Hired

by Zoey Castile

  And yet here we are, two strangers in their underwear before midnight.

  “Your turn,” I say.

  He undoes his pants and pushes them down. He’s in black boxer briefs that stretch across the muscular mounds of his thighs. The hard strain of his dick against the fabric.

  There’s that smile of his again, and that magnetism returns. He grips my arms tightly, holds me at arm’s length and waits.

  “Why are you keeping me so far away?” I ask.

  “I just want to remember you,” he whispers.

  Then he pulls me to him, my mouth hungry for his in a way that scares me. I wrap my arms around his. His hand explores my back, slides around my derrière and along my thigh. I lift it up in response to his touch, and in that movement, our parts line up perfectly.

  I break the kiss to let go of a sigh.

  Aiden cups his hands firmly around my bottom and picks me up. I cling to him as I let go of a tiny, sharp gasp.

  “I got you,” he whispers into my neck. “I got you.”

  I lean down to kiss him once more as we cross the threshold leading back into the suite, continuing past the living room, and toward the bed.

  He throws me onto it.

  I start to take my heels off.

  “Leave them on,” he says, and parts my knees. Presses a kiss on the inside of my thighs, moving quickly and surely to the heart between my legs.

  My chest is wild with new feelings, my mind worse with thoughts. This is so, so very not like me, and yet, it feels so, so very good.

  When Aiden pulls my underwear down, I wriggle with anticipation. It ends in the pit of my stomach as he closes his mouth over my clit, expertly licking circles and figure eights and all kinds of twists that I’ve never experienced before. I don’t want to think too deeply about how much he’s practiced to get this particularly wonderful skill. But I squeeze my thighs around his head, searching for that rush, the overwhelming crash of pleasure that I’ve only been able to find with the fun vibrating toy in my nightstand. Aiden is a living version of that toy. Better even, because the next thing I know, I’ve got my fist in his hair as everything within me comes crashing down and there is nothing but us and this room and his tongue licking up the wetness between my legs like it’s his birthday ice cream cake.

  When my breath settles, and I let go of his hair, he eases himself to stand over me. When he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, I want to lick the corners of his devilish smile.

  “I should’ve been drinking you instead of those hurricanes,” he says softly.

  No one has ever stared at me with the intensity he has right now. It thrills me down to my bones. So much that I want to do something I don’t do. Not for the last three guys I dated. Not since the first time I really didn’t enjoy it.

  I tug the side waistband of his underwear and free his heavy erection. My hand looks small around the shaft, not quite able to close around the width. A tiny moan escapes my throat.

  “Faith,” he says, shutting his eyes as I move my hand up, and up, my thumb caressing the outline of his frenulum. It’s inches from my mouth. I touch it to my lips for a breath of a kiss. I can feel him shudder, stiffen in my hold even more.

  Then, just as he says, “This is the best birthday I’ve ever had,” I close my mouth around the tip.

  “Oh, no,” Aiden groans.

  When I open my eyes, he’s startled, and I’m afraid I’ve hurt him or done something wrong. Because he’s jerking away from me, and Aiden, the most beautiful man I’ve ever met, has finished his birthday celebration before I could get started.

  5

  Blow Me (One Last Kiss)

  AIDEN

  So I’m going to put myself on the line and say that something like last night hasn’t happened since I was thirteen and I touched myself for the first time.

  As I lie on the pullout couch in the living room of my suite, just as alone as I was when I started off my birthday, I replay that moment over and over. Things were going as well as I could have asked for, and yet, the sight of Faith on her knees, taking my dick into her hands, unraveled me faster than yarn in a kitten’s paws. I was fine, and the second she took me into her mouth, all I could think of was getting away from her because blowing a load on her face would be downright rude and disrespectful.

  Thankfully, she didn’t completely laugh at me. It was just a giggle, a deep purr as she crawled into my bed on all fours. Just the sight of her on her side, facing me, daring me, waiting for me, made me hard all over again.

  “I’ll go clean up,” I said.

  And I did. Ran right into my bathroom in search of condoms I keep in my toiletry kit. That’s how little sex I was after. I didn’t bring condoms out with me because I didn’t expect any sort of fucking to happen tonight.

  It was like finding the golden ticket. There, shining in my hand as I returned to her. Faith.

  Faith, the sexiest woman alive, asleep on my bed.

  So, here’s the thing about my line of work. I always set these rules. Rules are the key to being professional, but they’re also the key to not going to jail or getting beat up by an angry husband or boyfriend. But most importantly, to keeping the women in my life safe.

  Rule #5: Don’t cop feelings.

  Rule #6: No sex.

  There’s a stipulation there, though. Technically—technically—I don’t have sex with my clients. That’s not part of the agreement. Now, if at the end of everything both parties consent, then why not?

  And so on and on go the rules. I’ve had to adjust for when things don’t work, like when I had to add Rule #17—no costumes—after a client destroyed my image of Little Red Riding Hood when she put on a little dress and a red cape and bought me a wolf mask. I mean, exceptions are made. Addendums slipped into deals to keep everyone happy and safe.

  For instance, I should be adding Rule #45: Don’t bring a girl over to a hotel room being paid for by one of your clients.

  For the record, I’ve never done that before. When I consider myself on the clock, I’m on the clock. But Faith.

  Faith was unexpected.

  The shy smile when she uttered those words at the bar. Her body reacting to mine. The way she arched her back when I buried my face between her legs. I’m pretty sure she ripped out some of my hair, but I don’t care. I’d gladly take a bald patch just to be able to taste her once again.

  That brings me to Rule #7. If she falls asleep and I can’t get her safely back home, I sleep somewhere else.

  Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not offended at all that she fell asleep on me. I’m flattered really. I felt her. The walls inside her squeezed around my fingers like a vise as she came all over my mouth. She purred like a kitten, stretched, and then that was it. It was fucking sexy.

  Sweet dreams, Faith. I pulled the sheets over her and told myself to ignore the strange twinge in my chest. Fucking hurricanes.

  I grabbed a blanket from the closet, closed the door to the bedroom, and made up the pullout couch.

  I checked my text messages. One from Ginny texting a selfie of herself in the bathroom of wherever she is.

  I bought this with your eyes in mind. It’s a red nighty with hearts over the nipples.

  I don’t want to lie to her. Some of my friends argue that it’s what I’m being paid for. But I’m not an asshole. At least, I hope I’m not. I don’t want to be. The response she wants from me is not the one I could give her, because my mind is consumed by the other woman in my bed.

  Beautiful, I text back because she is a beautiful woman.

  What are you doing?

  Just in bed.

  It’s N’awlins darlin’.

  Believe me, I can hear it from here. Just jet-lagged, I guess.

  He’s back. Xoxo.

  <3

  I take a quick, cold shower, then jump into the sofa bed. And drift off to the sound of Bourbon Street and my thoughts of Faith.

  * * *

  When I wake up, I replay last night. Ginny leavi
ng. The bar. Faith. My premature birthday surprise. But, really, Faith. She appeared like a sign, a gift wrapped present from the Universe. Or maybe I’m trying to make more of this one-night stand because I’m embarrassed by how my body reacted to her. Frantic and needy and all the things I’ve tried so hard to not be.

  And there she is, still asleep. I wonder if she’s one of those workaholics who live on coffee and four hours of sleep a day. The tension in her yesterday was unbelievable.

  I’ve never had a second date that wasn’t a client. And I don’t think I can start now. To make her the most comfortable, I’ll go out and get breakfast and let her leave on her own. I don’t want there to be any awkwardness, and maybe it’ll be better if I’m not here.

  I write down a quick note: Thanks for last night, Aiden.

  That’s fine, right?

  Before I can second-guess myself, I put on gym shorts and a T-shirt and head out.

  The streets are deserted. None of last night’s debauchery is anywhere to be found. Even the streets are clean. Mostly. There’s still the lingering scent of stale booze and staler vomit as I cross the streets in search of breakfast.

  My phone buzzes. It’s too early for anyone normal to be calling me, so it has to be one of my boys. Fallon’s ugly mug is on my screen, and I swipe.

  “Jim’s Taco Shop, how may we service you this morning?” I ask.

  “Always with the jokes.”

  I laugh and scare an old woman walking opposite from me.

  “What’s up?”

  “I spoke to Ricky this weekend,” he says.

  I let a silence run for a bit before asking, “Is he still pissed at me?”

  There’s grunting in the background, but before I can let my mind wander to somewhere perverted, he says, “Sorry, I’m at the gym. And he’s not pissed anymore. It’s been three weeks so now he’s just disappointed.”

  I get quiet again. Start, then stop. How do I explain myself? “I wish I could take it back.”

  “What the hell happened, Aiden?”

  “I played the wrong cards, man. I thought I had a sure thing with that heiress. She offered me my own club, my own show. And then she bailed. I couldn’t face him. Not after I walked out on him like that.”

  Fallon sighs my name. He sounds more like a dad than the one I had. Even in that one sigh. “She was an heiress of almond milk, bro.”

  “I already feel like shit, I don’t need—”

  “I know, but you have to talk to Ricky. Patch things up. You’re still a brother to him. No matter what.”

  “Then why hasn’t he reached out?”

  I can practically see Fallon’s face on the other side of the phone. “Why haven’t you?”

  “Always the peacemaker, right? How’s Robyn?”

  “She’s good. At school right now. I’m at the gym and then I have to go handle the liquor license stuff for my brother.”

  “I’m glad you guys are partnering in that, man.”

  “Whatever moves I have to make to provide. Where in the world is Aiden Rios for his big twenty-fifth birthday?”

  I laugh, but I feel myself choke. “New Orleans.”

  “Damn, I love that place. Eat a hundred beignets from Cafe du Monde for me.”

  “That’s where I’m headed. You know me, breakfast of champions.”

  “I do know you. What lady do you have falling in love with you these days?”

  “You remember that woman I met in New York a while back? Ginny Thomas?” I clear my throat. “I bumped into her on the Strip and we came here. She left yesterday morning. Some emergency business of whatever.”

  “Yeah, alone birthdays suck. I’m sorry, bro.”

  “Whoa, whoa, who said I was alone?”

  Fallon laughs. For a little bit, it’s like nothing has changed. He never left Mayhem City and I never betrayed my mentor and we’re just chilling in the dressing room. “So that’s who you’re getting beignets for.”

  “First of all, I’m pretty sure Faith’s going to want to be gone in the morning. She’s a very uptight business type. I feel used,” I joke and tell him about what happened last night. Minus the premature excitement part.

  After he’s done laughing at me for a bit, he settles down. “Faith, huh? Look at you using first names. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you refer to a woman by her first name. Touch your forehead. Do you have a fever?”

  “I just said Ginny’s name.”

  “A woman who isn’t related to you or your client. A woman you’re sleeping with.”

  “That’s not true,” I say, scratching my head as if that would unlock a memory.

  “Think on it, Aiden.”

  “Don’t start. Just because you’re attached at the hip to your girl doesn’t mean everyone is about that life.”

  “Hold up, hold up. I didn’t even say anything. You’re projecting.” There’s the sound of weights dropping and cheesy Eu-ropop in the background. “Who’s the mystery girl? What’s she like?”

  I jaywalk across the street, and a couple of drivers slam down on their horns. “I don’t know. Hot?”

  But who am I kidding? She’s more than hot. She is incredible.

  “Very descriptive,” Fallon says.

  “She’s—gorgeous, bro. I don’t know. I guess I was off my game yesterday. There was something about her that made me just spill shit I don’t even tell you.”

  “Hm.”

  “What do you mean ‘hm’? What’s ‘hm’?”

  “Do you want to braid her hair, too?”

  “I’m hanging up now.” From here I can smell the muddy Mississippi River. It looks murkier than the Hudson, but it’s probably cleaner.

  “Wait wait wait! I’m just fucking with you. Though, since you’re so sensitive about it, I think that there’s something else going on here.”

  “There’s nothing going on. I had a nice time. That’s it. Plus, I’ll be on the clock again when Ginny comes back.”

  “Aiden, listen to me. I’m not trying to be a grumpy old dad or anything.”

  “You’re right about the dad part, but you’re still grumpy and old as fuck.”

  “Mature. Twenty-five looks good on you. Tell me, what are you going to do if you get back and she’s still there?”

  “She’s not still there,” I say. Faith looked like she was trying to escape something last night and I feel blessed to have been her escape. “I can’t explain it. There’s no way she’s sticking around.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” he tells me.

  I stand in front of the restaurant. A couple of college-aged girls strut past me, and I flash them a smile. “Buenos días.”

  They giggle and whisper to each other, turning around every now and then to keep staring.

  “You’re a stereotype of yourself, dude.”

  “Whatever, man. You’re just jealous because you’re never going to have sex with another person ever again.”

  Fallon laughs. “Yeah, totally jealous. Answer my fucking question.”

  “If she’s still there then I’ll—” What do I do when someone who isn’t a client sleeps over? I can’t remember the last time that happened. With clients, I know exactly what to say. I know what they expect from me. When I’m having my own fun, there are no sleepovers. Ever.

  Fallon is still laughing. “Did you finally realize you broke one of your own dumbass rules? Number a hundred: No slumber parties or something.”

  “There is no rule number one hundred.”

  “Get her a coffee at least, though.”

  “Okay, I’m really hanging up this time.”

  I pocket my phone and head into Cafe du Monde, where the scent of fried dough and powdered sugar is arresting. My stomach growls. An older waitress takes note of me. I guess it’s still pretty early, because the crowd is thin.

  “In or out?”

  I know she means whether I want to sit inside or outside, but what Fallon just said about me comes to mind. Dickbag.

  “To go, please.
”

  She smiles, takes out the pencil behind her ear. “What’re you having, sweetheart?”

  What if Fallon is right? What if Faith is still in my room when I come back? Or worse. What if Ginny gets there before I do? No, that won’t happen. She said she’d be back in a week. Is that guilt that’s making me think like this?

  “I’ll have a dozen beignets and two coffees, please.”

  “Milk and sugar?”

  I don’t know how she drinks her coffee. “I’ll take two black coffees, one with milk, and a fourth with milk and sugar.”

  “So four coffees instead?”

  “Yes, please.” And I realize, that’s a lot of coffee for someone who may or may not be there when I return.

  And it’s a strange feeling hoping Fallon is right.

  FAITH

  The first thing that I realize when I wake up is that I’m not wearing any underwear.

  “Oh fuck,” I groan. “What time is it?”

  I sit up and peer around the room. The bedroom door is closed, and the curtains are drawn. I’m in my blue polka-dotted bra, and the pink, incredibly unsexy panties I was wearing last night are on the bed. Half of it is still unmade, which begs the question, where is Aiden?

  I crack the bedroom door open. “Aiden?”

  Silence.

  I consider wearing one of his shirts, but that’s a strange territory. Clearly he didn’t want to be here—to avoid the awkward morning-after chat. Still, I don’t want to walk around someone’s hotel room without any underwear on.

  In the closet I find a bathrobe and slip into that. I go out onto the balcony to find my clothes. Last night comes to me in flashes. The press conference. Seeing him at the bar. Kissing him. The champagne here. If I close my eyes, I can remember the way his mouth tasted. His mouth on my—

  “Oh God,” I say, placing my hand over my racing heart and the other on the railing beside me. I fell asleep! I don’t know if it was the combination of the bourbon, the comfortable bed, and the first orgasm I’ve had in two years (by a man). But I was out like a light. I remember fluttering my eyes open and Aiden placing covers over me.

  That’s when I notice the messy bed in the living room. He slept on the sofa and gave me his bed.