Pleasure

by CM Deveraux

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

  First edition: February 2014

  Copyright © 2014 by CM Deveraux

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any print or electronic form without the written consent of the author.

  SCHOOL OF SEX SERIES BY CM DEVERAUX:

  Passion—Jess’s Story (School of Sex, Book 1)

  Pleasure—Sasha’s Story (School of Sex, Book 2)

  COMING IN 2014:

  Pain—Callie’s Story (School of Sex, Book 3)

  Play—Kenna’s Story (School of Sex, Book 4)

  Perfection—The Finale (School of Sex, Book 5)

  CHAPTER 1

  My name is Sasha. No nickname, in between last names. And this is my story.

  My quest for pleasure began four months ago in the worst way possible—standing in line at the county clerk’s office holding a pile of self-printed divorce documents in my trembling, not-so-hot little hands. My options, the statutory grounds for divorce in Las Vegas, were threefold:

  Option One: Incompatibility.

  Option Two: Insanity, for two years prior to the action.

  Option Three: Spouses living separate and apart for more than one year.

  Option Four, the one I wanted, the one I deserved to tick with a big, fat, juicy checkmark, didn’t exist. If it had, it would have said:

  OPTION FOUR: LYING, CHEATING SCUMBAG

  And bingo, we would have had ourselves a winner.

  Given my present predicament, my initial thought had been to choose “insanity,” because in my mind, Damon (my soon-to-be ex) was certifiable, having spent a generous portion of our marriage in every other marital bed but mine.

  Too bad insanity didn’t work that way.

  I couldn’t select Option Three because, at the time, we’d only been apart for several months. That left one choice—incompatibility, defined as:

  Unable to exist together in harmony.

  Contrary or opposed in character.

  And the granddaddy of them all: Unable to belong to the object simultaneously.

  Since Damon had the extraordinary talent of belonging to several objects simultaneously, this one didn’t seem to apply either. I had to choose something though, so I selected “incompatibility” and baby-stepped my way up to the counter, silently affirming to myself that this was necessary—I could do this.

  I forced a smile at the fifty-something, gray-haired woman on the other side of the counter. She didn’t smile back. She didn’t even look back. Instead, she focused on the dusty, metal clock on the wall while pressing her thumb to the tips of her fingers like she was counting down how much time remained before she could take her long-awaited lunch break. I guess I couldn’t blame her—it seemed like a shitty job as far as jobs go.

  “I umm...want to file these,” I croaked.

  My throat was scratchy, making it near impossible to get the words out.

  “Separation or divorce?” she grumbled.

  “Divorce.”

  She snatched the paperwork from my hands, riffled through the pages. “Has your husband agreed to the divorce?”

  “I wasn’t aware he needed to agree to it before I—”

  She did a blatant eye roll, making sure I physically witnessed just how short-tempered she was with me.

  “You filled out the wrong paperwork.” Her tone indicated it was something she repeated multiple times each day. It also indicated the paralyzing need she had to point out my stupidity.

  “This is a Joint Petition. You need to fill out a Complaint for Divorce. If he’s going to fight you—on anything—honey, take my advice, get a lawyer.”

  “Can I fill out the right forms myself with a—”

  She tossed the papers back to me and peered over my shoulder, indicating the free advice portion of her day was over, and shouted. “Next!”

  And just like that, we were done, and I was screwed, just not in the way I deserved to be.

  Damon was a lawyer. He worked for one of the best firms in town. He had connections, and those connections meant if he wanted custody of our two girls, he’d find a way to get it. Not that he wanted custody. Even when we were together, he was never home. But he’d ask for it anyway, just to show me he could.

  At first, I believed our divorce could be an amicable one. I pictured the two of us sitting down together like a couple of mature adults, or one mature adult and one adult version of a child. He’d sign, I’d sign. It would be over and I could pretend my marriage to world-class womanizer Damon Chase never happened. Well, all except for our two kids, the family dog, and the lifetime of photos we’d taken together on the days he elected for family life instead of a night out on the town with one of his whores.

  Ten years.

  Ten long years of the lines becoming so blurred, I couldn’t differentiate a lie from the truth anymore.

  Damon was nothing if not skilled in the art of deception. I never actually caught him engaged in sexual activity with one of the hordes of other women he pimped himself out to on a nightly basis. He was smart. He was sneaky. He had two cell phones. One I knew about, and the other to accommodate his I’m-staying-late-at-the-office-honey-but-I’m-really-not bootie calls.

  Every electronic device Damon owned was password protected. His phone, his laptop, his tablet, all of it. His reasoning? It was imperative in order to protect the privacy of his clients, in case, perchance, something of his was ever stolen. And this little naïve housewife had believed it—every spoon-fed, sugar-coated fib.

  Until one day.

  Because ladies, no matter how hard a person tries to conceal a secret life, it’s impossible not to slip up from time to time. Secrets have a way of seeping out when you least expect them to. Karma wouldn’t be karma if they didn’t.

  CHAPTER 2

  It’s been six months since I left my husband, and I still don’t have a lawyer. What I did have was several of late-night liaisons. I’d been licked, flicked, and whipped—well, almost whipped, on one occasion. Most single women would probably relish the lifestyle, but I didn’t. Men didn’t make love to me, they fucked me. When it was over, we both went our separate ways, in a “twain not ever meeting again” type of scenario.

  At present I found myself beneath the sheets of a king-size bed, in a fancy hotel room on the Vegas Strip. Asleep next to me was a male who looked a little like a man and a lot more like a college frat boy. His name? Ryan or Rowdy. Or was it Randy? I didn’t quite remember.

  The man who, for now, I’ll call “R,” was pretty and toned, with blond, Owen Wilson hair, and pale blue eyes. He was minus the endearing, crooked nose though. His snout was narrow with a pointy tip that curved just the slightest bit upward. Although he had a baby face, I imagined his age was somewhere around twenty-five, making me four years his senior. Anyone younger wasn’t suitable or acceptable, at least not in my mind. I was no cradle-robber, and I considered myself too young to be inducted into the MILF category.

  I eyed R, resisting the urge to lean over and tuck one of his stray, wispy locks behind his ear. He wasn’t mine. And he wouldn’t ever be mine. He was a loaner, a temp, staying with me just long enough to get what he needed until he moved on to the next girl.

  While he slept in a deafening, snoring slumber that sounded like the noise a ship makes when leaving port, I sat, knees curled in front of my chest, arms draped around me.

  Was what I doing?

  And why?

  This wasn’t me.

  And I couldn’t pretend it was even if I wanted to.r />
  Not anymore.

  I thought if I did what Damon did by romping it up with anyone with a pulse, somehow I’d feel better. I’d be able to process the pain of playing second fiddle over and over again. I convinced myself my own one-night stands would fill a void a decade in the making. As hard as the truth was to accept, sitting here, processing my feeling for once, I realized I actually felt worse. I felt alone. And I knew it was time. Time for it all to stop.

  I cleared my throat. R didn’t wake. Probably because it was near impossible for any other noise to penetrate his sound barrier. I nudged him, kicking him in the shin. Not hard enough to leave a bruise, but enough to get his attention.

  One of his eyelids slid open. He smiled. “Hey there, Tasha.”

  “Sasha,” I corrected.

  He cocked a finger at me in the shape of a loaded gun. “Sasha...right.” He glanced around, squeezing his eyes closed again like they’d been snuffed out by the light beaming through the window. “What are you doing up already? It’s not even light out.”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” I said. “I’m going to go, okay? Thanks for the...well...thanks.”

  I suppose I could have slipped out without bidding him an awkward adieu, but sneaking out like nothing had ever happened wasn’t my style. I preferred the high road to the walk of shame.

  I stood.

  “Don’t go.” He reached over, wrenching me backward until my top half was draped over his bare, sporadically hairy chest. He cupped the tips of his fingers over my breasts and squeezed, as if the feeling of being pinched with a clothespin got my rocks off. “Stay. Let’s go for round three.”

  “Round two.”

  “What?”

  His brow furrowed. Confused.

  “We only did it once last night,” I said.

  He whipped his head to the side, his bangs temporarily brushing across one ear before sliding back over his eyes again. “Nah...you sure?”

  “Very. You climaxed one minute and fell asleep the next.”

  I couldn’t think of a nicer way to phrase it. And odds were I’d never see him again after today, so why try?

  The mortified expression on his face was the exact one I’d hoped to avoid. You know the one. It’s the one all men get when they realize they have something to prove. R wasn’t about to let me leave without one hell of a wild ride.

  “We could...umm...pleasure each other at the same time if you’re in a hurry,” R said. “You know, sixty-nine.”

  Sixty-nine? What decade is this—the eighties?

  I broke from his embrace. Stood. Again.

  He whipped the covers off his body, exposing the throbbing flesh between his legs. He gyrated his hips forward in a rhythmic motion, said something about drilling me hard, filling me with pleasure. I considered. Then I reconsidered. The drilling part was appealing, but the filling required feelings, emotions, trust. And I had none to give.

  “Look,” I said. “Before you offer to make up for last night by revving my engine with your cordless drill, let me say this—I’ve been there, I’ve done that. Thanks for the offer. Last night was ahh...quick. Nice to have met you.”

  Hey, I could have said mediocre. At least I didn’t go for the jugular.

  CHAPTER 3

  When I kicked Damon out all those months ago, I did something I never thought I’d do—I dyed my hair. Black. I was a natural redhead, so at first, seeing such a bold color framing my freckled face was alarming. I thought I’d made a mistake. But the black did something the red never had—it allowed me to start over, start fresh. Standing in front of the oval-shaped mirror in my dressing room, staring at my straight, bob-shaped hairdo in the mirror, I was still pleased with my choice.

  My doorbell rang, and considering Damon wasn’t due to drop our girls off for another four hours, my suspicions rose as to whom it might be. Maybe he’d already had his fill. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  I released the deadbolt and watched the doorknob twist in a clockwise direction from the other side. In walked three of my closest friends: Jess, Kenna, and Callie. Their arms were on their hips, and they weren’t smiling, which meant I was in some sort of trouble.

  “What’s this about?” I asked.

  Jess, the outspoken leader of the trio, spoke first. “This is an intervention.”

  I waved my hands in front of me. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “’Fraid not,” Kenna added. “You can’t say you didn’t know it was coming.”

  Not wanting to be the only one without a voice, Callie pointed to a chair. “Yeah, sit.”

  She looked at the others like she expected a gold star for bravery.

  “When do you get the kids back?” Jess asked.

  “Tonight, why?”

  “And tomorrow they’re back in school, right?

  “Yeah, why?”

  Jess stuck her hand inside a lime-green Prada handbag slung over her shoulder, pulled out a stack of papers, and slapped them down on the coffee table in front of me. “It’s been six months, Sasha. Six!”

  “Yeah, I’m aware.”

  “It’s time to kick that man into the past where he belongs.”

  “I...still don’t feel ready yet.”

  “Of course you’re ready. You were ready the day you booted his ass out of this place. You’re scared. We get it. Damon seems big and powerful, and you don’t think you can take him down without him ripping everything from you.”

  Jess exchanged glances with Kenna like she’d just passed her an invisible torch.

  “All we want is for you to do what’s best for you,” Kenna said. “For your girls—for your future. And most of all—for yourself.”

  “Yeah,” Callie added. “What she said.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I responded.

  Jess sat, folded her arms in front of her. Not a good sign. Ever since she “found herself” the year before, she was determined to get what she wanted when she wanted it. “This isn’t a discussion. We’re not here to weigh the pros and cons, and we’re certainly not here to give you a choice.”

  “Then what?”

  She pointed at the paper. “We’re here to make sure you fill out the divorce paperwork.”

  “You can’t just—”

  Kenna clicked the end of a pen, handed it to me. “We’re not leaving here until you do.”

  “You wouldn’t force me to—”

  “We can and we will,” Kenna said. “It’s either this, or we fill it out for you.”

  I waited for Callie to add another “yeah”—she didn’t. She just sat back and smiled, allowing the other two to do the dirty work.

  “I still haven’t hired a lawyer,” I said.

  “No need,” Jess said. “You already have one.”

  “How?”

  “I hired him on your behalf.”

  “When was this?”

  “Six months ago,” Jess said. “He’s on retainer, waiting for you to decide you’re ready. Today I told him you were.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

  “It wasn’t the right time.”

  “And now?”

  “Now it’s time to stop dragging your feet,” Jess said.

  “We’re doing this because—”

  “You love me. I know.”

  “We do,” Callie said.

  Jess grabbed a binder off the kitchen counter, stacked the paperwork on top, and slid it in my direction. “You ready to take your life back?”

  Was I ready to take my life back? Good question. The answer was yes and had been for some time. Cutting the cord just proved harder than I initially thought it would be. I sat back, looked at the first page, and nodded.

  They were right. It was time.

  CHAPTER 4

  Two hours and one energy drink later, I read the last line, penned the final signature, this time on the correct paperwork. Confident Jess would get what she came for, Kenna and Callie had forsaken the cause, leaving when I was three quarters of the wa
y through. They promised to follow up with me the next day to ensure the deed had been done. When they left, they whispered something I couldn’t hear to Jess. There was something else they weren’t telling me. I could feel it.

  “You said you would help me,” I said.

  “I am helping you,” Jess responded.

  “Not now—then. When I first left Damon, you said you knew how to change my life. Six months and nothing’s changed.”

  “I’d say a lot’s changed.”

  “Are you trying to be funny?” I asked.

  “Six months ago, the only man you’d slept with in the last ten years was Damon. Can’t say that now though, can ya?”

  She winked.

  I frowned.

  “Do you have it out of your system?” she asked.

  “What—sex?”

  Is that even possible?

  “Not sex. Everything you’ve bottled up inside.”

  “I’m done spending the night with random men if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Glad to hear it, but that’s not what I’m asking. If I’m going to help you, you need to stop playing the role of the woman scorned and trust me.”

  “I’ve been through a lot, Jess. It’s not like I can just switch off what happened—what he did.”

  She rubbed three fingers beneath her ear, playing the smallest violin. “You know what I hear? Two things. You’re scared and you’re not ready. But you’re wrong. You are.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “You can’t step into your future until you step out of your past.”

  “How do I—”

  “For starters, stop suppressing everything. Let it out. Have a good cry. Hit something. Anything.” She pushed her face in front of mine, tapped a finger on her chin. “Hit me if you need to. Come on. Do it!”

  I leaned back. “You’ve gone mad.”

  “You’ve got to get the rage out. The real Sasha’s in there somewhere. I need you to resurrect her and remember how good it feels to be yourself again, the person you want to be, not the one he turned you into.”