Knocked Up by Her Brother's Enemy

by Penny Wylder

  What’s the harm? I think as I let the mouse hover over that button. I mean, it’s not like I’m actually going to hire an escort. But it could be fun to message him, see how easy this could be…

  It’s like practice, I tell myself. Practice at being completely upfront with guys and telling them exactly what I want and how I want it before I go for it.

  Besides, it’s taking my sex life into my own hands. Isn’t that what women are supposed to be doing nowadays? This is my idea, my choice… My ridiculous foray into escort-dom. It’ll be fine.

  I hit the contact button and eye the form that pops up. The top half is normal—name, age, contact details, form of payment—I select cash for that one, because as legitimate as this site may look, there’s no way in hell I’m giving them my credit card details yet. It also says it needs my real name and an address so they can perform a background check to keep their escorts safe, which I think is actually pretty cool of them. It specifies that it won’t give your address to any of its clients ever, and won’t give it to any escorts except ones you pre-agree to book, which seems secure. I fill that part in without a second thought.

  The second half of the form, on the other hand, is a little bit less normal.

  Describe your desires, it says. A little bubble beneath it clarifies. Please be as explicit and detailed as possible so that we can ensure the escort you’ve selected matches the style of interaction you would like. In parenthesis, it adds, Include any sex acts you do or do not wish to participate in.

  I swallow hard. But then again, this is what I wanted. Practice being upfront. And besides, it’s behind a computer screen, completely anonymous. I don’t need to worry about anyone judging me or taking this the wrong way.

  So I check the door of the office one last time, then lean over the screen and start to fill in the second half of the form. I write it all down. Everything I’ve been too scared to share with the world. Everything guys have been turned off by in the past. Everything I want.

  I’m looking for a guy to fill me up in a way no man has ever managed. I want you to use anal beads, plugs, dildos, anything you’d like on me—don’t worry, I can provide any toy you want to experiment with, I write. My cheeks light up bright red even typing that, but I keep going. But I want you to make me feel like I’m being fucked by two men at once, without a second man being there. Double penetration is my game, but I’m not big on sharing beds with more than one partner… I’m a size queen—I want it in every hole at once, as thick as possible, and I want you to make me feel full in a way I never have before. Deep-throat and anal both better than okay—I want it.

  I swallow hard. It feels so strange to see it all written out like that. Exactly what I want, how I want it. But this is just practice, I tell myself. I’m not going to actually hire this guy.

  I hit send and close the screen as fast as possible. Then I wipe the browser history and clean up the computer. I don’t want to get our work computer infected with anything.

  That done, I shake off the feeling that I’ve made a really strange decision. I finish eating my sandwich and head back into the kitchen without looking back. The website was probably a scam anyway. Or if it was legit, they’ll take one look at my profile and that message and delete it for being too weird anyway.

  I distract myself by working on the cakes. We managed to get one order of the three finished, but we’re still hard at work on the second one for today. I doubt we’ll finish the third order, which means I’ll need to come in early tomorrow morning.

  I try to ignore that as I roll up my sleeves and jump back in.

  But within half an hour, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I rinse my hands off for long enough to check it.

  New email.

  From that website.

  My heart leaps into my throat. Already?

  I click it open on my phone. It takes me to the same site, to a log-in page. Once I log in, it shows a new message from Caleb British. My heart pounds, feeling like it’s lodged in my neck, as I click open the message.

  Hey Hot Stuffed ;) reads the subject line. My cheeks flush, if possible, even brighter red than they usually are back here in the kitchen with the ovens fired up hot.

  “Be right back,” I call over my shoulder to Carl and Jen as I duck into the bathroom. Only once the door is safely closed behind me do I let myself scroll through the rest of his response.

  I’m getting hard already just thinking about stuffing you full. I can fill you like no other man has, believe me. You bring the toys; I’ll bring my thick cock, and let’s see if we can plug all your holes in one night. Tonight, specifically. My schedule is wide open—let me know if your legs could be too. Size queen, you’ve finally met your match.

  He signs off with that promise alone. No name, nothing else. But I can’t deny the deep throb of desire I feel at that pledge.

  Not only is this guy not freaked out by my request, but also he seems turned on by it. Can he really deliver on this promise? Fuck me enough for two guys combined?

  There’s one way to find out.

  My finger hovers over the reply button. There’s a little side note with his rates—honestly, not as much money as I would have expected—and then a dropdown option:

  8PM Booking

  10PM Booking

  No Thanks

  I stare at that for a minute and start to laugh under my breath. Then I shake my head and snap out of it. What on earth am I thinking?

  I unlock the bathroom and slip outside, all the while scrolling through those options with one hand. I tap on the last one, No Thanks. This has been a fun experiment, but I’m obviously not going to go through with it.

  Then I open the door wider and walk straight into Lara.

  “Hey, how’s it going back here?” she asks, right as I’ve got this incriminating as hell website open on my phone, in plain view of her.

  “Great!” I cry as I quickly tap the Reply option as fast as possible and try to close the window before she sees the message.

  Unfortunately, the screen is tricky to work, and the website’s auto response buttons are a little finicky. I hit enter just as I realize that I tapped on the scroll selection again. This time, as I watch it hit send, my mouth drops open. I accidentally selected 8PM Booking instead of the No Thanks option.

  “Shit,” I gasp.

  “What?” Lara leans over my shoulder to squint.

  An automatic popup appears.

  Thank you for booking with Here to Serve. Your appointment has been set for 8PM. will meet you at the address in your profile section unless otherwise specified.

  I’m too busy staring open-mouthed at that response to register Lara reading over my shoulder until I hear her faint intake of breath.

  “Is this… what I think it is?”

  “Um… Depends if you think it’s what you suggested earlier or not?” I chew on the inside of my cheek. “Dammit, I didn’t mean to select that option. How do I cancel it?” I tap on the screen frantically, searching for other options. There’s not even an option to reply to the message, let alone change my preferences. “Oh my god, I can’t go through with this, I put in way too much detail.”

  “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Lara starts. She pats my shoulder to get my attention.

  I’m too busy freaking out at the phone to notice. “Crap, I have to cancel this—”

  Lara snatches the phone from my hands before I go too far over the deep end. “Relax,” she tells me, and then she takes over searching for me.

  I stand hovering over her shoulder, lips pressed into a thin hard line, as I watch my friend hunt for a way to cancel the appointment I just made with an escort for tonight.

  We find a contact button at the bottom of the page, but their hours are listed as 9am-5pm, and it’s already past 5.

  We reply within 48-72 hours, guaranteed! It proclaims cheerily.

  “Shit,” I swear again.

  “Hey, don’t worry.” Lara rests a hand on my arm. “It’s a simp
le fix. He’s coming to you, right? So you just meet him and say it was a mistake, and ask to cancel. Worst comes to worst, you might have to pay him some kind of cancellation fee or something, but that’s all. It’s not worth panicking over.”

  I can feel myself nodding. “You’re right, yeah. I’ll just tell him it’s a mistake.”

  Lara searches my face for a moment to make sure I’m not still secretly freaking. Then she breaks into stifled laughter.

  I narrow my eyes. “What?”

  “I can’t believe you did it, that’s all,” she chuckles.

  “You told me to!” I protest, elbowing her.

  “I was joking.” She rolls her eyes and passes the phone back. “Though hey, maybe this will help after all. I mean you do need to get laid, so… And who knows? Maybe he’s into your same secretive desires.”

  My cheeks flare bright red yet again. I elbow her once more for good measure and tuck my phone into my pocket. “So not funny.”

  “This coming from the girl who just hired an escort for the evening.”

  If I could melt into the floor right now and disappear, I would. “If you tell anyone about this, I swear to god—”

  “Oh come on.” Lara hooks her arm through mine and squeezes me to her side, trying and failing to placate me. “Who the hell would I tell? You’re the only person I talk to these days anyway. You’re turning me into just as bad a workaholic as you are.”

  I snort, but fall into step beside her, headed back toward the kitchen. Just a few more hours here. And then I have to head home and…

  Well…

  I shake my head. No. I’m not getting dressed up or anything to meet this guy. I’m just going to open the door, tell him it’s all a big misunderstanding but no thank you, and then go to bed early.

  Clearly I am sleep deprived. It’s the only explanation for the insane decisions I’ve made so far today.

  Hopefully after a long shower and time to consider my life choices, I’ll make better ones tomorrow, I think.

  4

  Less than fifteen minutes until my escort is due to arrive.

  Despite the promise I made to myself, I’ve gone and dressed up. Well, okay, “up” is an overstatement. But I’m in a skirt and a cute T-shirt, and I showered and did my hair for the first time in longer than I can count. I even dusted on some foundation and a touch of mascara. Just in case. It makes me feel a little less nervous, to know that I look decent.

  Only a little less, though. Most of my nerve endings feel like they’re on fire, and my stomach is set to churn itself right out of my body.

  I pace over to the windows for what feels like the tenth time and quickly check the street outside. No sign of a car yet.

  I sit back down and force myself not to check again. He’ll get here when he gets here.

  Or maybe he won’t. Maybe this is all a big misunderstanding on his end too. Maybe he’s double-booked or he’ll need to cancel. Maybe he didn’t mean to accept that email either.

  I find myself praying he doesn’t show. Then I can just retreat upstairs, treat myself to a long hard session with my toys, on my own thank you very much, and go to sleep early.

  At least I’ll have good fodder for my imagination tonight. Unbidden, the image of Caleb—which cannot be his real name—rises to mind. I doubt that photo included his real abs either. There’s no way a guy exists with a body that perfect. Not to mention his face—the cut cheekbones, the perfect amount of scruffy beard below his sharp gray eyes and his narrow nose. The way he stared into the screen, it felt like he could see right through the computer to me. I can’t even imagine how intense that look must be in real life.

  Unable to help myself, I picture him undressed in the same room as me. I start to imagine how exactly he’d fulfill his promise—his promise to fill me like no other man ever has. I envision him bending me over the couch in my living room and pinning my arms to the cushions while he undoes my belt, runs a hand along the seam of my panties. He’d have thick, strong fingers, thick enough to drive me wild when he slips one under the string of my thong, tugs it aside and pushes one finger up to his knuckle inside my tight pussy…

  My doorbell rings.

  I gasp and leap off the couch. Damn. My panties feel a little bit wet already. I’m letting my imagination run away with itself. Calm down, Carmine. I’m not going to fuck this guy. Not even going to entertain the idea.

  I’m just here to explain the misunderstanding and ask him to be on his way.

  I cross the living room, take a deep breath, and open the door.

  Then I immediately lose that breath of air all over again.

  The man standing on my doorstep looks like he just stepped out of every woman’s wet dream. He’s dressed casually in a tight T-shirt that shows off his bulging biceps, his strong chest and even his flat, washboard abs. I can count the ridges through the fabric.

  Guess that photo wasn’t photoshopped after all.

  As expected, those piercing gray eyes are even more intense in person. He smiles at me, a crooked half-smile that makes my heart seize in my chest and my belly tighten in anticipation. He looks ready to eat me alive—and I want to let him.

  I stagger back a step, all the pre-planned words I meant to say trapping themselves in my throat at once.

  “You must be Carmine,” he says, still grinning that half-grin.

  Any remaining resistance I might have drummed up dies as soon as I hear his voice. Of course. I should have guessed from his name. Caleb British.

  I can’t help it. It’s too fucking much—I have to laugh. So I do.

  He steps inside—I back away from the door enough to give him space, and I can’t think of anything else to do now except close it behind him. At least I can let him down in private. “What’s so funny?” he asks, one brow lifted.

  “Should have guessed you were British,” I respond when I manage to find my voice. “From your name.”

  “I’m from London, yes. Fake name though, obviously,” he replies, though he’s still smiling.

  “Obviously,” I echo.

  “But enough about me. I want to hear about you, Carmine.” He angles himself toward me.

  Without thinking, I step backwards, toward the living room. He follows, until I’m trapped between this towering, muscular, hot-as-hell man and the back of my couch. I lean against the couch in what I hope looks like a casual move, rather than the truth—like my knees have lost the ability to keep me upright by their own volition.

  “Me?” I shake my head. “Oh, I don’t know, I’m… I’m just from here, nothing exciting…”

  “Why did you hire me?” He tilts his head.

  “Does there need to be a story?” I ask, biting my lip.

  “There usually is. I want to hear yours.” His eyes bore into me; will me to tell him the truth.

  “I… Well. I don’t have a lot of free time to date or anything. So, it’s… been a while.”

  His gaze dips over my body again. “I find that hard to believe.”

  I flush. “I work a lot.”

  “What do you do?” He leans against the wall, still eying me, totally shameless about it.

  “I own a bakery,” I say. “Red Velvet.”

  His eyes widen. “The new place that everyone is talking about?”

  “You’ve heard of us?” My cheeks really burn now.

  “Of course. You’re all my sister can talk about lately.” He laughs softly. Then seems to remember himself, and shakes his head, stepping closer to me. “So, you’re too busy to date…”

  “And, I… I find it difficult to find people who like… Um, the same things.”

  “Judging by that message you sent describing what you like, I’d beg to differ,” he replies, tilting his head. He lets his eyes roam over my body, lingering a long time on my chest, then my legs below my skirt. He makes no bones about checking me out—in fact, checking me out seems like an understatement. More like he’s weighing me to decide if he can throw me over his shoulder and ki
dnap me for his own.

  I’d let him, at this point.

  I swallow, hard.

  “I’ve got to say, Carmine, you caught my attention with that description. You were so detailed, so forthright.” He takes another step closer. I’m already back against the couch. I have nowhere to go but here. I plant my feet and tilt my head back to keep my eyes locked on his as he stands over me. God, he’s huge. I can only imagine what his cock must look like.

  Bad Carmine, I scold myself.

  Still imagining it though. Not to mention the fact that he’s talking about what I wrote on that site—that filthy description of my darkest secrets—as though it’s sexy to him.

  “I appreciate a girl who’s upfront about what she wants.” He smirks and raises an eyebrow. “Not to mention someone who’s as fucking kinky as I am.”

  We’ll see about that, I think. “It’s hard to find people who like the same things you do,” I answer honestly, for once. “Especially when it’s kinky.”

  “I find it hard to believe that you have any shortage of guys wanting to fill you up,” he counters.

  My face flushes bright red. “To be honest, a few have tried,” I respond. I lock eyes with him. If he scares easily, this is where it’ll happen. “But I’m very particular.”

  “Good,” he answers right away, without thinking. He takes another step closer, so he’s just inches from me now. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, feel the ghost of his breath on my cheeks. “I prefer a challenge.”

  My whole body flares. Goddamn. No man has ever responded quite like that before. But still, my mind races ahead of my traitor body. Reminds me what I came here to do. “Look, Caleb, I should tell you something…”

  He lifts one hand to trail it up my arm, tracing all the way from my wrist up to my shoulder.

  Fuck. That one touch sets my whole body alight. I feel a rush of desire curling in my gut. My pussy feels tight with anticipation, and my clit throbs with desire. My panties were already damp—now they’re going to be soaking by the time I get him out of here.

  Should I get him out of here?

  I shake my head. Of course. I need to. I can’t hook up with an escort. No matter how fucking sexy he might be. Or how into me he seems. Or how much he actually seems to like the same things I do.