by Helen Hoang
That actually sounded nice, and a rush of excitement burned over him. He hadn’t been out without a client in forever.
The reminder of clients had him exhaling a heavy breath. “Can’t. I have something.”
“What?” Quan’s eyes turned assessing. “Or do you mean who? You’re always busy Fridays. Do you have a secret girlfriend you’re scared of introducing to everyone?”
He snorted inwardly at the idea of taking a client to meet his family. Never going to happen. “Nah, no girlfriend. You?”
Quan laughed. “You know my mom. Do you think I’d subject a girl to that?”
Grinning, Michael picked up his bag and headed for the studio’s front door, passing Khai, who hadn’t stopped with his practice or slowed down this entire time. “Look on the bright side. If a girl meets your mom and doesn’t run, you’ll know you found a keeper.”
As Quan followed him, he said, “No, then I’ll have two scary-ass women in my life instead of one.”
They both waved at Khai from the doorway, but, as usual, he was too focused to wave back.
Out in the parking lot, Quan climbed onto his black Ducati, shrugged into his motorcycle jacket, and propped his helmet on his knee before giving Michael a direct look. “You know I don’t give a shit if you’re into guys, right? Like, I’d be okay with that. Just so you know. You don’t have to hide stuff like that from me.”
Michael coughed and adjusted the position of his duffel bag’s strap on his shoulder as an uncomfortable wave of heat boiled up his neck and singed his ears. “Thanks.”
This was what happened when you kept secrets. People drew their own conclusions. He wondered briefly if he should just roll with it. There was no doubt in his mind his family would take that better than the truth. They didn’t know about his escorting or the bills that necessitated the escorting. He planned to keep it that way.
He took a breath of air that smelled like exhaust fumes and blacktop, feeling touched by Quan’s acceptance but also old and tired in his bones. “It means a lot to hear you say that, but I’m not, okay? I’ve just been . . . seeing . . . lots of people. No one I’d bring home, though.” God no. “No one special.”
As soon as that last comment came out, however, he wanted to retract it. He didn’t know why, but it didn’t feel right to lump his latest client in that category.
“Do me a favor and tell your mom and sisters, then. They’ve been gossiping about it with my mom and sister, and they keep asking me for the inside scoop. I’m going to be honest and say it was a little embarrassing telling them I have no idea what you do when you disappear.” Quan kicked at a pebble on the ground, his face pensive, and Michael knew he was thinking back to times when they’d known everything about each other. Well, as much as guys ever told one another. Their moms were close sisters who had purchased homes two blocks apart and given birth to boys in the same year. As a result, Michael and Quan were closer than brothers. They used to be, anyway.
Michael rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been a crappy friend. I’m sorry.”
“You went through all that shit.” Quan gave him an understanding smile. “First with your asshole dad and the lawsuits and then with your mom’s health. I get it. But things are better now, right? We should do stuff. Friday nights are best for me because I don’t have work or class Saturday mornings. Your ‘no one special’ can hang with mine. Let me know.” With that, Quan started his bike and pulled his helmet over his head.
After his cousin disappeared around the corner, Michael opened his car door and tossed his bag into the passenger seat. Things were a lot better now, but he wouldn’t be double-dating with Quan anytime soon, not when he was fucking a different woman every Friday night. Well, not the next three Friday nights. Those were for Stella and sex lessons. He’d never expected to have the opposite role in his Hot for Teacher fantasy, but he admitted it excited him more than he would have thought.
He knew it was messed up, but Friday night couldn’t come fast enough.
{ CHAP+ER }
7
By the time Friday night rolled around, Stella was a jittery mess. She couldn’t stop her fingers from drumming on the restaurant table as she waited for Michael to arrive. She’d arranged the appointment through the agency’s mobile app—with the state-of-the-art setup, it was as easy as booking airline tickets, but without the frequent-flier miles. They’d sent a confirmation email, but that was the only indication she’d gotten that the date was still on. She couldn’t help worrying that Michael had changed his mind.
She wished she had his cell phone number, but she figured he never gave that to his clients. It was too personal. Especially if his clients had the tendency to get obsessed.
Which was actually one of her main weaknesses, and a defining characteristic of her disorder. She didn’t know how to be semi-interested in something. She was either indifferent . . . or obsessed. And her obsessions weren’t passing things. They consumed her and became a part of her. She kept them close, wove them into her very life. Just like her work.
Going forward with Michael, she had to tread carefully. Everything about him pleased her. Not just his looks, but his patience and his kindness. He was good.
He was an obsession waiting to happen.
Hopefully, she could keep a cool head during the coming weeks. Perhaps it was for the best there were only three sessions. Once they were finished, she’d focus on someone she could actually have. Like maybe Philip James.
When Michael entered the hotel restaurant, she noticed right away. Tonight, he wore a perfectly fitted black suit over a white oxford shirt. No tie. His collar hung open, drawing attention to his Adam’s apple and the sexy base of his throat. His gaze swept over the room and landed on her.
She looked down at the menu without seeing it, horribly aware of his slow advance toward her. Keep a cool head.
“Hello, Stella.” He sat down across from her and folded his hands on the tabletop.
Her lungs drew in a slow breath, and she caught his light scent. Everything inside her turned over and sighed. With a sense of defeat, she lifted her eyes to his, counted to three, and looked away.
“Hello, Michael.”
“Are you nervous already?”
She laughed slightly. “I’ve been nervous since Saturday.”
“About that . . . Who was that on the phone when I left?”
Her lips tightened as she tried to suppress a smile. “It was my mom. Her name is Ann. She thinks you’re my boyfriend now, by the way.”
He pressed a knuckle to his grinning lips. “I see. Will that be a problem?”
“Actually, I think it’s a good thing. Now that she thinks I have a boyfriend, she should stop trying to arrange blind dates for me.”
“Ah, the mother-arranged blind date. I’m very familiar with those.”
“Does that mean you don’t have a girlfriend?” As soon as the question left her mouth, she winced. “I’m sorry. Forget I asked that.”
She had no right to inquire about his personal life, but the intense curiosity burned inside her. She wanted to know everything about him. And if he did have a girlfriend, whoever that lucky girl was, Stella hated her guts.
“No, I don’t have a girlfriend.” He said it like it should have been obvious.
Thank God.
“What kind of girls does your mother try to hook you up with?”
He rolled his eyes. “Doctors, who else? And nurses. By now, I think my mom’s tried to hook me up with the entire second-floor staff at the Palo Alto Medical Foundation.”
Stella couldn’t help being impressed. “That’s really determined.”
“That’s nothing. You don’t know my mom.”
She forced a smile and focused on the menu. What did it say about her that she wanted to know his mom? No, wait, she knew the answer to that. It said she was nuts. Mothers were scary she-
bears when it came to their sons, especially sons like Michael.
And Stella wasn’t a doctor.
Enough of this. She wasn’t dating Michael. It didn’t matter what his mother thought of her. Stella was never going to meet the woman. She needed to get back to the matter at hand.
“Let’s discuss my lessons,” she said briskly.
“That’s a good idea.” Michael leaned back in his chair, looking at ease.
Stella tried to copy his relaxed air as she retrieved three folded sheets of paper from her purse. “Because we’re pressed for time, I took the liberty of drawing up lesson plans. They’re not set in stone. In fact, please suggest changes where you see fit. I have no idea if what I’ve written is feasible, but it helps me to keep things structured. I don’t deal well with surprises.”
Michael’s expression went unreadable. “Lesson plans.”
“Exactly.” She pushed the salt and pepper shakers and candle aside. After placing her papers in the middle of the table, she smoothed the creases out with her fingertips and pointed at the first sheet, which was labeled Lesson One. “I put boxes next to each item so we can check things off as we go.”
Eyes on the paper, he opened his mouth to speak, caught his breath, and tapped a finger to his lips. “Give me a moment.”
LESSON ONE
☐ Hand Job Lecture and Demonstration
☐ Hand Job Practice
☐ Performance Review
☐ Missionary Intercourse Lecture and Demonstration
☐ Missionary Intercourse Practice
☐ Performance Review
Michael read and reread the clinical lesson plan, and surprise melted into amusement, which then dissipated as frustration crept over his back and up his neck. He curled his fingers and restrained the sudden urge to crumple Stella’s papers into ugly balls. Irritated. He was irritated. Fuck if he knew why.
With words like lecture and demonstration involved, he should be getting off on this. It was exactly like having the teacher role in Hot for Teacher—except there was no “hot for” part.
“Who’s going to check the boxes? You or me?”
“I can if you don’t want to,” she offered with a helpful smile.
A picture of her pausing in the middle of sex to put her glasses on and scribble notes on a legal pad flashed in Michael’s head. Like he was a sexbot or a fucking science experiment.
“I notice there’s no kissing,” he said.
“I was under the impression we’d moved beyond that.”
His eyebrows twitched. “How’s that?”
“You said I’d picked it up, so it’s best not to waste time on it. Kissing you makes it hard for me to think, and I really want to get this right. Beyond that, it feels like something people do when they’re dating—which we’re not. I want things to stay clear and professional between us.” She took a prim sip of ice water and set the glass down, leaving a sheen of moisture on her pink lips—lips he wasn’t allowed to kiss.
Her kisses weren’t for him anymore. He was supposed to fuck her and let her jerk him off, but she was saving those soft lips for someone else. The thought made him almost violent, and he shoved his feelings down deep.
“You’ve watched Pretty Woman too many times. Kissing doesn’t mean anything, and it’s always best if you’re not thinking too much in bed. Trust me,” he said.
Her mouth thinned into a stubborn line. “This is too important for me not to think. I’d rather not kiss anymore if you don’t mind.”
Michael’s irritation redoubled, and he forced his hands to relax before he popped all his blood vessels. How the hell had he gotten himself into this? Ah yes, he’d been worried about his escort colleagues taking advantage of her. Stupid of him. His life was complicated enough without worrying about his clients. This was exactly why he had the one-session policy.
He would have backed out—it was tempting—but he’d promised. He always carried through on his promises. It was his way of balancing out the universe. His dad had broken enough promises for the both of them.
“All right,” he made himself say. “No kissing.”
“Do the other plans look okay?” she asked.
He forced himself to read them and found them pretty similar, only she’d moved from hand jobs to blowjobs and changed the sexual positions.
Amused despite himself, he said, “I’m surprised you used the terms doggy style and cowgirl.”
Her cheeks went bright red, and she adjusted her glasses. “I’m inexperienced, not clueless.”
“Your plans are missing something important.” He held his hand out, and she placed the pen in his palm with wary motions.
She tilted her head to the side as she watched him write FOREPLAY at the top of all the plans in capital letters. As an afterthought, he drew a box in front of each iteration with hard stabs of the pen.
“But why? I was under the impression men don’t need it.”
“You do,” he said flatly.
She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “You don’t have to bother with me.”
He narrowed his eyes. “It’s not a bother. Most men like foreplay. I do. Getting a woman hot is satisfying as hell.” Besides, he was not having sex with her if she wasn’t ready. No fucking way.
Swallowing, she stared down at the menu. “So you’re saying I don’t have a chance to improve.”
“What? No.” His mind scrambled to figure out why she might say that and came up with nothing.
“You saw how I reacted. It was one button.”
“And then you slept with me all night. You were basically naked, and you cling.”
“Are you two ready to order?” the waitress interjected. Judging by the amused glimmer in her eyes, she’d caught the last part of their conversation.
Stella perused the dinner options, her nails picking at the fabric edging of the menu.
“We’ll have the special,” Michael said.
“Wise choice. I’ll leave you to it.” The waitress winked, gathered the menus, and disappeared.
“What’s the special?” Stella asked.
“I have no idea. Let’s hope it’s not woolly.”
A troubled frown bracketed her mouth, and she leaned forward hesitantly, meeting his eyes for the briefest second. “What exactly do you mean by ‘cling’?”
Michael grinned. “It means you like to cuddle when you’re asleep.”
“Oh.”
She looked so horrified, Michael couldn’t help laughing. “I confess to liking it.” Which was the truth, and unlike him. Cuddling was an obligatory thing he did for his clients because he understood they needed it. He usually spent the time counting the seconds until he could leave and go home to shower. Holding Stella had been nothing like that. They hadn’t had sex, so there’d been nothing to wash away, and the trusting way she’d curled into him had made him feel things he didn’t want to think about. Especially when she found it so distasteful. His irritation increased even further.
“Where does this leave us with regard to the lessons? How do we proceed when my limitations are such big roadblocks? By focusing on you, I thought I’d found a way around my problems.”
“We’re not going to go around your problems. We’re going to go through them.”
She crossed her arms and tapped out an unusual rhythm with her fingertips on her elbow. “How?”
“We’re going to . . . unlock you.” That made him sound like an arrogant jackass, but he hadn’t gotten those five-star reviews by luck alone. When he’d lost his virginity at the ripe age of eighteen, he’d discovered he had a natural talent for fucking. Going pro had taken his skills to a whole new level.
“I don’t think that’s possible.” She slanted her lips like she was listening to a used-car salesman.
“Did you
think you’d like kissing?” And she had liked it—once she’d gotten over the pilot fish thing. There was hope for her. Girls didn’t do that weak-in-the-knees, fainting heroine stuff when they weren’t into sex. He just had to figure her out.
She tapped one of the foreplay boxes. “What happens if you try everything and I don’t like it? We’re under a pretty extreme time constraint.”
“I don’t think it’ll come to that.” But if it did, they’d deal with it then.
After a long stretch of silence, she said, “Let’s try it your way, then.”
{ CHAP+ER }
8
Once the hotel door shut behind them, Michael toed off his shoes and ambled to the windows. He opened the drapes and was presented with a fine view of the medical building next door, the Palo Alto Medical Foundation. It reminded him of his mom, bills, responsibilities, and escorting commissions. Not really what he wanted to think about right now.
He yanked the drapes shut and turned around, locating Stella standing at the foot of the bed. She looked away from him and fiddled with the folded sheets of paper in her hands. Her lesson plans.
He imagined himself shredding them into confetti. He couldn’t explain it, but he detested those lists. Instead of acting on the fantasy, he approached her, took the papers, and set them carefully on the nightstand. He found a narrow silver pen in the nightstand’s drawer and put it on top of Lesson One. If she was clearheaded enough to check boxes tonight, he needed to analyze his technique. He dimmed the bedside lights.
“How should I—what should I—maybe I—” She gripped the collar of her shirt. “Should I undress?”
“I don’t know. It’s not in the lesson plan.” Once the words were out, he wanted to take them back. Her lists annoyed the hell out of him, but he didn’t need to belittle her. “I’m sor—”