by M. S. Parker
Michelle crossed her legs, murmuring something under her breath, and I was acutely aware of the way one shoe dangled off the tip of her toes.
I had to get the hell out of here, or I wouldn't care enough to do it later.
Buck, my faithful bartender sidekick, glanced my way and I gestured toward her glass, already knowing how much the wine would cost – and calculating how much of a tip I should leave to cover his trouble.
He glanced at Michelle, but gave a single nod.
I had the money out before he even reached me and took the pen from the little leather folder as he laid it on the counter.
Scrawling her a note, I left the bills, making sure I took the business card she'd fished out of her purse earlier.
I hadn't seen the last of Miz Michelle.
But I wasn't seeing her here.
That was for certain.
Back at my apartment, simple, sparse and spartan, I looked up Miz Michelle Nestor.
I had more interest in her rather than finding out why she'd been at the restaurant rather than Gina, but I did take a few minutes to research the popular writer from the women's magazine.
Her accident had actually made a couple of the local news outlets, so it was pretty easy to understand why she had somebody else filling in for her.
Finding out information about Michelle wasn't quite so easy.
She had a Facebook page, but it was locked down tight.
She had a LinkedIn page, but it was locked down even tighter.
No Twitter that I could see.
The only online presence that held any really hint of her was a brief online website for freelancers, and all I could see from that without having an account was a headshot and a few reviews and references.
"You're not making this easy are you, sweetheart?"
I studied the headshot, taking in the smile that was both polite and warm, but distant somehow. I didn't like it.
It wasn't really her.
"I guess I'm not going to find out much about you online, am I, sugar?" I touched a finger to the curve of her cheek and leaned back, head cocked as I continued to ponder her face.
Plucking the card from the pocket of my jeans, I eyed her email, then opened the email app on my laptop.
"I wonder if I can make you blush from just a message."
An hour later, I locked the door behind me, leaving the warmth of the apartment behind yet again. I had an appointment in Manhattan at a boutique hotel where anonymity was just as much a selling point as the lush, 1920s art-deco style rooms.
My client was waiting for me, lying in bed naked, sipping from a glass of wine and checking her email.
"Can't you take a night off, darlin'?" I asked.
She glanced at me. "I am. That's why I'm here...darling." She gave me a slow smile and dropped the phone on the nightstand before taking a sip of her wine, smiling at me over the rim as she swallowed.
Alicia was one of my favorite clients. I'd almost even call her a friend, if I allowed myself to have friends.
But friends weren't exactly something I liked to put my trust in. I'd done that before, and it had fucked me over good and proper. I wouldn't let myself get in that position again.
Still, I liked Alicia.
She was easy to talk with, easy to please, she was a good bed partner, and she paid well.
What wasn't to like?
"Are you in the mood for anything specific?" I asked, moving to the foot of the bed.
"Just you." She gave another smile and crooked her finger at me.
I approached, and she offered me her glass of wine. I put it on the table for her instead of drinking and bent down low, kissing her soft lips. She tasted of the chardonnay she'd been drinking, and I had a brief moment to wonder...how would the zinfandel Michelle had been drinking taste on her lips?
Then I jerked my attention back to the job.
Alicia moaned as I covered her body with mine, deliberately dragging my chest against her breasts so that the cotton of my sweater rubbed over her nipples.
"I changed my mind," she said against my lips. "I do want something specific. Hard and fast."
"As you wish."
I flipped her over onto her belly and brought her up onto her knees. As she braced herself on her palms, I pulled a rubber from my pocket – it would be the first of three we'd use, although I carried a couple extra just in case.
By the time she had herself steadied on her hands and knees, I had my cock sheathed in latex, and I grabbed her hips again, hauling her back and half lifting her slim form. I had another flash – rounder hips, because Michelle was a powerhouse of curves and lines, her pale flesh glowing like a pearl against my darker, rougher skin.
Groaning, I thrust deep.
Alicia cried out my name, and I forced myself to think, to focus. "Rough?" I asked.
"Please...yes. Hell, yes."
I caught the thick weight of her hair in my hand and made a rope of it, pulling her back until her spine arched as I rode her. "Come for me, you sexy little bitch," I said as I palmed her breast with my free hand, tweaking her nipple.
Alicia whimpered and pushed against me, butt and breast, and I shoved all thoughts of everything else from my mind.
After all, I had a reputation to uphold.
Four
Michelle
"I will be allowed to speak, correct?"
"Maybe...if you say please."
With my feet kicked up on the desk, I pondered the stamped tin ceiling tiles overhead and replayed those few moments over and over through my mind.
Was it me or had there been something sexually charged in that?
Was he into bondage?
The master and slave stuff?
That idea freaked me the hell out, and not in a good way, but there was something about his teasing voice when he'd said it.
Maybe...if you say please. The memory made me shiver.
There was some unfamiliar part of me that was already willing to say please to Jake in a number of ways. For a number of things. It was embarrassing to acknowledge it, but more than once, I found myself wondering how one might handle approaching a man in his position.
Not that I enjoyed sex really.
I actually kind of sucked at it.
I could get myself off with a vibrator just fine, but if I had a guy with me, once we got past the petting stage, things got really, really boring. And awkward.
That being the case, I didn't understand why I kept thinking about all the petting...and the more stuff. The stuff that usually made my brain freeze up.
His hands sliding my clothes off.
His hands sliding up and down my body, between my thighs, or cupping my breasts...his fingers...
I gasped when I felt the brush of my own fingers against my clitoris, not aware until that moment that I'd been stroking myself. Biting my lip, I moved my legs until they were farther apart and shifted in the chair a bit. The skirt I wore fell open around me. I trailed my free hand up over the thigh high, thick woolen socks I'd pulled on under the skirt I'd put on earlier.
It's all about gauging her reaction...following the cues her body gives you, he'd written in the email. When you touch her thigh, does she sigh or shiver?
Smoothing my fingers up my skin, I decided if he'd been the one doing this, I'd probably be sighing and shivering.
Does she need a bit more time to warm up? Tease her a bit. Touch her through her clothes, but it's just to tease and you keep the touches light.
I brushed my fingers against my clitoris again, the nub of flesh hard and stiff. I was wet already, and I rubbed harder, enjoying the friction of the material against me.
A smart man knows when she's ready for more. I like to think I'm a smart man.
I dipped my fingers inside my panties and gasped at the heat I discovered there.
When she's ready, a woman will all but bring herself to that first climax if you're not careful – and sometimes, that's just fine. I don't mind going along and enjoyi
ng the ride.
I thrust my fingers in, panting. In, out. I'd never ever felt this wet, this aroused. The chair wobbled under me and some latent sense of self-preservation had me lowering my feet to the floor. That change in position thrust my fingers deeper, and I cried out. Flinging a hand against the desk for leverage, I started to rock against my touch, riding my own hand now.
Once she's close, I'll sometimes pull her back and draw out the pleasure.
Fuck that idea.
I'd never felt a climax quite like this.
I broke, right there in my chair, in front of my computer. Climaxing so hard it ripped a cry from my throat, I sagged bonelessly forward, my head dropping onto the keyboard as my body started to shut down on me.
Multiple orgasms are all about the timing, you know.
Hell. All I'd done was think about him, and this one had all but wiped me out. I wasn't sure I could handle the timing, and the thought of multiples almost melted my brain.
Thirty minutes later, reenergized by a shower, a sandwich, and coffee, I settled back down at my desk. Somewhat bemused by what I'd done, I brought up his email and read it again.
It wouldn't happen again, surely. Reading through it wouldn't cause that same erotic buzz that I'd been feeling all week, ever since I met him, compounded and complicated by his written words. It had just been a while since I'd broken out my vibrator. A couple of months, probably. I'd just been on edge, and I'd needed the release.
But the second I started reading and thinking about Jake, the hotter and heavier my body felt.
Sometimes, a lady I'm with will be done after just one session. But sometimes, she'll need more. I'm always happy to oblige. I just watch her and see what her body is telling me.
If he was here right now, my body would be screaming...do me!
Of course, five seconds after he made a move toward me, it might scream something else entirely.
"Son of a bitch," I muttered, closing the email, and scrolling up to catch up on messages from last night and this morning.
There were three from Aunt Blair, two last night and one from this morning. The last from twenty-five minutes ago. Call me or I'm calling you.
Blushing, I thought about what I'd been doing twenty-five minutes ago, and I wondered if she would have guessed just what I'd been up to by the sound of my voice.
With a nervous laugh, I picked up my coffee. "I'll call in a few, Aunt Blair," I murmured, toasting the picture of the two of us near one of the bridges in Central Park. "Just let me get a little more–"
The phone rang mid-sentence, and I had no doubt as to who was calling. Well, shit. With a mental groan, I picked up the phone.
"Good morning, sunshine!" Aunt Blair said, her voice ringing out. She sounded like she'd been awake for hours and already downed about a gallon of coffee. She probably had been awake for hours, but she didn't drink coffee. I didn't understand her. "How are you doing, sweetheart?"
"I'm fine. You sound too awake for me," I said, hoping she'd attribute any sluggish moments to me being tired or...something.
"You don't rest enough, eat right or exercise enough. Do all those things and call me in the morning."
"Ha, ha."
"You also don't get laid enough," Aunt Blair continued blithely. "What you need is to hook up with some guy who will eff your brains out once or twice a week."
I could have choked on the coffee I'd just taken a sip of. "Thanks," I said after a few awkward seconds. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Do that. So...listen. I've got news." Tension hummed between us before she continued. "The powers that be loved your article. It's running in the next issue and...they want more."
Excitement exploded inside me. More? They liked it? Would I write them? Would I be able to see Jake again?
A million questions started to fire inside my head.
But she squashed them flat in the next second.
"Gina's recovering pretty well. She can sit up in a chair for longer periods of time, and she's already at work editing some of her other pieces. We think she'll be able to handle the series the higher-ups want, but thank you for doing such a bang-up job, sweetheart. We will definitely be using you for more pieces."
Disappointment had turned the excitement to ashes, and I had to fight to make my voice brisk and professional as I responded, "I'm very glad you all enjoyed it, Aunt Blair. Please give my best to Gina. I've got to go. I've got lunch cooking and it's about to burn."
I hung up before she could say anything else.
I couldn't fake the brisk tone for more than a few seconds, and I didn't want her to hear my dismay.
Granted, I couldn't even lie to her properly. Was I more upset about the fact that I wasn't finishing the series? Or the fact that I wouldn't have a reason to see Jake again?
I had no idea.
Five
Jake
The latest issue of Coterie lay open on the basic wooden coffee table in the middle of my living room, turned to the first page of the interview.
Michelle was one hell of a writer.
Those were my words she'd taken and used, but she had made them her own. I knew all about what she'd written, because I'd told it to her.
So why the hell did I still have a fucking hard-on ten minutes after reading it?
Maybe it was because something about her words had made me think that when she'd been writing it, she had been as filled with erotic anticipation as I was now.
Most of my clients were jaded about sex, even the ones who ended up with me because they'd lost interest in the act and expected me to change that.
A few of them, like Alicia, had healthy sexual appetites, and for one reason or another, it was just easier to have an arrangement with me rather than pursue some other, normal relationship with a regular, average nice guy.
Normal.
Nice.
Maybe that was the problem.
Michelle seemed like she was just the girl next door...normal, sweet, nice...she blushed when I pushed her about intimacy, but she pushed back if I went too hard.
It was different from what I was used to and that was enough to drive me a little crazy. It was also enough to make me think about her too often during the day.
Three times, I'd sat down to email her, the words I'd used already laid out in my mind.
I'd ask if I'd proven to be helpful.
If there was anything more she'd like to know.
Maybe we could meet for coffee, and I could answer some of the questions I'd left open the first time we met.
I knew how to catch a woman's interest, and Michelle's weakness was her curiosity. But still, my fingers lingered over the keyboard, unsure.
My cellphone rang, and when I checked the display, my heart skipped a beat. The caller ID read COT UNLTD.
Coterie.
Gina and I had spoken several times from a phone that belonged to the magazine. Maybe this was Michelle.
Still, I didn't answer on the first, or even immediately on the second tone. Sure, I was desperate to hear her voice, but I didn't need to let her know that.
"Hello?"
"Heya, gorgeous," a familiar, sexy voice said.
The voice was not Michelle's.
"Gina. Hi. I heard you were in an accident," I said, trying not to let my disappointment show in my voice. It was second nature to hide that sort of thing though. Most of my life had been filled with disappointment.
"I was. Tell you what, if it wasn't for sexy male nurses..." She ended with a lusty sigh that wasn't too different from how she sounded when she asked me if I really fucked women for a living. "They made the Nurse Ratchet I had to deal with at night a little more tolerable. But you don't want to hear about all of that. I wanted to talk to you about the article."
"The one Michelle wrote."
"Yes. She did fantastic. I was all but fanning myself when I was done, and since I've got one arm in a cast, my other hand was getting tired." She laughed impishly.
I had to smile myself
. Gina was cocky, confident, and incorrigible.
I still wished it was Michelle on the phone.
"We're lighting up with responses from our readers on social media, email boxes are full. They want more, Jake. They want more of you. The bosses here want a series of articles. What do you say?"
My instinct was to correct her and say that they wanted more of Michelle. After all, it had been her way with my words that had written the article that had lit up social media and filled inboxes.
But...
"I might be interested," I said slowly, turning to look at the magazine.
"Fantastic. What will make that might into a one hundred percent?"
"I want Michelle to handle it."
Gina was quiet, but only for a split second. It had been my estimation that very little slowed her or swayed her for long. I was right. It didn't take her long to say, "I'm totally cool with that. My editor and I came up with the idea, but Michelle handled the interview and her article is going over like gangbangers. But I can't make any promises. My editor has to give the final okay. Are you cool with that?"
"Cool enough to wait and see what they say."
Because if they didn't say yes, I wasn't doing it.
"Excellent. You'll hear from me or Michelle soon." She hesitated, then added, "Jake?"
"Yeah?"
"Michelle...she's a nice girl." She didn't add anything else, but she didn't need to.
"I noticed, Gina. Don't worry. I don't make a habit of eating nice girls alive and leaving nothing but a quivering, broken heart."
I ended the call and pushed my phone back into my pocket, then went over and picked up the magazine, skimming the article one more time.
It wasn't good, I told myself, that she was filling my head as much as she was, taking over my thoughts.
I'd been honest with Gina when I said I didn't make a habit of messing around with nice girls. I didn't have time, and honestly, the kind of nice girls she meant when she talked about Michelle – nervous, shy, a little uncertain about her own sexuality – they didn't often come looking to pay a man for sex. Maybe they dreamed about it, thought about it...? I had no idea.