What She Needs

by Lacey Alexander

  “And we also ask that you remember—most of our fantasies are designed to be just that. You’ll be traveling to other places in your fantasies, maybe other times. You and I and everyone else involved will all be playing roles, and even if that feels odd at first, just do your best and I promise it’ll be okay. We won’t be just Brent and Jenna anymore—but if you need me, or if you need to invoke the safeword, just find me with your eyes and I’ll be there. Otherwise, the idea is to immerse yourself in the setting and situation as much as possible.

  “And finally,” he continued, “I need to address sexual safety.”

  Oh, shit. He hadn’t worn a condom! Combining the intensity of the moment with the fact that she was out of practice, it had totally slipped her mind. Then again, how was a girl supposed to remember a condom in a situation as freaky as this?

  But Brent seemed cool as a cucumber. “Every employee who takes part in our fantasies is tested monthly and the documentation is in our offices, should you wish to see it. We have yours on file, too.”

  As luck had it, she’d recently been tested as part of a screening process at a community college where she’d applied to teach a history course to earn extra money between book advances—and she’d even gone so far as forwarding the results via e-mail when Mariel had requested them, all to keep up the appearance that she was planning to take the whole prize. And now she was. Unbelievable.

  Jenna had also reported to Mariel that she was on birth control—even if most of the time the only purpose it served was keeping her periods regular. So he surely had that information, as well.

  Yet still, despite all that, she swallowed uncomfortably. “How do I know, um, you’re safe?”

  To her surprise, he looked amused. “Mine’s on file, too, if you want to see it.”

  She blinked. “Why do you need one? If you don’t normally participate in guests’ fantasies.”

  “I don’t participate in the fantasies of the guests to whom I’m a guide. That doesn’t mean I don’t take part in those of other guests.”

  “Oh.” Hmm. He had sex here, with strangers, on a regular basis.

  It didn’t change anything—she’d known it all along really, but somehow maybe she’d hoped he’d outgrown that part of the job upon becoming a guide. Now pictures filled her head: him, in the center of orgies, naked, thrusting, the way he’d just thrust into her. And it reminded her that she’d just agreed to do whatever he chose for her. With him. With other people. And for all she knew, she might end up in the center of an orgy! Oh God, had she lost her mind?

  Just then, as sanity was about to return, Brent reached out to touch her, his fingertips curving over her cheek. “Thank you for trusting me enough to do this, sunshine.”

  And that brief glimpse of sanity forced her to ask, “Why . . . do I trust you? I just met you. And as you said, I’m not even sure I like you.” Even if her sarcastic tone hinted otherwise.

  In reply, he leaned close and whispered in her ear. “Maybe it’s because I just gave you the best orgasm of your life.” Then he pushed smoothly to his feet, said, “Goodnight, sunshine,” and walked away, leaving Jenna to wonder just what the hell she’d gotten herself into and why.

  Chapter 3

  When a bright blast of morning sun woke Jenna, her first response was to roll over and pull a pillow over her head—which happened to be pounding. But then she realized she wasn’t at home. And she remembered where she was. And that she’d had a lot to drink throughout the day and evening yesterday. And that she’d . . . oh boy. Oh God.

  She’d had sex with a big, hot, sexy hunk of a man she’d never met before last night.

  She’d had the best orgasm of her life, as he’d accurately pointed out.

  And she’d agreed to . . . yikes!

  Jenna bolted upright in bed and looked around the room. Was she remembering all this correctly?

  She found herself hoping desperately that it had all somehow been a dream. A really big, long, drawn-out, amazingly detailed dream. Maybe she’d just returned to her room after an awkward dinner with her decidedly very male guide and fallen asleep in a rum-punch-and-wine stupor, inventing the whole thing in her subconscious mind.

  Of course, the dress tossed unceremoniously on the floor in a heap near the bed wasn’t a good sign—she was normally neater than that. And . . . ugh, she was a little sore. There. Which meant she hadn’t just fabricated wild sex with Brent Powers. Uh-oh.

  And this also meant she’d agreed to something absolutely . . . insane and unthinkable in the afterglow of what had clearly been mind-altering sex.

  Well, too bad. She’d just have to call Mr. Powers and tell him she’d come to her senses, that she’d been drunk last night, and that the deal was off, so if he was busy mapping out sexual adventures for her, he could stop, or use them for some other guest. One who’d actually come here for sex.

  Just then, a soft knock echoed through the door, and before Jenna could even react, a male voice said, “I’m leaving your breakfast outside, Ms. Banks.”

  Breakfast? Was room service every morning part of the deal? She didn’t recall reading that anywhere. Still, giving the server time to walk back down the hall, she pushed back the covers, tried to move slowly to keep her head from hurting any worse, and eased out of bed. Quietly opening the door in just a cami and panties, she peeked outside to make sure she was alone, then pulled a bamboo breakfast cart inside.

  Atop it, a covered plate sat next to a vase of fresh-cut tropical flowers with a crisp white envelope tucked amid the blooms. First, she lifted the lid to find pancakes—which, again, she didn’t remember placing an order for, but they were exactly what she was in the mood to eat. Recovering the plate to keep it warm, she turned her attention to the envelope, plucking it up from the flowers. Her first name was written on the outside—and ripping into it, she discovered a handwritten letter on Hotel Erotique stationery.

  Good morning, Jenna.

  I thought after last night you might enjoy a quiet breakfast in your room. I know what took place between us was a big step for you, so I wanted to tell you again how proud of you I am.

  And if you’ve woken up this morning regretting anything that happened or sorry you agreed to my plans for your stay, remember what you told me last night. You wanted the decision taken out of your hands. Consider this my way of taking it. Last night you committed to experiencing the sex I think will be the most pleasurable and beneficial to you, so you’re going to experience it. You may recall, too, that I spoke of what’s to come as being a leap of faith for you. Rest assured that I fully intend to see you take that leap, even if I have to push you.

  The events of the next two weeks will transform you, Jenna, and as your guide, I’m now invested in ensuring that happens. So there’s no going back—only forward. Take that leap of faith and keep making me proud.

  Feel free to use the morning as you wish—at the pool or beach, or at the spa—but return to your room by 2 p.m. when more instructions will await you.

  Brent

  Huh. Jenna just stared at the piece of paper, the breakfast practically forgotten.

  He was proud of her. He’d said that last night, too, and she’d liked it. She still did—even without quite understanding why. Maybe she liked the idea of being a bolder sort of woman, more like Shannon. Although she didn’t think even Shannon would ever have done anything like what Brent Powers was suggesting.

  Or was that demanding?

  She knew he couldn’t make her, of course. Yet he’d very firmly taken the lead she’d given him in that weak moment when she’d admitted she wanted the decision removed from her hands. Meaning—I want to have sex with you, but I can’t bear to want it or to admit I want it, so I want you to take over and make it happen—which he’d definitely read loud and clear. What a hell of a thing to confess.

  And so he thought that confession stretched into today, too, and the rest of the trip, did he? The truth was, something about the way he took charge—both last night and now
—turned her on a little. She’d never liked bossy or controlling men, but . . . somehow this appealed.

  Because it does exactly what you need it to? Because it takes the accountability away from you? At least in a technical sense. And last night that seemed to have been good enough.

  But today . . . well, to begin with, she wasn’t intoxicated.

  And her body wasn’t humming with lust.

  Well, not much anyway. Now that she was forced to think back on last night, and on Brent Powers and everything so hot and seductive about him, it was making her a little warm in the panties again. “Sheesh,” she scolded herself, “knock it off already.”

  Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to sit down and enjoy these pancakes. Then you’re going to put on your bikini, head down to the beach, and find a relaxing spot to soak up some sun and clear your head. After which you’ll send Brent a little note just like the one he sent you, thanking him for last night but telling him you’ve decided to stick to your original plan—the beach, the pool, the spa. No more sex with strangers, Brent or otherwise.

  Brent walked along the shoreline in the morning sun, berating himself. He ran the place—he should know the damn rules. And the biggest? Never fuck your own guest. Never. Guides just couldn’t. It threatened to fracture the whole system.

  And in all his years, he’d never broken that rule. Until now.

  Of course, it helped that until now, he’d never been guide to a female guest. One he was attracted to at that. And one whose need he’d felt in an almost tangible way. Somehow, over the course of dinner, he’d begun to feel responsible for fixing everything that was less than perfect inside her when it came to her sexual self.

  And he was pretty sure her sexual issues ran deeper than even her questionnaires implied. He strongly suspected she’d absorbed every bit of negative sexual reinforcement more profoundly than some people might, just because that’s the kind of person she was; she felt things intensely.

  Not that seducing her had been part of his grand plan. Turned out it worked well enough in convincing her to go through with the fantasies, but nothing had pulled him up out of his chair and over to that railing other than pure desire. The entire time he’d sat across from her, he’d been admiring the way her dress hugged her breasts, the lush inner curves on display, her nipples jutting provocatively against the fabric. He’d found her blue eyes bright, pretty, expressive—and her lips had looked downright kissable. Not that he’d actually gotten around to that, kissing her—he’d been too busy touching her, persuading her, fucking her. He got a little hard again now, just remembering.

  And now he’d agreed to take part in her fantasies. Shit.

  Unfortunately, he really cared about giving the girl what she needed. And since she’d come here under false pretenses, not even knowing she needed anything . . . well, that still complicated things immensely. That was why, despite all these rules he was breaking and should probably quit breaking, he’d sent her that little breakfast greeting. Checking his watch, he suspected she’d gotten it a few minutes ago.

  How was she reacting? Was he winning her over, convincing her not to go back on the agreement? Or was she packing her bags and heading toward the airstrip at this very moment?

  And why the hell did he care so damn much?

  God knew he’d fucked a lot of women here, taken part in a lot of fantasies. It was almost all he knew. His whole adult life had been spent helping people find sexual fulfillment, and through that, finding his own—along with professional fulfillment as well.

  He’d never set out to be a sex expert, as Jenna had called him last night. No, he’d set out to be a garden-variety psychologist. But somewhere during his last year of undergrad, he’d realized his goals weren’t focused enough. He’d been unsure whom he even wanted to help—mainly just fascinated by learning about the human mind, behavior, and how it all worked together.

  And then, as graduation approached, he’d lost what little focus he’d had to begin with. That’s when another psych major, his buddy Chris, had told him he knew where they could both get what he’d called “a dream job.” Brent had soon become a facilitator at the Hotel Erotique, which was what they called the employees who weren’t qualified to be guides but took part in the fantasies. Some facilitators actually had acting aspirations and enjoyed that facet of it, but all were required to have some sort of background or education in psychology and were carefully screened to ensure they possessed healthy, mature attitudes about sex. At the time, it had been a good distraction from some recent pain—and he’d discovered that finding people who shared viewpoints on sex similar to his had felt kind of like . . . coming home in a weird way.

  As it turned out, Chris had worked here for only six months before meeting a girl on a weekend trip to Miami whom he’d soon married, and now he was a respected psychiatrist and happy father of three. Brent, on the other hand, had never left.

  Sure, he’d gone home to his family in Pittsburgh on holidays, but that had lasted just a few years. Now he only sent gifts and actually spent Thanksgiving and Christmas here with friends who, again, had come to feel more like family to him over time.

  A weird lifestyle? Sure, he supposed it probably seemed that way. But he knew his work here truly helped people lead more fulfilling lives, and he took pride in it—enough that after three years as a facilitator he’d taken an extended leave of absence to get his PhD, allowing him to return as a guide. And he’d become so enmeshed in the resort that when the older couple who’d originally opened the place—Charlie and Madge—were ready to retire, they’d kept twenty-five percent of the business for themselves, selling other equal shares to Brent and two of the other longtime guides, Mariel and Dave.

  So what did Jenna Banks think of him—a guy who chose this as a way of life?

  And . . . hell, why did he give a crap? He’d met literally thousands of women here and seldom thought about their views of him. He could only attribute this to the oddity of having to perform the more personal guide duties to a female guest.

  The peculiar part was—designing a plan for her should have been harder than usual, but it was easier. Guys were more difficult to analyze, because they often had a hard time being open, even on a questionnaire. With his usual guests—who could be cocky jock types, forty-year-old virgins, newly divorced men, guys having midlife crises, you name it—it was always a challenge digging into their psyches and figuring out what was missing in their sex lives, why it was missing, how it affected them beyond sex, and many other questions. With Jenna, she’d kindly put it all out there on the forms she’d completed, making it startlingly clear-cut—and then she’d simplified matters further by showing him last night that she was in denial about it all.

  And while it had been tricky to get her to agree to the fantasies while being in denial, now that she had, the rest seemed . . . incredibly simple. So simple that as he walked along the water’s edge, hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts, he devised her fantasies, one after the other, all in about twenty minutes. There’d be more details to work out as they went along, and as he saw how she responded to each—but his job here was plain: Take her from being a woman who desired sex but inside feared it was dirty and wrong . . . to being a woman fully in touch with her sexual self, fully at ease expressing her sexuality; a woman no one would ever call Little Mary Sunshine between the sheets.

  “Get ready, Jenna,” he whispered to himself as the surf rushed up over his feet, “because the first thing we need to teach you is how to follow my instructions.” She’d already let him know last night that putting him in a position of control worked for her—so that was a central tool he’d use to get her through this process. Once she grew accustomed to obeying his commands, half the battle would be over—she’d soon be rising above her past and accepting her true sexual nature.

  Jenna had found a quiet, secluded spot on the beach not far from her building where a few umbrellas stood lodged in the sand—padded lounge chairs dotted the a
rea as well. She’d taken a book, a Civil War memoir that would normally hold her interest, but she found it hard to concentrate. God, she wished she could call Shannon and tell her all that had happened—but Shannon worked in a busy office where she couldn’t take personal calls, even one about the most freaky occurrence of her best friend’s life.

  So she stretched out on the beach chair and struggled to stop replaying the unbelievable memories of last night over and over in her mind. She enjoyed the sun and sea air and peaceful views and tried to quit stressing over the unexpected turn her trip had so quickly taken. She attempted to focus on the pleasant sensation that her skin was beginning to tan beneath her coconut-scented sunscreen. But all she really kept thinking was, I still can’t believe I had sex with that guy last night. Really hot sex.

  When a waiter who introduced himself as Ryan arrived out of nowhere, descending the dunes behind her to ask if she wanted a drink, she nearly fainted. Since this expanse of beach lay nowhere near the pools, restaurants, or main public buildings, she’d thought she’d found an isolated area to be alone—and that had been the idea, to get away from the Hotel Erotique for a while.

  “How did you even know I was here?” she asked, dumbfounded.

  The waiter, a good-looking, muscular guy in his early twenties who had surely been a jock in high school, just smiled. “Any place you find an umbrella on the beach is an area where we provide service. As a guest here, your pleasure is our business.”

  She drew in her breath, slightly flustered. “Oh. Well then, how about one of your, um, erotic rum punches?”

  “Coming up,” he said with a wink, then walked away.

  And for the first time, Jenna wondered—did people who worked here in other capacities, such as waiters, ever take part in the fantasies? Like this guy? Or Josh, her waiter from yesterday? What about Gabe? She shivered a little, despite the heat of the Caribbean sun, just curious, just beginning to cautiously imagine what a Hotel Erotique fantasy might be like.