by M. S. Parker
“Thank you,” he said as he kissed my temple.
“For what?” I pressed my face against his chest, every inch of my body throbbing.
“For giving me the chance to make you as happy as my parents and grandparents made each other.” He tugged my blanket off my bed and wrapped it around us.
“You already do,” I said quietly.
And it was only the beginning.
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One
Michelle
"Damn, I'm good."
Leaning back in my seat, I added my byline to the article – Michelle Nestor.
Too bad my article wasn't for something a little more elaborate than a little local magazine, detailing all the hot happening places in a suburbia.
It was okay, though. This piece on Phoenicia, NY was another notch on my freelance belt, and the more notches I had, the more I would get.
And now that this boring piece was done, I could focus on writing something for my aunt. Aunt Blair worked for a much bigger outfit than the Phoenix out of Phoenicia – had to love the alliteration there.
Aunt Blair worked for Coterie, one of the biggest women’s magazines in the nation.
Coterie's readers numbered into the millions, and they were all over the country – hell, they were all over the world. Thanks to the miracle of online readership, the few articles I'd actually gotten published by them had been read by people across the globe.
I had readers in Australia.
That was such a kick. People in Oz had read my work.
Not just people up in Buffalo or Phoenicia who'd picked up the Phoenix or another one of the local magazines I'd been lucky enough to get published in – but all across the world.
It was such a rush to think about it.
"How about you stop thinking about it and start actually writing another article?" Wiping the dopey grin off my face, I gave myself a kick in the pants so I actually would focus on it. Aunt Blair was happy to take a look at anything I put in front of her, but it had to be something that her reader base would want.
Sometimes my freelance pieces were hit-or-miss.
I couldn't help it though. I had never been a normal twenty-something. No matter how hard I tried, normal was just not what I was.
I liked to pretend it was the writer in me.
Pulling up the file, I clicked it open and started from the beginning, tightening up the writing as I read through to refresh my memory. It didn't matter that I had a Masters in this shit. When I got in the groove, my brain was firing too fast to worry about things like grammar and spelling. That was why and so often ended up as amd and an became and.
It was also why I needed an editor.
A half an hour later, my groove was strong, and I was somewhat thrown when the phone rang.
Actually, thrown wasn't the word.
I was irritated. I hated it when I had a good groove going and somebody or something interrupted me.
This was why I didn't have a cat.
This was why I didn't have a roommate.
"This is why you don't have a boyfriend," I muttered.
Although that was actually a lie. It was one I told to comfort myself when I felt lonely, but it was bullshit.
Answering the phone, I tried not to sound like I was ready to bite the person's head off through the handset.
"Make it fast," I snapped.
Aunt Blair laughed. "Wow. You're either writing something brilliant or you stayed up way too late watching Netflix. Which one is it?"
Having to recalibrate my attitude and my mood on the fly wasn't easy, but I managed.
"Both?" I offered. Realizing I was going to be on the phone for several minutes at least, I pushed back from my desk and got up to go get some coffee. Coffee made everything better.
That was just a fact of life.
And when you found the coffee pot empty that just made life worse. Groaning, I rinsed out the damn pot and started a fresh batch while Aunt Blair rightly guessed, "Are you out of coffee already?"
"I'm starting to think you have cameras planted in my office."
"No, I just know you. Tell me something, love, are you ever going to wake up in a good mood because you've had fantastic sex all night?"
If only.
"Sure," I quipped, keeping my voice light to hide the wistfulness inside me. "Who did you have in mind?"
"I can't help you figure that out, sweetheart." There was something in her voice, though, that made me think I wasn't fooling her. She didn't push. One more reason I loved her above all other aunts, uncles, and cousins. "So, listen, sweetie...I've got some news."
"Do you?" Interest twitched inside me. When Aunt Blair usually called this early in the morning with news, it was because she had work for me. Especially when she started off the conversation like that.
I thought about everything I had on my plate and decided most of it could be done fast enough and none of it was important enough that I couldn't work my aunt in. Especially if it had to do with Coterie.
"Oh, yes," she said, heaving out a sigh that was torn between fervent and beleaguered. "I'm in a bind, sweetheart, and you're a bit inexperienced, but seriously, you're one of the best writers I know and that's what I need. If you do a good job on this, which I'm sure you will, this could be a big break for you."
I held my breath as she paused, knowing better than to ask a question or interrupt.
"It was an article that Gina Goddard was going to write. She pitched it to me months ago and we've got the space, everything all lined up. We've already pitched it to our reader base. They're expecting it, but Gina was in a wreck. We're so fucked. Gina can't write for the next month, minimum."
At first, all I heard was...Gina Goddard.
Gina was like my guru. I read all of her pieces. I scoured the internet looking for her older articles, and I studied her interview techniques. She'd been in a wreck?
My heart fluttered. "Oh my goodness, is she okay?"
"She will be." Aunt Blair gave another strained sigh. "I don't know why she insists on driving that insane little car of hers."
"Aunt Blair...it's a Porsche. And more, it's a rather unique one. They only produced ten of that particular model the year it was made." Rolling my eyes, I fought the urge to tell her how car-illiterate she was. I was car illiterate, but I looked like an A student next to her.
"And she should have left that Porsche sitting in the garage next to her apartment," Aunt Blair replied. "Somebody hit on her Fifth and the car folded around her like a candy shell. She's now in the hospital with a broken leg, a punctured lung, and she's battered and bruised to Kingdom Come."
Aunt Blair's voice was taut with worry, and I immediately felt bad.
"I'm sure she's going to be okay, Aunt Blair. Gina is tough."
Tough barely described Gina.
The woman was beyond tough. She was also a dedicated reporter and freelance writer. The thought that my aunt was trusting me enough to write a piece that had been meant for Gina was more than just a compliment. To be honest, it was slightly unnerving.
And if I thought about it for too long, I'd get too nervous and too panicky.
"What's the piece?" I asked, determined to get my nerves settled.
"Well, in line with our earlier topic of discussion..." Aunt Blair laughed lustily. "It's all about how to have multiple orgasms, sweetheart. This oughta be enlightening for you."
The only thing I really heard was multiple orgasms.
"So, are you interested?"
The greedy, determined writer in me said "Yes," before the common sense part of me could even figure out a response.
It was probably a good thing.
The common sense part of me was too busy thinking...
But I've never had multiple orgasms.
Tell her no, you can't do this.
The common sense part of me was thinking...
How in the hell do you research something like that?
But the greedy writer had already taken control.
"Aunt Blair, that sounds fascinating and delightful. When do I start? She has research?"
Aunt Blair sounded delighted. "Oh, wonderful, honey. Just wonderful."
"Her research?" I asked hopefully.
"Not so much," Blair said. "She hadn't quite yet started. And you're going to have to rush this because this was supposed to run in the Valentine issue. Gina was running behind, but we trusted her to get it done as always. So, I need your best, and I need it fast."
'But you said she hadn't started it?" Oh, shit.
Now the other shoe dropped.
"Honey, you'll be fine. You've got a lot of what you're going to need already lined up. She has an interview set up with a man she told me has been called the king of multiple orgasms." Another deep, dirty laugh. "Honey, you're going to be interviewing a gigolo."
"What?" I demanded.
"You heard me. I'll send you the information via email shortly. You might want to get a haircut, a manicure. Nobody wants to see a male prostitute when their nails are looking all ragged." She clicked her tongue a few times. "Use the business credit card I gave you."
Blair sounded positively cheerful about all of it.
"I know how you are on deadline."
Two
Michelle
Michelle
"This is insane." I understood he needed to be able to pick me out of a crowd, but this was still insane. Huddling inside my coat as I hurried up the steps, I tried to understand what was the point of going someplace in this kind of weather wearing a mini skirt and high heels sans stockings.
No tights. Nothing. No stockings at all.
Boots apparently had been out of the question.
Fortunately, my coat went all the way to my ankles. Not only was it warm, it was lined and heavy enough that the wind didn't send it flapping all around me. Still, I shivered inside it as I hurried through the doors.
I turned it over to the man just inside and fluffed my hair.
It was packed inside, and I tried to see if the seat I was supposed to find was open as the instructions in the email had insisted it would be.
Aaaaannnnddd...it was.
Sure enough, the second seat from the end at the bar was empty. It was insanely crowded in here, but those two seats sat vacant. Shaking my head, I gave my hair one last fluff and then made my way over toward the bar. A couple started to approach the two seats, and I froze. Maybe I was wrong.
"Excuse me," a churlish voice came up from behind me, and I sidestepped, realizing I was standing right in the middle of the one clear path available.
A waiter eyed me with cool appraisal as I stood there.
"I'm sorry," I said, easing a little farther out of the way.
The waiter cut around me without any reply, and when I looked back at the bar I realized the couple had abandoned their attempts to take the seats. "Okay. Let's try again," I told myself. I resumed my walk and nobody else got between me and those seats.
When I got to the bar, I waited for the bartender to look at me. Feeling foolish as I stood there, I toyed with the strap of my purse until he finally glanced my way. When he did, he raked me up, then down with a quick look before simply nodding at the seat.
"Ah, I believe one of these seats are mine."
He put a drink down in front of somebody and gestured to the stool I'd been eying.
Well. A man of many words.
I sat down and looked around, but the only solo guy I saw was an older man who looked to be in his sixties. Please tell me that's not him.
It wasn't that he was a bad looking older guy, but he looked like he was somebody's grandpa, not The King of Multiple Orgasms. How could I talk sex with somebody who looked like a grandpa?
I had to fight back the urge to giggle and ended up ordering a glass of wine so I could do something other than laugh nervously or stare.
Several minutes ticked by as I waited, but the older man didn't approach.
Neither did anybody else.
The King of Multiple Orgasms was running late.
When the bartender put down my glass of wine, he laid down a piece of paper with it.
I'm here. Don't look up and please stop looking around. My job requires absolute discretion and looking around attracts attention.
If you understand, please nod your head.
My heart started to race. Wow. This felt kind of cloak-and-dagger-ish. But I picked up the wine and right before I took a sip, I nodded. Some part of me was waiting for Gina and Blair to pop out and yell surprise.
It didn't happen, and less than a minute later, a man slid onto the stool next to mine.
I started to turn my head in his direction.
"Don't look at me. Discretion, remember?"
His voice was low and smooth, accented slightly. He sounded like he was from someplace out west. Texas, maybe.
That low, easy twang did something weird to all the girly parts inside me – or maybe it was the deep, smooth sound of his voice. I had no idea.
My reaction was surprising enough that I took a drink of wine before replying. "Hello." I fought to keep my voice level and at the same low tone of his.
Somebody labeled The King of Multiple Orgasms probably paid a lot of attention to the female persuasion. It only made sense, otherwise how could he be the king of one orgasm much less the king of multiple ones?
"I'm happy to talk to you, but you can't look at me," he said in the same low voice that somehow carried to me despite the noise. "Confidentiality is key in my line of business so you can’t use my name. Anything I tell you must be kept between us. Are you okay with that?"
I wasn't sure how I was supposed to do this without naming a source, but I'd find a way. I needed this break. After another sip of wine, I went to look at him, only to get another stern reminder.
"Don't look at me." He sounded mildly exasperated now.
I toyed with my glass, thinking this through. I guess I could still use his information without naming the source and in his line of work I didn’t blame him for wanting to stay anonymous.
"You do understand that this is confidential? I need to be able to trust you on this."
I gave another single nod. Then, hoping I used the proper amount of amusement and professionalism, I asked, "Am I okay to record this? I'll take notes, but I do better having my recordings as back up."
He was quiet a moment, then I sensed him shrugging. "Maybe. But...no peeking. And it might help if you say please."
"Good grief," I muttered, unsure why I felt so unsettled just then – or turned on. But I tossed out a flippant, "Please."
"Alright, then." He stroked one finger up my bare arm, making me shiver.
"I get it, you know," I told him, trying to cover my uneasy arousal. "You want to be an international man of mystery. But why not just let me interview you over the phone if privacy was so essential?"
He laughed, and the sound of it was even sexier than his voice. "Because I can't read you over the phone. Can't see if you follow the rules, do as I say."
"So this is a test?"
"Of course."
Trying to distract myself, I flipped my notebook open, but I wasn't sure how to start this. How did one interview a male prostitute? I should have written down some questions, but I'd been interviewing people for several years now and had come to accept that I never felt right asking the staid, boring, typical questions. Winging it always produced better results.
But the only thing in my mind right now was...
Awful.
Blood rushed to my face. Hoping to hide the blush until it faded, I propped my chin in my hand. "I hope you don't mind answering some of these questions. Some might sound kind of silly, or intrusive. Or both," I hedged
, waiting for even a silly question to come to mind.
So far, all I had was...do you really sleep with women for money?
"If I wasn't open to answering questions, I wouldn't have agreed to the interview." He sounded amused, and I had a difficult time not turning to look at his face.
Finally, another question popped into my head, and it made it to my lips too.
"How much do you charge?"
"Well, you just get right to it, don't you?" He reached over, trailing a finger down the hand that still propped my chin up and shielded my face. "You'll have a hard time taking notes like that. You are right handed, I believe."
"I am. I just..." Babbling made me sound so professional. "I'm still trying to figure out the right approach to this, to be honest. This is a little different from most of my articles."
There. That sounded honest enough, didn't it?
"How so?"
"Well, my last one was about all the hot, happening places in Phoenicia, New York. I'm pretty sure if I'd turned in a piece that had anything to do with male prostitutes, I'd lose the chance to get another job with them." Immediately after, I regretted the directness of my reply.
But he didn't seem to mind. "Not everybody has an open mind about sex. That's just life. But it's a basic need – like food, water, companionship."
I'd lowered my hand, and from the corner of my eye, I could see that he'd leaned in closer. The light gilded his hair now, and I had the impression that it was pale gold.
"I imagine you can understand that, can't you?" he murmured, his voice closer to my ear now. "By the way, speaking of companionship, I didn't catch my companion's name."
"Ah..." I swallowed, feeling like there was a knot in my throat the size of a fist. "I'm...ah...Michelle. I imagine you were expecting Gina, but there were circumstances. I assure you, there are good reasons–"
"Drink your wine, Michelle. I know about Gina's wreck. Her assistant emailed me to let me know somebody else would likely handle the interview...perhaps even the article. Are you nervous?" He nudged the wine closer.