls of indulgence.

I glance at Nick over my shoulder and notice he's just a boy compared to JJ and Mr. Ice. Not that he's ugly in any sense. He's beautiful, but a boy, nonetheless. Immature and inexperienced. There must be several women who'd enjoy their men innocent, but I'd rather have the dirtier ones with years of experience under their belts.

Hoping my lover for the afternoon will have a mature and manlier look with a wide variety of sexual encounters in his past, I walk silently beside Nick. We stop at the same suite I was in the last time with JJ.

Nick opens the door, although I didn't hear a sound from the other side of it, and I'm confronted with a dark room. Are we going to play hide and seek? Or perhaps my lover is on the shyer side of the confidence scale. I can't say I'm liking it, though.

"Welcome," I hear a deep voice but can't see anything through the dark.

"Can we turn on the lights, please?"

"In a moment." Hands grab my waist, and I'm pulled against a body so hard it hurts as if I hit a concrete wall. I hear the door close behind me.

That I can't see him right now isn't too bad actually, for my skin is enjoying being the main sensory organ while I explore the contours of the naked body before me. As soon as he locates the zipper of my dress, he unzips it and lets it pool around my feet. That move makes us equal in nakedness since I have neither a bra nor panties.

He presses me against him, and I feel wet lips showering my throat and shoulders with harsh kisses as if he's trying to engrave his lips on my skin.

I move my hands up and down his thick arms and scratch his back from his shoulders to his round ass cheeks, all the while pushing my hips against his, pressing his cock between our bodies.

I want to sneak my hands to have a feel of it, but he grabs both of my hands and pins them behind me before I can even try.

What is this? I can't see, I can't touch?

At least his lips are doing good work to take my mind off the less-than-stellar conditions of our meeting. His hair tickles my throat as he pushes my hands farther back and leans down to suck my breasts. Before I know it, his hand that's not grabbing my wrists like cuffs moves between my legs and begins stroking me there.

Has he watched how I got off only a few minutes ago? He must have. That's why he's trying his fingers on me right now. To compete with my own and show me who's better at it.

His fingers are as rough as his lips, working me up with ruthless strokes, driving me close to my climax all too quickly.

"I'm very close," I whisper as a warning.

"Not yet," he hisses into my ear, momentarily distracting me from the approaching pinnacle. Instead of slowing down, though, his fingers poke around my entrance before diving into me and a hurricane of mad thrusts stirs awake the nerve endings inside me.

"I'm gonna come now. I can't hold it."

"No." More hissing but no stopping. What does he expect me to do when all his fingers are doing is pushing me close to a wild explosion?

When I'm only a heartbeat away from reaching the forbidden peak, he draws his fingers out of me, and the next thing I feel is being lifted up and tossed over the bed. My hands reach out to locate him in the dark. Yes, it's still pitch-black and my eyes haven't adjusted to it yet. Before I can touch him, though, his hands grab my buttocks, pulling me against his face, and his mouth lands on my pussy, sucking my clit with the power of a vacuum cleaner. Just like that. Without any warning or explanation.

There's no way I can hold it any longer now that he's going full power on me, thrusting his tongue into my tender flesh. The addition of his rough fingers just does it for me, and I come apart with violent convulsions, stroking his fingers just as roughly as they stroke me.

"You taste so good. What is it?" I hear his words through my intoxicated senses, though they don't make any sense. However something is off. Terribly off even to my fog-filled thoughts.

I jerk up on the bed, despite the strong waves of spasms hitting me to the core, and yell, "Turn the fucking lights on."

I need to see him to make sure my hazed mind isn't playing some despicable tricks on me. I slither on the bed and touch the nightstand to locate a table lamp. When I finally feel something that resembles one, I switch it on and see... Zane.

Zane Hawkins is Big Boy?

Before my mind can question the why's and how's of being in the same suite of Pleasure Extraordinaire with Zane as my lover for the afternoon, I stare at him in shock, because he's on the floor, writhing in pain like an animal struck by a bullet.

Once my eyes finally adjust to the light, I notice something, a strange detail on his face. His lips are unusually swollen and glowing red.

"What did you put on your pussy?" he screams, but his words are hard to understand.

I literally jump down the bed and get to his side to find out what's going on. I panic at the magnitude of the problem he's going through. "What's wrong?"

"Did you apply some kind of lotion to yourself? What was it?" His swollen tongue barely rolls to spell out the words correctly.

"The oil you asked me to apply." What was it? "Coconut oil or something." Seems to be the root of all the evils today.

"Fuck! Are you sure? I'm allergic to coconut."

That doesn't make sense at all. "Then, why the fuck did you want me to apply it?"

He tries to cover his lips with his hands but flinches when his skin touches his giant lips. Oh, my god. What's just happened?

"Help, help. Someone, call a doctor," I yell and get to my feet to call someone in. Someone with a cooler head than mine.

Nick bangs open the door and hurries inside with a phone against his ear. "Dr. Smith, we have an emergency in Winter Suite number Seven."

Number seven! Number fucking seven! Give me a break!

More men come in and together they help a fully naked Zane out of the curse-filled room. I grab my dress, put it on, and follow them out. There's no way I'm spending an extra millisecond in there.

I run beside the men carrying Zane, working hard to wrap my head around the order of the events. The coconut oil was his request, or at least so that's what Mr. Ice said. Why would Zane request me to let another guy apply the kind of oil he's allergic to, unless he has a blood-thirsty or masochist split personality that he's not aware of?

That's too much fantasy, so I drop that possibility and skip to a more likely explanation. That it is a secret scheme orchestrated by Mr. Ice. Can he be so vile as to deliberately injure one of his employees? I don't know him well enough to guess, but it doesn't seem fitting, neither to his persona nor anyone else working under the Pleasure Extraordinaire umbrella, especially because of the lack of any reasonable motivation behind this perverse act.

That brings me to only one cause for the bewildering calamity. An error from Zane's side. I don't know how a smart man of his capacity managed to categorize a product that he's allergic to into something he wishes his new lover to use, but any other explanation seems less logical in every sense.

When the doctor takes him into the exam room, he orders me and Nick to remain outside. Perhaps it's a good thing because I don't know how I'd handle seeing a man suffer because of me. Well, some coconut lotion he licked off of my pussy, to be exact.

Everything is so strange. In fact, there's nothing sensible in the entire afternoon! Why the fucking hell did Zane ask to have sex with me in the first place? Doesn't he have enough gorgeous women throwing themselves at him? Mr. Ice's persistence about smearing that drugged oil all over my privates was just the tip of the iceberg of the curiosities called my afternoon.

Speaking of Mr. Ice, he's striding down the hall toward us, his face a wall of cement. I wish to break every piece of brick and read his mind. He could work as an undercover agent without giving away anything with his gestures. God, does this man have any uncontrolled muscles in his body? Most likely, he doesn't have any emotions whatsoever, that's why he can be so neutral in every occasion.

"He's allergic to coconut oil," I grit the words out between my teeth as soon as he comes over, relaying to him who I think is the guilty one here. He and only he. Unless Zane made a mistake.

He glances at me for the fraction of a second, and at that moment, I realize his irises are growing. Technically, eyes don't have muscles, so he still keeps his super-muscle-control strength, but to be able to pull a reaction out of him, even a tiny one like this, manages to make me feel somewhat pleased in this chaos.

"Must be a mistake of the software." He bites his lower lip as soon as the words are out of his mouth, as if he didn't mean to say them. His eyes do a quick flicker across the hall. "I'll go check up on him."

I can tell he's not being honest with me. Asshole. "You're lying. You fucking did it on purpose. Admit it!"

He simply turns his back to me and enters the room, closing the door in my face. He bullied a person and is lying about it. The only thing that is keeping me standing here rather than following the growing urge to corner him in the exam room and force him until he confesses is that I don't want to distract the doctor from doing his job.

But it doesn't mean I'll let Mr. Ice go. I'll wait here even if it means I'll spend the entire night in this dimly-lit, chilly hall with this flimsy dress on me.

Minutes pass, still no sign of either the doctor or Mr. Ice. I've heard of several types of food allergies, but allergy to coconut is completely new to me. I don't have the slightest idea of the danger it entails. I'll never forgive myself if something serious were to happen to Zane. Although I'm not the real guilty one here, I should have checked on it before letting him lick me.

God, he seriously licked me and would have fucked me had the incident not taken place. Why, oh why did he do that? Only one reason is popping up in my mind. I must be the forbidden fruit he's not allowed to taste. Those ego-driven, type-A-personality men. He likely wouldn't take a second look at me on another occasion, but since I've become his father's girlfriend and therefore unreachable for him, he had to find a way to stick his dick into me. If this was indeed his reason, he's gotten what he deserved.

Fuck him and fuck all men. I wish I were a lesbian. At least I'd be better-versed in the type of person I'd have liked to get into bed with. Rather than the closed-minded, penis-controlled teenagers disguised under the appearance of a mature man.

My high heels are killing me, and there're no seats close-by, so I take them off, risking looking like a mushroom compared to tall trees, beside Nick and the other two men.

Just when I lean against the wall and begin rubbing my foot, Mr. Ice comes out. He tries to avoid looking at me, when he says, "He's much better now."

He starts to walk, but I catch his elbow before he can escape. "Admit it."

"Can we discuss it in my office?" He stares at me with cautious eyes, and I nod. I have to run to keep pace with his long strides as we go to his office.

"Why did you do it?" I ask as soon as I step into his office and bang the door behind me. I see his chest moving fast, but besides that, he's still his robot self in terms of revealing his emotions.

"Come, check his entry with me. You can see his note." He signals with his hand toward the computer on the desk and types the password to enter to his account. "Here, read it for yourself."

I move closer to read the text on the screen and whisper the words aloud, "Have her apply coconut oil in her vagina before the meeting." I smirk with anger. "That's ridiculous. He knows he's allergic to coconut. Why would he have you use coconut oil unless he has a death wish?"

He stares at the screen without disclosing anything that goes through his mind.

"You have access to all accounts. You could have written it down there easily." I feel my voice rise, but so what? "Just admit it. You did it."

He shakes his head, but can't open his mouth to defend himself.

"I hate liars, and you proved to be one," I yell and stride out of his office. My hands are shaking, and my chest hurts with short breaths that go in and out of my mouth as the memories of the first lie ever told to me floods my mind.

When my cousin got mad after losing a silly video game three times in a row against me, she presumed it to be her right to lie to me about my mother's death to get revenge against me for beating her. Yes, a barely seven-year-old girl succeeded in cutting a deep wound in my soul by telling me my mother suffered a horrible death because my extremely big head broke her bones while giving birth to me. I couldn't do anything, not eat, nor talk, for several days after hearing the horrendous details of my mother's death until Taylor explained to me she died of preeclampsia and not because of my over-sized head.

Lies have the power to destroy a person in a matter of minutes. And I'm the best example of that. Even after hearing the truth from Taylor, my subconscious chose to believe the lie my cousin had told me, and I can't, for the love of God, wipe away the feeling of guilt of murdering someone who gave life to me.

From that day on, I became conscious of liars. The bad thing is that they're everywhere. Even the people who're paid to be honest, such as doctors, can lie easily. And, let me not get started with lawyers. But, the good thing is I've become an expert in spotting liars. A brief sign of distress, gulping, a wrong twitch of an eyelid, or as in Mr. Ice's case, irises dilating suddenly give them away if you pay close attention. He chose the wrong person to lie to because I could be granted a PhD in reading those signs if such a lie-detection department existed.

Fuck Mr. Ice and all the liars. They can spend the entire eternity in Hell for all I care.

I climb into the company car and ask the private driver I'm assigned by Hawkins Media Group to drive me back home. I shower as the first thing to get rid of the feeling of dirt after coming in close contact with filthy people and then settle in front of the TV to play a round of Street Fighter on my Xbox. It helps to be able to kick some asses, even in cyberspace.

When I notice the sun is going down, I call to order pizza for my dinner. I promised to have dinner with Taylor and Adam, but I guess I'll skip it for today. When the bell rings ten minutes after the phone call, I grab my purse and hurry to get the door.

I nearly drop the purse in my hand when I see Zane and not the pizza delivery guy at my doorway.

"May I come in?" he asks. His face has no trace of the allergic reactions he had a few hours ago. Even though I'm glad to see in person that he's all right, I'm not sure about inviting him in. "Please, I want to talk to you," he insists.

"What do you want to talk about?" I ask, but the real question I want him to answer is why he wanted to be with me.

"About the afternoon. I came here to apologize. I should have asked you instead of surprising you that way."

He had even kept the lights off to hide his identity from me. I survey his face intently to evaluate his sincerity, but he seems genuine enough even to my expert eyes. I want to let him in and talk his heart out, but my home is in no shape to accept a guest, much less one of the bosses of the company I work for. Besides, I'm fairly sure my sweatpants have a hole in the crotch.

"Give me a minute," I say and close the door in his face before running with the speed of light to my bedroom. After changing into jeans, I hurry to the living room to collect all the dirty clothes I failed to throw into the laundry basket. As soon as dirty plates find their place in the overly filled sink, I stride back to get the door, hoping Zane hasn't decided to leave.

"Come on in," I open the door wide to let him in, trying to breathe as silently as possible.

His eyes size me up and down and a smile appears on his lips, lighting up his face with a lustful expression. I have to bite my lip to hush away the images of those lips sucking the lips of my sex only a few hours ago, and I must admit, the power of the suction of his mouth could compete with Dyson vacuum cleaners.

"I don't have much time." I cross my arms as a way to put a distance between us and hopefully to hide my awakening nipples beneath my t-shirt, cursing myself for not remembering to put on a bra.

"Can I get a glass of water? I drove here right after I woke up from the coma."

"Oh, sure." My living room might look presentable, but I'm a horrible host. I grab the only clean glass I can find in the kitchen and come back to Zane with ice-cold water. "Here."

"Thanks." He gulps down the entire glass of water, while his eyes are fixed on my chest. If he's thinking I can't see where they're looking through the glass, then he's an idiot. But I sense he's aware that I know exactly where he's staring and even that it's turning me on.

I take a step back and move my eyes around the room to break the spell he's pulling me into, while he drinks the last sip of the water.

"I wasn't sure it'd be you." He places the glass on the coffee table, his dark-brown hair falling across his forehead as he leans down. "I was going through the list of available clients at the PE database when I noticed a new entry with the alias Seven and thought it might be you." He runs both his hands through his hair to push them back, and I gasp at the sexy way his fingers capture the thick strands.

"I had no idea you were one of the escorts," I mumble although it's not really relevant to his explanation.

He smiles and licks his lips, moistening them, and I take another step back, uncomfortably aware of the danger his lips might cause me. "Only a very few wealthy men aren't a registered escort there."

"Really?"

He nods and moves cautiously toward me. "I wanted to have you from the first minute I saw you leaving my father's office."

"Why? Because you knew I'd be his girlfriend and then you couldn't have me?"

"No, not that. I'd had no idea he had that intention until he told me when you left his office."

"Then, why?" I'm not a particularly hot girl. Even Mr. Ice confirmed that fact by rating my looks with four out of ten.

"Why do I have the hots for you? I have no idea, but every time I see you sway your round ass, I can't help but wonder how you'd squirm if I bent you down on a desk and fucked you from behind."

A surge of heat flushes from my core, spreading over the surface of my weakening body, and I gulp down hard, fearing I'll start trembling. The mere fact that he'd been only minutes away from finding out the truth about the way I squirm, before the coconut allergy hit him, doesn't help in the least with the sudden response of my body to his words.

"I say let's find out. Let me make you squirm and scream with my cock stuffing your pussy. I was so close to it today. After tasting your pussy, there's no going back to normal for me. Let me, please let me in."

"Enough." I lift my hand, my palm toward his face. "I'm not going to let you do anything to me."

As if I just gave him my thumbs up to do whatever he wants with me, rather than declining him, he leaps toward me to close the distance between us, cups my buttocks with his large hands, and attacks my lips.

Although my brain flashes me a 'Stop him right now' sign in neon letters, my body is too entangled in his to be able to react to his vicious assault. His hands slip through the waistband of my jeans and clamp on my bare ass cheeks beneath my underwear, pulling my hips against his hard-on. His grip is so strong, I'm lifted off my feet.

Oh, god. I feel my sex dampen almost instantly at the feeling of his penis bulging through his slacks and pushing against my body. I try to push him away, without success, and barely utter the words, "I'm not allowed to have sex with anyone," into his mouth between his ferocious kisses.

He lets my lips go, although my body is still wrapped tightly with his arms. "Yes, you are. You hired me for the entire evening. This is still part of the Pleasure Extraordinaire service."

Pleasure extraordinaire, indeed. I feel my vaginal walls throbbing inside me, yearning to be stuffed as Zane has promised. I evaluate his words for a brief second before he launches his mouth back onto mine and thrusts his tongue between my lips, while his hands ruthlessly rub my butt cheeks. Only a little stronger and my flesh between his fingers will hurt, but he doesn't cross that border.

An unexpected slip of a finger through my slit does it for me, and I stop fighting him and wrap my arms around his neck to pull him in for a harder kiss. He groans into my mouth while continuing to grind his hips against mine. I wish his cock had the power to rip through clothes, because I want it in me with a pulsating, white-hot desire.

I rush my hands down and fumble with the buttons of my jeans, while he mirrors my move with his own slacks, and in a matter of seconds, our pants are pushed down, although we're still fully clothed from above the waist. I'm so horny for him, I don't want to waste any seconds taking off my t-shirt before taking his manhood in me, and I'm guessing his reason to keep my t-shirt on is the same as mine.

He flips me so my bare buttocks are touching against his legs and pushes me against the arm of the couch, bending me down on it as he promised. "I'm clean, I swear," are his last words before he slides his cock up and down my pussy lips and pierces it into me.

I scream with the fullness of it, trying to stretch so I can take all its thickness. Noticing my discomfort, he pulls back and slides back in, this time slowly. I thrust my hips back, meeting him half way, yearning to be filled despite the slight discomfort. His large hands grip my hips on either side of my body to keep me in place while he pounds into me. His fingers are long enough to reach down and touch my clit, but he doesn't do anything beyond fucking my pussy with loud plunges.

I'm gasping and panting with each thrust, so close to an overwhelming climax. "Harder," I cry as if his thrusts aren't intense enough to be defined as violent. He responds to my plea with harder and faster moves, shaking me to the core, making me yell incoherent words mixed with curses while a stormy climax sweeps over the little reason that's left in my mind.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he pants and pulls out of me. I use the tiny drop of energy left in me to turn my head and watch him as he jerks his cock to his own climax and flushes his hot liquid onto my ass. As if our fucking wasn't mind-blowing enough to end up in Guinness' Record book for hotness, I tremble with the sexiness of the scene, him rubbing his cock above my ass while his seeds flow across my skin.

"You have the tightest pussy I've ever fucked," he says when his breathing becomes somewhat regular. "I saw on your profile you're on the pill."

"Yeah, I am." I nod and straighten up.

"You should still go wash yourself before my boys reach down to your pussy."

His boys have no way to land inside me, but I go to bathroom to wash up anyway. When I come back, wrapped up in a towel, I find Zane sitting on the couch, staring at a painting on the wall.

He gets to his feet and approaches me when he sees me. "I'm sorry for my surprise visit. I understand if you don't want to use my services over at PE anymore."

"I'm equally guilty, I guess, but I don't think it's a good idea for us to have anything going on while I'm working for your father, even though there's no breach of the contract."

He reaches for my hand and pulls it up to his lips. "Nobody needs to know anything about it. As long as you're Seven and I'm Big Boy, we can do anything we want inside PE," he says and kisses me.

I try to hold the towel intact, pressing my arms against it, while trying not to melt against his kiss. It's hard to say no to him, especially after such a mind-blowing orgasm. My first time going condom-less with a man, and thank god, I'm on the pill. "I'll think about it."

"Okay. I'll see you around." He leans in and lets his lips brush mine, gently, almost lovingly, and I remember my promise to myself to not let my heart beat for any of the PE escorts. I pull away before he can slide his tongue into my mouth and look toward the door pointedly. A mischievous smile appears on his lips, but he doesn't say a word and just leaves my apartment.

The pizza delivery guy arrives only a minute after Zane's departure, leaving me in awe about the perfect timeliness of Zane's visit. The last thing I have in mind is eating, though. Zane might claim to want to see me again, but a gnawing whisper inside me tells me I won't be anything but a one-time fling, or one of the dozens of women he keeps on the side.

It bothers me that men like Zane don't come without other women competing for him. I might consider getting into a bloody fight with those women if I was sure Zane was worthy of my effort. But I'm neither positive of his sincerity, nor confident that I really want him—only him, that is. Because I can't help but wish to spend more time with Mr. Ice too, and have a chance to get to know him, despite my disappointment over his lie.

A promiscuous man on one hand and a liar on the other. The kind of men my heart yearns to have couldn't have been worse, and I have a feeling the days ahead of me will include more disappointment and heartache.

*

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Pleasure Extraordinaire 2 is available on most major online retailers.

*

An excerpt from The Pursuit of Passion, Taylor & Adam's love story, is next...

# Excerpt from The Pursuit of Passion by Liv Bennett

*

Adam Garnett has been known for his utterly good looks, brilliance at closing multimillion-dollar business deals, and failed attempts at seducing his boss, Taylor Doheny: The beautiful widow of Adam's best friend.

Three years after her husband's death, Taylor Doheny is still determined to keep her heart locked away from men, particularly the ultimate flirt and notorious womanizer named Adam Garnett.

She had better take care; his ravishing words, sweet promises, and provocative gestures are threatening to break through her defenses and irrevocably get under her skin.

When Adam risks his life to rescue her during a vicious assault, Taylor can't find it in her to ignore his broiling desire and obsessive lust for her. Will she be able to leave the past behind and open up her heart to Adam, despite the real danger of having her already fragile emotions crushed?

*

# Taylor

"Did you go out with Valerie on the double date last night?" Adam drops the chopsticks beside his napkin for the first time during our twenty-minute stay.

"Were you eavesdropping on us?" I ask.

"If I were, I wouldn't be asking you this question. I just heard a small part of the conversation... accidentally."

I swallow the tenderest piece of lightly cooked beef I've ever eaten, a.k.a. A-5 Kobe beef, and savor its taste and the expectant look on Adam's face for a few seconds before responding to his inquisition. "Nope, I've had enough of dating people I don't know very well."

He arches both eyebrows, a hint of curiosity flashing across his face. "You mean before Jack?"

"No, Jack was my first boyfriend."

"You dated after Jack?" he asks, as if it couldn't be further from the truth.

"Why are you surprised? You think I should have waited longer before I began seeing other men? Maybe, we should just cancel this one right away in view of your opinion about my dating habits." I place the chopsticks next to my plate, throw the napkin over to the table and start to get to my feet.

He reaches out and holds my hand. "No, no, no. I didn't mean it that way. Please, forgive me." He chews a small piece of beef slowly, glancing at me only occasionally. I love how I make him feel as if he's walking on broken glass. He's burning to ask another question, but I guess he is waiting for the right time.

He clears his throat but doesn't lift his head to look at me. I see he's going for casual. "So, those dates you had—" He pauses to take a sip of sake. "How many men did you actually date?"

I wish I had a chance to record these next few minutes and watch it again to honor the scene with the hearty laughter that it deserves. It'd make a rare gem of comedy, better than many professionally shot movies.

He sips more sake, his fingers grasping the edge of the table.

"Thirty," I say casually.

"Thirty?" he repeats and gulps down his entire glass of sake. Ouch! That must burn. Deep lines form in his eyebrows, and his left eye twitches with a trace of rage. "Thirty. Seriously? I wasn't expecting that many. I guess I had the wrong impression about you."

I won't ask him his impression about me. I don't want to hear how well he knows me. And what is thirty compared to the endless number of women he must be hanging out with or just banging.

"Have you slept with any of them?" He stops pretending to be casual and stares me directly in the eye, his expression devoid of any softness.

I grin. "Believe me; you don't want to know." Oh, the delicious taste of revenge, sweeter than caramel candies.

"Actually, I do. Please, enlighten me."

I shake my head. The waitress brings us the next dish.

"Surely, you didn't sleep with all of them... Did you?" There is begging in his voice, along with disappointment. I can't believe I'm enjoying torturing him more than I am enjoying this exquisite meal.

"No. Of course not. What do you think of me?" I pop a piece of shrimp into my mouth and chew it slowly to relish its delicate taste. He's completely ignoring his plate now. "One wasn't my type," I begin. "One wanted a threesome with me and his girlfriend. And another one had to leave early. Oh, and one was only a blow job, and that doesn't count as sex in my book."

He looks around before shooting his next question, lowering his voice to an almost inaudible level. "Are you saying that you slept with twenty six men?" His eyes look like they will pop out of their sockets. "Twenty six men?" he repeats. I don't know whether it's the sake or the shock, but his face turns a deep hue of crimson, tending toward purple. And, the twitching in his left eye spreads over to his cheek.

"Do you have a problem with it?" I gaze at him, feigning serious and angry. If I'm not successful at running Edelman Constructions, my next career move will definitely be acting. He inhales deeply to calm himself down, but the redness on his face doesn't fade away. I should have waited until after the meal, so as not to ruin this expensive and delicious treat for him. He doesn't reply to my question and just focuses on his food.

Even though I enjoy bothering him—clearly he looks more than just bothered—he's taken me to this beautiful restaurant. I should make the dinner enjoyable for him as well, so I change the topic. "I thought you majored in electrical engineering. How come you know so much about the construction business?"

He lifts his face to look at me, his brows still pulled together. "Haven't you read my resume?"

"Huh? No. I never thought about it, actually. I just trusted you." As my aunt always says 'A little flattery is never a bad idea when it comes to winning a man's heart.'

His features soften; a hint of smile appears on his lips. "I started out in the electrical engineering department, but Jack's father had convinced me to work part-time and during summers at his company since high school. It was more fun than work really. I had so much hands-on experience in construction that it'd be a pity not to take advantage of it. So I doubled in civil engineering."

"And you added an MBA later, too," I add, remembering the three courses I'm lacking to finish my Sociology degree. The responsibility of running Jack's company has overwhelmed me. But, if I hadn't met Jack, I'd probably be struggling to earn a PhD and have a huge debt with student loans. I may not be a born leader; but I'm improving in my managerial skills every day. Knowing my limits, I'm certain I wouldn't have come as far as the CEO of a company if Jack hadn't entered my life. My career turned out to be much better than I'd imagined it would. It's all thanks to Jack. Nonetheless, acknowledging that simple fact makes me feel like a ruthless gold-digger.

"Are you considering taking those last courses and getting your diploma?" Adam asks, pulling me away from my thoughts.

"I should, right?"

He nods. "Of course, you should. You can take evening or weekend classes like Bree is doing. And before you know it, your diploma will be hanging on the wall of your office." His voice is calmer now. I think he's already forgotten about my little joke.

"Bree is taking evening classes? I had no idea."

His lips finally curl up into a smile. "She talks about her classes all the time. Haven't you been paying attention?"

I shake my head in response.

"On the company scholarship that Jack arranged for her years ago. She's actually getting her degree at the end of this semester."

"What is she majoring in?"

"Economics."

My jaw drops with surprise. I'd considered studying Economics only to shy away because of the sheer number of math classes.

"You should really put in an effort to read your employees' resumes. Listening to what they say wouldn't hurt, either." His features are playful now, and I can see he's trying hard not to burst into laughter.

"Yeah, right." I pick up a ball of black caviar and throw it at him, but I feel immediately guilty when it lands on his crisp white shirt, forming a circle of oily stain. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry."

Before I can move, he's pointing his forefinger smeared with soy sauce at me with a wicked grin on his face.

"No, you're not ruining my clothes." I hold my palms up to him to shield myself. "Please, don't."

He narrows his eyes, shaking his head, but his dirty finger is still nearing me. "You ruined my shirt and you'll pay for it."

I drop my hands and wait for my punishment. I let out a breath of relief when his finger skips my clothes and lands on my throat, smudging the soy sauce all over it. His touch heightens my senses and freezes me in my chair. I don't need to look at him to know his hot gaze is on me, burning holes in my skin.

The waitress comes, interrupting our dirty foreplay and serves us blue fish tuna. We eat quietly until the end of the meal, but every time I look at him, I catch his gaze traveling down my throat. I have no doubt he'll find a way to lick the soy off of me.

We share the tab as agreed and say our thank-you's to Chef Yoshida. Even after all my complaints about the price, I think I'll come back to eat here again.

Adam puts his hand on the small of my back, as we walk out to his car, and opens the door for me. After settling in his seat and starting the engine, he turns to me. "I don't have plans for a threesome. I don't have any time constraints. And, I think I'm your type, well at least my chest is. So, I can assume that I'll be one of the many lucky guys who got laid by you," he says, emphasizing the many part. I eye the stain on his shirt, feeling guilty for ruining a nice piece of clothing. It must have cost a lot of money, too. Shit.

"Don't push your luck." Pulling out a tube of dark pink lipstick and a compact, I coat my lips and check them in the compact mirror. I dare a glance at Adam's face and find his eyes watching my lips more intently than I've watched them in the mirror. My heart hammers at the naughtiness of the thoughts he must be entertaining.

An audacious smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "Why? The statistics are on my side." At this very moment, it dawns on me why and how I could allow him to finger me in public. He radiates an offhanded sexual aura that promises a raw, passionate, and primal fuck. And it renders me helpless and overwhelmed as if I'm a butterfly on a spider web. "Don't worry. We won't be doing anything you don't want. I promised to ask clearly and well in advance before I intended to do something. Remember?" With that, he focuses his attention on the road, releasing me from the momentary hypnosis and drives out of the parking lot to Wilshire, toward my home.

I don't dare speak on the way. I showed him my boobs, lied to him about the high number of sex/date ratio, and now I'm letting him drive me home. Am I ready for the next step? Maybe rather than pondering it to death, I should just follow my instincts, give Adam the one chance he's been pleading all these years for, and maybe experience a unique night that will, hopefully, help me break free from my grief.

After the ride, Adam comes up to my door—expecting otherwise would be just naïve—and stands at the doorway, begging me with his puppy eyes to let him in. I hold the doorknob and stand between him and the door, taking care to keep my poker face, although my knees are shaking at the close proximity of his body.

"I think that's it... unless you want to invite me in for a cup of _coffee_." He grins as he says the last word as if he meant it as a code word for something else.

"I do, actually, want some _coffee_ and it'd be pity to drink it all by myself." I lift my eyebrows for an effect but don't open the door yet, enjoying making him suffer this way a little longer. "But, you must promise to never speak to anyone about the... _coffee_."

He runs his fingers across his lips as if to zip them up. "My lips are sealed."

I push open the door, step aside to let him pass and check the hallway for an eavesdropper. Having neighbors gossip about me is the last thing I need on my way to finally having another man in my life.

I close the door and lean my back against it as I free my feet from the high heels. The tight jacket is bothering me too, but that'll have to wait a little longer.

I find Adam studying an oil painting of a woman holding her infant baby on her bare chest. I realize it's his first time at my home. Although he was Jack's best friend, he always came up with excuses to pass on our dinner invitations. Who'd know coffee would make him change his mind.

"The lady in the painting looks a lot like you," Adam points out, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.

I nod. "Jack bought it exactly for that reason. I guess I have a doppelgänger somewhere."

"I should have known it before." His eyes focus back on the painting, and he crosses one arm over his chest and rests the other on top of it, running his fingers along his chin.

"Why?" I frown. It's not like he's so into me that he'd go after my doppelgänger.

"Like you don't know why."

I sit on the love seat and tap on the space beside me, gesturing him to come and leave the painting alone. He loosens his tie as he sinks to the couch next to me, so close that our legs brush.

Suddenly the thought of being naked in front of Adam doesn't seem as comfortable as it did when I flashed him my boobs. Hesitantly, I look up at him and see his eyes lingering around my lips, most likely mapping out the right angles to launch at them.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers and lifts his hand to tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear. The tenderness in his voice helps me stay a little calmer, despite the hard lines set across his face, as though telling me there is no escape from what is about to come.

Between his heavy breaths, he cups my face and strokes my lips with his thumb. "I'm gonna kiss you if you don't have any objections."

With my pulse shooting up, I give my head a little nod, hypnotized by his eyes, paralyzed by his touch. He dips his head and tenderly brushes his lips against mine. I can barely react to his kiss, his lips sucking mine softly. As soon as I part my lips, his tongue invades my mouth. His hands remain on my face, never giving me an opportunity to escape while his tongue explores my mouth and tongue, searching and possessive.

When I give in and let my tongue wrestle with his, he slides a hand to unbutton my jacket and begins fondling my chest through the transparent blouse. It doesn't take long before his hand alights on my breast. His thumb draws circles around my nipple before pinching it and then he tugs it toward him. Just like Jack used to do.

Jack, Jack, Jack.

I close my eyes so I can erase Jack from my mind for a moment and focus on Adam's kiss. But as I open them again, a sudden fear takes over me when I realize Jack will see me. He'll be watching everything his best friend is about do to me in the next minutes.

"What is it?" Adam pulls away from me.

How can I tell him about my disturbing thoughts of the ghost of my dead husband peeping on us? I can't imagine a shorter way to get labeled as crazy. "I don't think I'm ready for this. I'm sorry."

"No, no. Don't be sorry. It's my fault. I pushed you too far. I don't usually go this fast, but I... I lose all my control around you."

His care and affection bother me. My attraction to him bothers me and makes me feel like a cheater, as if Jack wasn't dead. Oh, hell. There, I march right back to the beginning of my grief process, denying his death. Hot tears begin rolling down my cheek, yet it isn't sadness or grief. It is pure anger at myself and my stubborn unwillingness to accept that Jack's gone forever and to move on.

"Do you want me to go?" Adam asks softly.

I don't want him to go. I want my disturbing thoughts out and gone. "Please, wait," I say and hurry to my bedroom. I won't let this chance slip away from my fingers so easily. Adam is probably the only man who can give me physical pleasure without making me feel fearful or disgusted by his presence, and my one and only ticket out of my creepy life. And, I am going to have sex with him tonight no matter what it takes.

I slide open the mirrored closet door in my bedroom and find at the back of my clothes, the nurse uniform that is still wrapped in its plastic bag. I'd bought it as a special treat for Jack's birthday, but the accident happened before the birthday.

Ripping off the plastic bag, I pull out the nurse costume, which is more like a long vest, with a red-cross sign on the left pocket and buttons that start way below the chest line. I watch myself in the mirror as I change into the costume and place the stethoscope around my neck.

My legs look too bare and plain as opposed to the eye-catching dress. I look for thigh highs in the drawer and grab a pair of light pink with lace tops. Together, with the white high heels that I keep only for special occasions—can there be another occasion more special than this?—I look like an expensive whore. Not a bit like me, the ever-grieving widow. As a finishing touch, I apply a red lipstick on my dry lips and give my hair a final fluff.

My heart is racing as I make my entrance into the living room and stand with a hand on my hip right in front of Adam. His face goes from stunned to confused and finally lights up into a bright grin.

"There is nothing to grin about, Mr. Garnett," I say, working to speak with a deeper tone. I don't sound like me at all, either. Which is just the way I want it. Not being me. "Your blood analysis came back with negative results."

"Oh." He narrows his eyes, perhaps trying to figure out what I'm doing.

Come on, you silly thing. How difficult can it be to understand that I want to role play. I can't be me, myself, to have sex. I have to become an entirely different person, even if it is only pretending. But my good mood will, without doubt, be ruined if I have to sit down and explain to him what goes on in my mind.

"Am I going to die?" he asks. His question isn't as good as I hoped, but at least he is playing along.

"I must administer some more tests to find out the severity of your situation." I pull the stethoscope and walk slowly toward him. I let out a relieved breath, when I notice his chest is heaving heavily up and down just like mine.

# Adam

Just when I've decided to call it a night, Taylor comes out in a nurse's uniform, looking so hot and sexy, I couldn't have dreamed it up better even in my wildest fantasies.

I drink in the dress that is so short, I can make out her red thong as she walks toward me, taking my breath away. Her rebellious breasts hang as if they'll pop out any minute. To top it off, those pink thigh highs. Just icing on the cake. As though she knows my weakness for colorful thigh highs on beautiful, long legs.

Can this night get any better?

But I shouldn't jump the gun yet. What if she changes her mind and dumps me with the most painful hard-on. Speaking of hard-on, all my blood is pooled in my groin. I should start wearing larger pants, or I'll make a fool of myself when I get aroused, which is every time I'm around her.

For now, I have no option but to pick up her cues and obey her wishes.

Her eyes are daring me, evaluating me, teasing me. She stops in front of me, pushes my knees apart with her hand and places her knee on the sofa between my legs, slightly pressing on my hard-on with her thigh. It takes every ounce of control I have not to grab her, pull her under me, and ride her hard.

As if her torture is not enough, she unbuttons my shirt all the way down and puts the icy stethoscope on my bare chest. The cold metal makes me aware of the flaming heat of my body, all for this fragile woman with large breasts that are now only inches away from my face. I don't know whether I should stare at them until I explode without even taking off my pants, or tune out to control my erection. However, even if I manage to close my eyes, her sweet strawberry scent filling my lungs will suffice to throw me over the edge.

She moves the stethoscope across my chest toward my heart with care and precision and then down to my abs. I'm sure my crazy heartbeats have scared her off.

"What do I have?" I ask to distract myself.

She ignores my question and orders me to take off my shirt. I obey and shrug out of it with a quick move. I wish she'd take off that little dress of hers too. Without saying a word, she starts examining my back.

"Am I going to die?" I immediately regret asking another silly question. I'm officially an idiot who severely lacks fantasy capabilities. Next on my to-do list; start watching Grey's Anatomy.

She lifts her hand and begins playing with her lower lip. I have to roll my eyes at the sexiness of such a simple move. "You have a rare type of blood disease caused by a defect in the hemoglobin formation."

"What?" Her line is so elaborate, I find myself considering the risks of getting such an illness.

"There is no need to worry, though; its cure is very simple," she says with a calming voice, like you'd see in health professionals. Damn, she's good! "But, I'm not sure if your wife will agree to the treatment."

Either she has a born talent for acting or she's done this before; coming up with a scenario like this. Maybe with Jack or one of the twenty-six lucky men she slept with? Actually, twenty-seven, because a blow job does count as sex in my book. Twenty-seven men enjoyed her beautiful body, when I was thinking she needed time to grieve after Jack's death. Twenty-seven fucking dicks violated her innocence.

Pangs of jealousy rush through my body, tightening my chest and my breathing becomes laborious. I want to go after those men to castrate them, cut their hands off and take their eyes out while I'm at it. My hands are trembling. If I don't get myself under control, she'll give up on our little game before the real action starts.

"My wife will agree to anything you recommend for the sake of my health," I say.

She shakes her head, her eyebrows frowning. "My hands are tied without a written consent from her or an oral consent over the phone."

Consent? Wife? What am I supposed to do now? "Here is my phone. You can call her." I pull out my phone from the pocket of my jacket, which is lying down on the couch beside me, and hand it over to her.

She lifts it to her ear as she takes a couple of steps back, still facing me and places her foot on edge of the coffee table, revealing the semi-transparent, red thong underneath.

Mesmerized, I watch her thighs and waxed sex, completely ignoring the strange looks she must be giving me. It takes only pulling up a skirt to completely shut off my brain. As simple as that. I have no option but to agree with everything the extreme feminists say about us men and our animalistic tendencies.

Yet, her plans to torture me don't seem to be coming to an end any time soon, because she starts speaking to my imaginary wife on the phone, "Mrs. Garnett. I'm sorry to inform you of the terrible health conditions your husband finds himself in. His blood tests reveal that his illness is much more severe than we originally thought. He has to be treated immediately... Yes, the procedure is very simple. The malformed cells will be sucked out of his penis."

Sucked out of his penis? Sucked out of MY penis?

I tear my eyes away from her thong to look at her face to confirm that what I've just heard is true.

"I understand your concern," she continues speaking and plays with her nails as if bored. "The procedure is one-hundred-percent safe and has no danger what-so-ever."

Yeah, right. Except maybe a cardiac arrest.

"Yes, we will. Thank you for your cooperation." She places the phone on the coffee table and approaches me.

"So, she agrees to the treatment?" I ask as if I give a fucking shit about anyone agreeing on anything that will happen between Taylor and me, never mind an imaginary wife.

"Yes, she loves you. She wants the best for you."

"Am I going to get the best... treatment?"

"You surely will." She moves toward me, taking my breath away with each step, kneels down in front of me, and runs a finger on my erection before unzipping my pans.

How many times I've dreamed about this, her kneeling in front of me, her long fingers brushing my groin, her mouth preparing to suck my insides out. Never once have the dreams ended with me holding her hands to stop her.

"No," I force myself to speak as softly and gently as possible so as not to hurt her feelings. "If your mouth comes anywhere near my erection, I'll explode right away." And it'll be the literal case of blowing into her face.

She looks at me, lines forming on her forehead and her lips pursed tightly together. I can see in her expression the prudent calculations going on in her mind, and I fear she'll conclude I'm not as much fun to play with as she originally thought. She's so fucking sexy, I doubt things would be much different if I'd jerked off a number of times before meeting with her.

She gets to her feet with one move and her eyes lock onto something behind me. What the hell have I done? She'll back out—it's written all over her face—and I'll have to finish myself off with my bare hands, rather than her exquisite mouth.

My heart sinks as I watch her turn her back to me and step away. I deserve to be excommunicated from manhood for declining a blow-job offer from such a seductive woman.

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About the Author

Liv Bennett lives in California with her husband, daughter, and two loud budgies. Reading and writing erotic romance are her favorite forms of relaxation, in addition to long walks and yoga. She's a social drinker of coffee, but a serious tea addict.

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The Pursuit Series by Liv Bennett

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An Illicit Pursuit (Pat & Zachary)

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The Pursuit of Passion (Taylor & Adam, 1)

Delayed Delivery (Taylor & Adam, 1.5)

An Everlasting Pursuit (Taylor & Adam, 2)

Relentless Pursuer (Taylor & Adam, 2.5)

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Pleasure Extraordinaire 1 (Lindsay)

Pleasure Extraordinaire 2 (Lindsay)

Pleasure Extraordinaire 3 (Lindsay)

Pleasure Extraordinaire 4 (Lindsay)

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Blinding Love

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Frat House
