Rock 'n' Roll Step Dads: School of Sex (Rock 'N' Roll Step Dads Series Part 1)

by Lawless, Anita

  Just at that moment, my boys decide to run into the kitchen. Preston, my youngest, holds a paper in his hand and his eyes are wide. “Mom, can I please sign up for hockey this year?”

  I don’t know what to say to that sweet, freckled face. His brown, puppy-like eyes beseech, but we simply can’t afford it. Not ready to break his heart, I say, “We’ll see, hon.”

  He prunes his face and makes a minor protest, but Jake distracts them both with the proposition of some two on one road hockey, out in the dirt alley that runs between our place and Mrs. Granger’s. I’m thankful for the time this gives me to think.

  And that’s when I see it. An ad in the employment opportunities section catches my attention. I already work on an assembly line building slot machines for a living, but that wage barely covers the bills. It sure won’t fix the roof and the other repairs this old home needs, and it won’t cover hockey fees for Preston either.

  But the job notice I stare at, the amount indicated, certainly would. So long as the hours don’t conflict with my other work, I could take this, should I get it, and finally get this house spruced up, give my kids some money for recreational activities that they’ve been dying to join.

  The notice says: Woman between 20 - 35 needed to test innovative new designer products. Must have an open mind and a healthy attitude toward sex. Apply in person with resume at Suite 001-353 Bloominfield Blvd.

  And the monthly income it cites makes my eyes widen. I can do this, I think. I’ve got an open mind and a healthy attitude toward sex. For the income offered, I’ll dance naked on tabletops at this point.

  But when I show the ad to Jake after I join him and the boys outside, he gently takes my arm, gives me a concerned expression, and ushers me to the side of the house.

  “Are you crazy, Carrie?” He looks angry as well as concerned. “This could be a setup. You could get raped or killed.”

  I shake my head at his protest, cross my arms over the front of my spring cardigan. “I’ll be fine.” When he frowns deeper, I put an arm around his shoulder and give him a reassuring squeeze. Close to his ear, I whisper, “I’ll take protection with me, and I’ll text you as soon as I get to the place and once I meet the interviewer to let you know I’m safe. How’s that?” I’m registered to carry a handgun, and I’m a very good shot, too. Years of target practice with my dad, now also passed on, gave me an eagle eye and aim.

  “You should let me come with you,” Jake says, still wearing that deep frown that barely crinkles his smooth, pale face.

  “Someone has to take care of the kids,” I protest, feeling a bit guilty for asking his to be a last minute babysitter yet again. “I’ll pay you.”

  He shakes his head at me, then a smile spreads, bringing out his adorable dimples. “You don’t have to pay me for watching the kids. Don’t even think about it.” Then he wraps his arm tighter around my shoulder, swipes a quick kiss over my lips before saying, “Please be careful.”

  I swat at him playfully. “Don’t mother me, for cripes sake. I’ll be fine.” Then I quickly give him another kiss before adding, “Thanks for watching the kids again.”

  ***

  A few days later, I’m up way before the kids and Jake, showered, and dressed before they even stomp down the stairs for breakfast. Jake protests, saying I should’ve let him help me with the bacon and eggs. I wave him off to ask if I look presentable for my upcoming interview.

  His green eyes shine. “You look beautiful.”

  The kids make silly noises at this, and Michael asks when me and Jake are getting married, with a cheeky grin spread across his face. I tell him to eat his bacon and mind his business. He just laughs. He gets his precocious streak from me, I admit. His brother just grins a lopsided grin and chows down on his eggs.

  Now sitting in my beat up old Pontiac Sunfire, I take a last minute to inspect myself before I drive off. I’m wearing my best dress—one of my only dresses, now I’m on a tight budget. A spring knee-length number in pink with tiny white polka dots spotting the thin material. I’ve put on my Aunt Peg’s pearls for good luck and pinned up my fiery red hair in a neat, simple chignon. Applied a bit of makeup to my cheeks, a wisp of shadow to enhance my blue eyes, and a tint of pink lip gloss to my lips. I frown at my reflection, worried that I look more like June Cleaver than someone with an open mind and a healthy attitude toward sex.

  “Oh well.” I tell my worrisome self. “It’ll have to do.”

  ***

  The building at 353 Bloominfield Blvd used to be an old brownstone, but it’s been recently converted into office space. I approach a man with a pleasant smile and a bulldog face to ask him where exactly Suite 001 is. But first I send Jake a text to let him know all looks good so far.

  His face blanches and he raises an eyebrow. “Why does a respectable looking lady like you want Suite 001?”

  I play with my pearls and almost consider telling him I’ve made a mistake. I contemplate this and leaving, but the dollar amount in the ad flashes in my mind again. “I’m here about the job advertised.” I point to the classified I’ve circled with yellow highlighter.

  His bushy eyebrows climb higher. He clears his throat and straightens his navy blue uniform coat. “Lady, that job is not for you.”

  Now I’m getting just a little miffed. No one tells Carrie Brannigan what to do. And when someone tells me no, I just get all the more determined. “I think I’ll be the judge of that, thank you. Now, if you don’t mind?”

  With a disapproving scowl, he directs me to an elevator with ugly orange doors. Someone really needs to paint that, I think.

  “Basement,” the security guard says, and as the doors close he adds, “Good luck. You’re gonna need it.”

  “Not exactly a confidence booster,” I mumble to myself before I hit the button indicating lower levels.

  When the elevator slides open, I find myself in a drab, narrow grey hallway lined with white doors with gold numbers and keycard slots on each one. I locate Suite 001 and ring a doorbell situated near the keycard slot. A brief moment passes before someone swings it open.

  The man standing before me has an aura of danger and mystery that instantly puts me on guard. “Hello,” he says, letting his thick, pouty lips curl in a sensuous smile full of lecherous intent. I detect a slight British accent. Then he steps back from the threshold, still not inviting me in as he gives me a bold up and down perusal while stroking his trimmed goatee. “Yes… as long as you’re not as good a girl as you look, I think you’ll do quite nicely. Come in.”

  He takes my hand and I feel an instant spark. I study his face briefly as he leads me into the room. His eyes are ice blue, like slivers cut from a glacier, and set wide apart, which gives him a deceptively innocent look. His nose is wide at the nostrils, tapered as it moves toward the bridge, and his cheekbones are not too defined but still prominent. He reminds me of a man found in paintings of old world nobility. He’s slender and not much taller than my 5 ft. 6. With my curves and heavy breasts, I feel fat next to his proud figure with spiked hair that isn’t quite sure if it’s meant to be brown or golden blond.

  The retort I had ready dies in the back of my throat when I glance around the room I’ve entered. Stainless steel tables are strategically placed close to stark, black leather couches and chairs. And on these stainless steel tables are dildos and assorted sex toys like I’ve never seen. At least, I think they’re sex toys. In my marriage to Colby, the boys’ father, we experimented—I even proposed an open relationship when I found he’d cheated on me for a third time—but our tastes had been fairly vanilla compared to the assortment I gaze at now, mouth hanging wide open.

  He gestures for me to sit in a chair opposite a plain, wooden desk. “As you can guess, I’m not big on subtly,” he jokes, indicating the toys on display. “But I believe in giving full disclosure to all applicants as soon as they walk in.”

  With a slightly shaking hand, I give him my resume. “Exactly what position am I applying for?”

  G
iving a vulpine grin, he ignores my question at first and extends a hand. When I take it, he brushes those soft lips just below my knuckles before he introduces himself. “Luke Wesley, but my good friends call me Dom Luke.” He used my hand to tug me closer to the desk. “And you’re applying, my dear, to test out designer sex toys.”

  At this point, I’m sure I’ve given him my deer in the headlights stare.

  ***

  Read an excerpt from a sizzling Wild & Lawless release Surrender Forever Surrender Series Volume 1 by Anita Lawless.

  Surrender To A Sex Therapist

  (Surrender Series Volume 1, Part 1)

  By Anita Lawless

  I enjoyed my new job so much it was almost too good to be true. An old friend of Dad’s from the precinct, Sherri Taylor, had landed me the interview with Dmitri Nichvalodov, and I’d become the secretary of this prominent sex therapist three weeks ago. At first I’d had reservation about working for him. Not that I was a prude, but I knew little about sex—I’d only been with two men in my life, and one was a disappointing fumbler at best—plus I’d heard Dmitri was a stunner. Being introverted and a social kumquat, my reservations stemmed from the fact there was a good chance I’d stumble over my words, or tip over a coffee table, and make a complete ass of myself. I tended to do just that when I was nervous or intimidated by the subject or persons involved.

  However, the salary promised was generous, and it would cover Dad’s mounting medical bills. Dad came first, so I swallowed my fear and accepted the position.

  “Charlotte,” Dmitri said, his green eyes meeting mine, making my stomach do a flutter I tried to ignore. “Would you join me in my office when you’re finished up there? I’d like to ask you something.”

  “Oh, certainly, Mr. Nichvalodov.” I adjusted my glasses, thankful they slipped down my nose at that moment, because it gave me a chance to break away from his penetrating gaze.

  “It’s Dmitri to you.” I watched his broad shoulders, clad in a pinstriped suit, disappear behind the door. His long hair gleamed as the sun caught it just before he vanished. He wore his straight, black mane in a braid that fell to the middle of his back. How a psychiatrist managed to look like a male stripper was beyond me. Maybe it had something to do with being a sex therapist. I scolded myself for picturing him out of that suit for the second time today.

  Dmitri also came from money, a lot of it, and his family held a history of investing in entrepreneurial ventures that had, for the most part, paid off well. He’d told me, in some of our frequent office conversation, that there had been some risky investments in the early days, and his great-great grandfather lost his shirt a couple times over a hunch that went sour. However, these days the family had enough wealth to take a million or more dollar loss and not even feel it. They invested a great deal in green energy technology. Dmitri told me the only thing holding green energy back, in his educated opinion, was the lack of funding for researching and developing these techniques.

  “Why work as a sex therapist then?” I’d said one day, and when he turned those penetrating green eyes on me, I’d added, “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  He flashed a wide, dazzling smile. “Our parents encouraged my brother and I to be more than a part of the family empire. Mom and Dad worried focusing on one thing would narrow our minds, our pursuits. They wanted us to be well rounded, so here I am.”

  Now, as I stepped into his office, I tried to slow my heartbeat to normal. Had I entered some data incorrectly in our patient database? I mentally checked over the day, looking for a mistake. There had to be one. I’d been doing a great job so far, but this had to be about a screw up. I just knew it.

  Dmitri looked up from a sheaf of papers and gave me that winning smile. “Please, have a seat, Charlotte.”

  I sat in the chair he indicated, crossed my right leg over my left, uncrossed, repeated the process. Then I silently scolded myself for fidgeting.

  He sat in his looming, leather office chair, folded his hands on top of the desk, and gave me an intense gaze. “How would you feel about seeing me outside of the office? Maybe tomorrow night? Dinner perhaps?”

  I choked and coughed on my nervousness. Enough so that I had to get up and excuse myself so I could grab a glass of water. As I brushed a lock of mouse-brown hair from my face, I noticed how badly my hand shook.

  “Sorry about that,” I said, after I sat in his office once more. “I must be coming down with a bit of a cold.”

  He stood, walked around the desk, then leaned against the front of it. Obviously he was waiting for my answer, but he didn’t make it any easier to speak when he towered over me that way.

  I dared a glance at him, felt my face warm, played with the silver chain Dad had given me for my sixteenth birthday. When he gave a impatient sigh, I finally managed to speak. “Dinner, oh, that would be fine, great, yes.” I nodded like a bobblehead. “Certainly, Mr. Nich—I mean, Dmitri, I’d love to have dinner with you.”

  My stomach clenched tight with anxiety as he offered his hand. “Wonderful,” he said, as I took it and he tugged me to my feet before I could stand. “Will you need a ride home tomorrow to freshen up? I can have my car take you there then return for you at eight. Would that suffice?”

  I bit my lip, wondering briefly if he was playing with me, but then just nodded my response. My throat felt too tight to attempt words.

  Then he made the anxiety all the worse as he yanked me close. I stumbled and fell against his massive barrel chest. He took my chin between his thumb and index finger, tipping it up so I had to meet his stare.

  “Are you frightened of me, Charlotte?” Was that a smirk? I thought, as he spoke. “You shouldn’t be. I thought we were friends. I’d just like to get to know you even better, that’s all.”

  Before I could respond, his mouth descended on mine lightning quick. His tongue slithered over my lips, demanding they part and give him entry. Surprised by his kiss, and the dormant sensations it stirred in me, I whimpered as his tongue teased mine into submission.

  Large, strong hands roamed down the back of my blazer (bought on a discount rack at E-Mart). His wide palms cupped my butt through my skirt. He reached for the clip that held the curls away from my face, and soon a curtain of hair tumbled to my shoulders.

  The stimuli invading me felt like tiny electric shocks going off throughout my body. My brain swam in a flood of sensation. I hadn’t been kissed like this—so passionately, so ravenously—since Doug, my last boyfriend, who’d passed away over three years ago.

  His strong fingers cradled the back of my head and I moaned into his mouth. His other hand tugged up the hem of my skirt, then slid up my cheap nylons, edging closer to my loins. A fire started deep in my belly and surged lower. He tore his mouth from mine and nibbled a path to my ear.

  “Charlotte, I—” Before he could speak another word, the shrill ring of his desk phone cut him off. He took his arms away, giving me a disappointed look. “Excuse me, I have to see who that is.”

  I pressed my palms to my cheeks. They were positively burning. My lips tingled from the roughness of his kiss. My body ached all over to be back in his arms. But I shook my head, found my hair comb, and gathered my senses, while he chatted away to whoever interrupted our interlude.

  He covered the mouthpiece with one beefy paw. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to be a while. It’s Mildred, and she needs to confer with me about this patient.”

  “Oh, oh, of course.” I gave a shaky smile, tried not to trip over the chair as I backed away. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Mildred was the other therapist who had an office on the same floor as us. She was right next door, and she specialized in abnormal psychology. She and Dmitri had been good friends for ages, apparently, and when I’d started at the office, she’d instantly struck up a conversation with me. I didn’t know what to make of her kindness at first. I’d been exposed to a clique of passive aggressive girls in high school, and college, who’d made me the target of their frequent bull
ying. Because of this, I’d come to expect that type of treatment from most women I met, even though I knew my expectation wasn’t accurate. But Mildred spoke honestly, directly, and you always knew where you stood with Millie, as she told me to call her. She was a leggy, blonde bombshell with a brain as big as her heart.

  As I went to my desk to gather my purse and coat, I couldn’t help feeling I’d been casually dismissed, and that, after a passionate kiss and an inquiry of dinner, made me all the more befuddled. What was going on here? Dmitri had, so far, been one of the kindest and most personable bosses I’d had. He actually talked to me in the office—asked about my dad, our situation, seemed to take a genuine interest. But he couldn’t be interested in me romantically, could he? Not a powerful man like that. My fear of being set up for a fall grew.

  Dad could obviously see the worry on my face when I came home. “What happened, kiddo? You’ve got that white line around your mouth that you get when you worry.”

  I could tell he struggled to get the last few words out. His breathing was bad today. Dad, a retired homicide detective, had been diagnosed with emphysema when I was thirteen. Now the disease had progressed to the point where he needed an oxygen machine at all times.

  “Well, looks like I have a date,” I told him, as I sat in the tattered armchair across from where he rested on the couch. “And it’s with my boss.”

  His tired, grey face brightened. “That’s great. I’m always telling you to get out more. When is it?”

  “Eight o’ clock tomorrow. But you can’t be left alone…”

  He waved me off. “Bah, call Lucy from across the way. She said she’ll come watch me when you need.”

  Lucy rented the second half of the duplex we lived in. She was a nice older woman who, if Dad were healthier, I could see him running away with. “Okay, okay, I’ll go. Let me call Lucy now.”

  ***

  I stared at myself in the cracked, bathroom mirror. My eyes, a smoky blue grey, were the only part of my face I liked. My nose was too big, my face too long, my chin far too pronounced. At least, I’d always thought so. I rarely wore make up, but tonight I decked out in some blush, a touch of eyeliner, mascara, and a muted shade of rosy brown lipstick that matched the dress I wore. I’d even splurged on a pair of contacts for the date. Truly decadent of me, considering the cost of Dad’s medication, but he’d encouraged me to go treat myself. The dress, however, was the only one I owned, and the satiny, slip-like garment had also been my prom gown. Thankfully it still fit, and was plain but classy enough to pull off as fancy dinner attire.