Two Is Better Than One (Steamy Menage MFM Romance Collection)

by Terry Towers

  Glancing up from the e-reader, I looked over to see him smiling at me, two soft dimples emerging at his cheeks. He really had a sweet, sexy look to him. I could only imagine the amount of women that fell over themselves to be with him. He encompassed all the physical features I write my heroes to have: tall, sexy smile, interesting eyes that drew you in, and just muscular enough to make you yearn to run your fingers along the lines of muscle that no doubt were under the tight grey t-shirt he was wearing. Yes, this man sitting beside me was everything women dream of having in their men—physically, anyhow. The jury was still out on his personality.

  “What are you reading?” he glanced over at my e-reader and I quickly shut it off. The last thing I wanted was this stranger knowing I liked reading BDSM smut. The book I was currently reading was titled, “Chained Up, Bad Girl.”

  “Nothing. Just…” I tucked the reader in the back pocket of the seat in front of me. “Nothing important.”

  His grin widened as he settled into the seat, lacing his fingers in front of him. “Can I take a guess?”

  “No. I preferred you didn’t.” I looked out the window pretending to be interested in what was going on outside.

  “See, that just tells me I’m right.”

  I groaned out load, turned my head to face him as I rolled my eyes and then returned to pretending to look out as the plane left the gate and began taxiing down the runway.

  “Was it Fifty Shades?”

  Apparently, he wasn’t interested in being ignored. I turned my head and looked at him again, and his smile hadn’t faded. I was coming to realize that he intended for me to be his onboard entertainment for the flight. “Excuse me?” I allowed my eyes to do another scan of him. I supposed I could do much worse than this man beside me for entertainment.

  “The book. Was it Fifty Shades?” he prompted.

  I couldn’t help it, I laughed. “No, as a matter of fact, it wasn’t.”

  He huffed.

  “What was that about?”

  He cocked a brow up at me, his smile returning. “What about?”

  “You, like, huffed at me. Like you didn’t believe me.”

  He didn’t have a chance to answer, as the flight attendant’s voice sounded over the speakers informing us of the emergency procedures. In fact, it wasn’t until four hours later when we were being served some very questionable mashed potatoes and mystery meat that we were told was roast beef (but I had my doubts) that he spoke again.

  “I’m Mitchell, by the way.”

  He’d been so quiet since the takeoff I actually yelped at hearing him speak to me now. I hadn’t pulled the e-reader out again, opting to watch the in-flight movie instead. “Monica.”

  “And what do you do, Monica?”

  “I do?” I knew what he meant, but wanted a second to decide if I really wanted to tell him I write erotica for a living or not.

  “Your job. What do you do for money?” He shovelled a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth and waited.

  Screw it. It’s not like I was ever going to see this guy again. And it certainly wasn’t like I was shy about telling people. Lots of authors prefer to keep the fact they write erotica to themselves, I’m not one of those people. If people judged me over my occupation then that’s their problem, not mine, and I really didn’t need to be associating with that type of negativity anyhow.

  “I write erotic romance novels.”

  He swallowed and leaned back into his seat, his interest in the food gone and his grey eyes drinking me in with much more interest than he’d displayed up until that point. “You don’t say. So you not only read the kinky stuff, but you write it, too.” A woman across the aisle from us turned her head and stared a moment before going back to her paperback novel.

  “Shhh. Could you keep it down a little?”

  “Embarrassed?”

  “No. I just…” I raked my fingers through my chestnut-brown hair and sighed, leaning into him and lowering my voice. “Some people don’t understand and tend to judge me based on my work. That’s all.”

  “And why do you care? You enjoy what you do?”

  “Yes, of course I do. And I don’t care. Normally. Normally, I don’t.” I shrugged.

  “You don’t like that people judge you when they don’t even know you.”

  “Pretty much.” Done with my dinner, I sank back into the seat. “People are so quick to make a decision about you without taking the time to really find out whether or not it’s true.”

  “Believe it or not, I know exactly how you feel.”

  I gave him a hard stare. I doubted it.

  ~*~ TT ~*~

  Mitchell Cook. Walking into the front lobby of the hotel, dragging my two suitcases behind me, I couldn’t get my mind off of him. A part of me had hoped that he’d want to see me again, but he hadn’t so much as hinted at it. It was disheartening, to say the least. Surely someone like him was in a relationship. Of course he was, a man as sexy and charismatic as him, there’s no way he wasn’t involved. The only way he wouldn’t be involved would be if he was some sort of player and wasn’t interested in being involved. Either way, he was a no-go. Not that it mattered anymore, anyhow. My chances of ever seeing Mitchell Cook were slim to none.

  I was so caught up in my own thoughts that I didn’t notice the four steps quickly approaching. I mean, seriously, who puts steps in the middle of a lobby anyhow? The toe of my shoe banged the marble step, and I went tumbling forwards with a yelp, the suitcase going with me.

  “Oh heavens! Are you hurt?” A male voice with a slight French accent asked, the person I assumed to belong to the shiny black dress shoes that were in my line of sight.

  “Only my pride.” I mumbled, accepting his outstretched hand.

  Once I was to my feet, he released my hand and motioned towards my suitcase. “Let me assist you with your luggage, Miss.” Not waiting for a response and to my relief, the bellhop relieved me of my luggage. “Welcome to The Royal Paramount. Registration is to the left.”

  “Thank you.” I headed to the registration desk, pulling my passport and wallet from my handbag.

  Within ten minutes, I was checked in and entering my room to be extremely disappointed. The lobby gave off the aura of classy, high-end hotel. “$350.00 a night, for this?” Crinkling my nose, I scanned the tiny room that reminded me of a Motel 8 room. There was barely enough room for the dresser holding the small television, the double-sized bed and a night side table, and it was in severe need of a renovation.

  And what’s that smell? Walking into the bathroom, I attempted to find the source of the odor. I couldn’t find it. This is what I get for prepaying, I guess. Knowing I was forced to stay and there not being a whole hell of a lot I could do about it, I wandered back into the room and went to the window. The view is why I paid so much, that much was clear as I looked out onto the street to see the beauty of the canal below. Night was just beginning to take over, and the canal was beginning to illuminate the light shimmering off the water like little diamonds. My gaze shifted to the direction of the red light district, which was my goal, if I could get myself to be brazen enough to wander that way.

  First thing was first: finding out if I could get what I wanted. All of the internet sites I’d come across seemed rather vague over what was offered along the lines of male escorts to women. Apparently, it wasn’t a big market. That much made sense—it wasn’t that hard for a woman to go to a bar and get laid. But getting laid wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, even though I hadn’t had sex in five months. Yup, you heard right; I’d been in a relationship, but no sex for five months. It had gotten to the point that the thought of sex with him repelled me. I think I’d made up every excuse I could think of, and I’d even googled some when I ran out. Yes, that relationship had long run its course, and maybe I was a bit of an asshole for letting it continue, but it was all in the past.

  But I regress. continuing my search, I found I was as lucky now as I was when I checked a couple of months ago. I saw mo
re than my fair share of boobies and brothels dedicated to men seeking men, but nothing for women searching men. Guess I would have to resort to plan B.

  After taking an hour to shower, ensuring every part that needed shaving was done to perfection, I carefully applied my make-up and picked out the perfect outfit for the night. Once ready, I peered at myself in the mirror behind the bathroom door. The dress was simple and unassuming. Considering what I was about to do, did it really matter that I looked good? Wasn’t the whole point of coming here to indulge in things I’d always been curious about but never brave enough to ask for? So did it really matter whether I looked my best? The man would get paid either way.

  God, this was a crazy, and perhaps the stupidest idea I’d ever had. But I was going to do it anyhow.

  Satisfied I looked as good as I was going to, I grabbed my handbag and left my room. First thing was first, pulling the concierge aside and finding out where I could get what I wanted. I suspected that would be the most embarrassing part of the whole thing. Of course, I doubted I was the only one to request this type of information, and I probably wouldn’t be the last.

  Entering the reception area, I released a sigh of relief to see that not only was the reception empty aside from the front desk clerk and the concierge, but as luck would have it, the concierge was at the opposite end of the room. Unfortunately, the concierge was male. I would have felt better had they been a female.

  The concierge lifted his head from the book he’d been reading as he heard the soft click-clack of my heels as I walked across the black marble floor. Why did the main part of the hotel and the outside look impeccable while my room looked like shit? False advertising, if you asked me. It made me angry all over again.

  I gave him a hesitant smile as I approached.

  “What can I help you with, Miss? And may I say, you look fantastic.”

  Smiling at the compliment, I didn’t answer until I was within whispering distance of him. “Thank you. I need to know where I can go to get something.”

  “Oh course, Miss. What are you looking for?”

  Chewing at my lower lip, I attempted to figure a delicate way of phrasing it. I’d been mulling it over on the elevator ride down and come to the conclusion that there was no polite way. “I’m looking for…” Oh damn, this was hard.

  “For…” He prompted. And shit, why did the man before me have to be young and attractive? Not that an old, ugly guy would have made me feel any less embarrassed.

  “Some. Mmmm. Male companionship.”

  The man’s lips twitched as he forced himself not to smile. But I could see the amusement in his dark eyes. “I get off in two hours…” he trailed off.

  Was he serious? I truly wasn’t sure. But this was getting even more awkward than originally anticipated. “I, ummm. Thank you? I...I appreciate the offer, but… as far as ‘establishments’ would go, I meant.”

  Seemingly not put off by my rejection, the concierge allowed himself to smile. “In that case, then you’ll want to head to the Pulse in the red light district. It’s—”

  “That’s okay.” I held my hand up to him wanting to get out as quickly as possible. “I’ll find it. Thanks.”

  “Alright, then. But if you change your mind, you’ll know where to find me. We aim to please, here.”

  Indeed. Still wasn’t sure whether he was joking. I nodded and gave him a smile before scurrying away from him as quickly as my heels could take me, making a mental note to avoid him for the rest of my stay. As I exited the hotel, the warmth of the night air greeted me. Such a beautiful night! I took a moment to stand outside the front entrance of the hotel and survey the scenery before me. The canal was lit up, illuminating the darkened sky. Across the canal was the train station. While busy during the day, it seemed now relatively quiet now.

  As I turned right, I was assaulted by the smell of pot. God, I hated that smell. Well, I’d better get used to it, I supposed. As I walked towards the red light district, the GPS on my smartphone leading me towards the club called the Pulse, I couldn’t help but admire the beauty of Amsterdam. Everything appeared so clean and quaint. Instead of the sheets of concrete I was used to back in New York, the sidewalks here were made of cobblestone. That said, they were much harder to walk on than New York’s sidewalks, and I had to take care not to trip each time my spiked heel slipped between a crack.

  As I crossed the street, my eyes landed on a red cylinder light coming up from the middle of the road, signalling the entrance to the red light district. Call me naive, but I hadn’t expected to see it actually marked off with red lights. I paused before crossing the red light, as if crossing that line would mean no turning back. It was a silly way to think, but I couldn’t help thinking it.

  I walked past the red light marker and slowly made my way further into the district, noticing the abundance of police officers in the district. Sex shops lined each side of the red glowing street, and I took in everything. It was such a laid-back area, just being here actually mellowed me out. People were lounging around on the streets, chatting and drinking as if they didn’t have a care in the world. I guess a part of me expected to be shocked by the outrageousness of naked women, soliciting customers and perhaps other forms of debauchery going on, but that wasn’t the case at all. Sure, there were some women in display windows, but hardly anything distasteful. Though some would say I had a slightly skewed view on what counted as tasteful.

  Turning left, it wasn’t long before the Pulse came into view. No one was in the window or soliciting outside. The two front windows on either side of the steel door were mirrored with The Pulse, written on each. I paused a second time as I grasped the door handle. Was I seriously going through with this? When the idea to experience the things I wrote about firsthand came to mind, it had excited me, but now, I was as nervous as hell. ‘Terrified’ would be a better word, to be honest.

  This is why I came here in the first place, I coached myself, pulling open the door and stepping into the club.

  Again, I was surprised. The interior reminded me of an upscale night club. Techno music played in the background, but it was hardly intrusive. Just loud enough to set a sort of mood. Not sure what to do or where to go, I made my way to the bar and asked the bartender for a cocktail.

  Now what? I asked myself as I leaned over the bar and swirled my stir stick in my drink. Too bad there wasn’t a Wiki-How page on how to get yourself a male prostitute.

  “Well, well, well… Erotica author, Monica Evans. What brings you here?” a male voice said from behind me.

  My entire body froze, I mean fucking froze as still as a statue. I knew that voice. What would be the chances that someone I knew was actually here? Of course, it would just be my luck.

  “It was Monica, right?”

  Taking a deep breath in, I slowly released it and turned, attempting to come up with an excuse, any explanation that might sound feasible.

  Chapter 2

  The remainder of my breath came out as a loud huff as my eyes took sight of Mitchell, bare-chested and sporting a pair of jeans, leaning an elbow on the bar, a bottle of beer in his free hand. His grin was as infectious here as it was on the plane, and I found my lips turning upwards at the sight of him.

  “You’re right, I am. Mitchell?”

  He nodded. “So may I ask a second time, what brings you in here? Get lost on the way to the book store?”

  “No.”

  “Oh,” he cocked his head to the side and eyed me with more scrutiny. “Research, then? Curious to see what the inside of an Amsterdam brothel looks like?”

  I could feel the heat colouring my cheeks and I lowered my gaze to my drink again. “Something like that.”

  “Or were you looking for something a little more hands-on?” I could hear the teasing in his tone. So he could be in here for some pussy, shamelessly, but I couldn’t? What a hypocrite! I wondered what he was into. Maybe he was into some crazy shit that he couldn’t get anywhere but from some brothel chick.

 
Forcing myself to keep calm, I lifted my gaze to meet his and smiled. “I could ask you the same thing. What are you doing here, and shirtless at that? Should I assume you’ve already sampled the menu here?”

  “Nope.” He took a swig of his beer and smiled. “I work here.”

  “You mean as a bartender.”

  He shook his head. “Nope.”

  “A manager?”

  “Nope again.”

  My eyes widened as I stared at him. “You’re an escort?”

  He tapped me on the tip of my nose and laughed, “You look so shocked, not sure if I should be flattered or offended.”

  Okay, I had no idea how to respond. None. Of course, he was certainly attractive and charismatic enough, and the moment I’d set my eyes on him I wanted him. But this new information, it was blowing my mind.

  “You know, for someone who works with words for a living, I’d have thought you’d have more to say.”

  “I’m a writer, that’s different.”

  “I see.” His smile faded, but the amused twinkle remained in his intoxicating grey eyes. “So to get back to the original question, what are you doing here, if not research?”

  I looked down at my drink again. So, so, so embarrassing. “Well. Sort-of research.”

  Cocking a brow up at me, his grin returned. “Sort-of research? Continue. What sort of research?” Seeing my hesitation he leaned into me, his lips so close to my ear that the warmth of his breath sent a shiver of need through me. “There’s no judgement here Monica. This place. This city. We don’t judge. We indulge. Isn’t that the point of life?”

  “In the books I write, maybe, but this is real life.”

  He shrugged, pushing himself off of the bar. “Alright. In that case, I’ll let you get back to your,” he paused, “research?”

  He took a step from me and without even thinking about it, my hand shot out, and I grabbed his upper arm, stopping him and tugging on him to face me again. “Hold on.”