But his offer was almost... sweet.
Jesus. Did I just say that anything, literally anything, related to Jake Summers was... sweet? This was the guy who once told me that the dress I chose to wear to my work's New Year's Eve party was going to inspire a thousand flaccid penises. The guy who once announced, to an apartment full of people I didn't even know, that I hadn't gotten laid in over a year... and asked if anyone was up for ending my “drought”.
He was a grade A fuckwad ninety-nine percent of the time.
So, seriously, why the sudden pep talk and sex offer? Just because it was a challenge? Because I wasn't, like he thought, just some uptight bitch. That I had actual issues. And, what? He wanted to try his hand at fixing them? Like the other four guys who had tried? Probably. That was very likely exactly why he was interested. Because I was an anomaly. Because I didn't make sense. Because he wanted to prove his manhood by trying to get me all hot and bothered.
Unfortunately for him, I couldn't think about him without thinking about the pile of clothes sitting right in front of the freaking hamper. Not in it. In front of it. Or the shakers full of dried protein powder smoothies from his workouts sitting on the counter. Or his steadfast refusal to take the full garbage bag out of the can and put a new one in.
I would be laying in bed with him silently seething about the water marks his beer left on my coffee table.
Like a freaking resentful, unappreciated wife.
And that wasn't sexy at all.
Now, Chase.
Chase was the poster boy for sexy. What had even led him into psychology in the first place? He could have made a fortune just posing for pictures. Or reading the phone book to women who would drool over every last number coming from between his lips.
I mean... he would have needed to go to college and then grad school. Totaling at least nine years in education. He must have had some strong interest in the psychological field, not just sex therapy. And then after graduating with such a lofty degree, and the potential to earn all kinds of money, why would he decide to become a sexual surrogate on the side? Had he, himself, suffered from some sort of sexual dysfunction at one time? Did he see a surrogate that helped him? How does someone come to work in such an odd field?
Nine years of education. Which meant he would have graduated, at earliest, around twenty-nine. He couldn't be much older than... thirty-five or thirty-six. He hadn't even been practicing for very long.
Unless...
Unless he became a sexual surrogate before he graduated. As a way to make money to get him through his schooling. And he just... continued it because he liked it. Or was good at it.
Which I hoped, for my sake.
From what I read online, there is no law stating a sexual surrogate needs to have any kind of license or certification. Dr. Hudson did. Along with his doctorate. Which made him the best possible choice for me. I had the highest likelihood of success with him.
It had to work. Because I was out of other options. And I couldn't pay to go through the program again.
“Yo,” Jake's voice called through the door, making me start and slip slightly, arms flying out to brace myself. Just what I needed, to break my ass, naked in the shower with only Jake around to help me. “You've been in there long enough. You're gonna have to let your surrogate get the cobwebs off that pussy with his mouth. Soap and water ain't gonna cut it,” he called, making me take a slow, deep breath. The asshole was back. And that was good.
“What the hell do you care how long I'm in here?” I growled, angry that I had settled on an apartment with one bathroom.
“I have a client coming in twenty. I want to clean up.”
“Fine. I'm getting out.”
“Halle-fucking-lujah.”
Jake, by some awful twist of fate, was a massage therapist. I got to walk into my apartment at all hours to see someone laid up on a table, their naughty bits covered (or surprisingly often, not covered) by one of my bath towels. I was constantly surrounded by half, or full, nudity in my own home. There was no escaping the in-my-face proof of how unusual I was. Me and my inability to even walk around the house in a pair of panties and a t-shirt.
I dried, slipped into my clothes, opened the door and gave Jake a scathing look, then made my way to my room.
In truth, yes, Jake drove me up every goddamn wall (and across the ceiling) in the apartment, but I had come to love him. Like the brother I never had. Which was probably why I was so put-off by his invitation. Because, seriously, he was an excellent male specimen. And underneath all the innuendos, foot-in-mouth tendencies, and sloppiness... he was actually a really good guy.
He totally did buy me tampons once. I had literally grabbed the last one, cursing under my breath about having to run out so late at night, when I walked out into the living room to him unloading more jugs of protein powder, then turning and holding out a box of tampons to me.
It was the small things.
And, he was right. The walls were thin in the apartment and I had heard more than my fair share of his sexual conquests night after night. The girls screamed until they lost their damn voices, talking to me all hoarse in the morning. He was good.
But he wasn't man meat material for me.
He was the only real friend I had in the world.
I prayed to whatever almighty power there might be to the universe, that he was not, in any way, harboring sexual feelings toward me. Before, or after, the day's conversation. I sighed, walking over to my computer where noise was coming out of the speakers. A very specific kind of noise. An unmistakable noise.
And, sure enough, the asshole left the porn site up on my screen. I clicked it closed, shaking my head. I didn't have an issue with porn. I could watch it. It didn't (usually) freak me out. But it didn't particularly do it for me either. It was so cold. Devoid of something.
But, then again, I guess so was what I was about to do. What could be more passionless than paying someone to talk you through intimate acts?
I set a password on my computer, shut it off, and made my way toward the bed. It was early, but I felt drained from all the anxiety. I curled up on my side, staring out the window, and not... absolutely not, thinking about Dr. Chase Hudson.
Not about his dark hair. Or his blue eyes. Or his big hand on my knee. Or the fact that he was going to kiss me in three days. Kiss me. In all his gorgeousness. And I certainly did not think about his sexy deep voice telling me I was beautiful. No, I didn't think about that at all.
It totally did not go on repeat in my head all through the weekend. And then the whole day at work on Monday. Nope. Not at all. I wasn't that ridiculous.
First Session
“The one that shows more of your tits,” Jake said behind me, making me jump and swing around.
“Dude. Knock,” I scolded for what must have been the millionth time since he had moved in.
“Like you'd hear me,” he smiled, leaning against the doorjamb. “You're all lost in your little doctor fantasy dream world.”
“No,” I said, but I was. I absolutely was. “I am just trying to find something appropriate to wear.”
“Like I said... the one with more boobage.”
“What,” I started, raising a brow, “in my wardrobe has ever screamed 'boobs'?”
“That's a good point,” he said, unfolding his arms and walking toward my closet.
“What are you doing?”
“You obviously can't be trusted to pick your own clothes out. I mean what was that shit you wore to work?” he asked, rummaging around, making all my neatly folded piles topple. “Here,” he said, producing black skinny jeans and a black tank top.
“It's cold outside,” I objected, taking them because he didn't really give me a choice.
“Fine,” he said, reaching and ripping something off a hanger and flinging a lightweight red wine colored cardigan at me, “But leave this open.” He moved back toward the door. “Heels and put your hair down,” he s
aid, closing the door and leaving me alone.
Dressed, I had to admit, he made a good choice. Better by far than what I would have chosen. I paced my room for a good twenty minutes, messing with my hair occasionally, applying endless coats of lip balm, rubbing a small amount of vanilla scented lotion across my neck and chest. By the time I got there, the scent would be dull, just a hint on the skin. Which was the only way to wear any kind of scent, not bathing in the fucking stuff like the women I worked with did.
“Go get you some ass,” Jake said, swatting my butt as I walked past him toward the door, only twenty minutes early. It wouldn't take me more than ten to get there. But ten minutes early wasn't ridiculous.
I walked up to the doors a short nine minutes later, taking a deep breath, and pulling it open. Expecting, I guess, to see the same secretary from my last appointment. But no, there standing behind the front desk, was Dr. Chase Hudson himself, looking way too good in a gray suit, the jacket open, only one button undone on his (this time black) dress shirt.
He looked up at the whoosh of cool air, something that might be considered a smile tugging at one corner of his lips. “Ava,” he said my name on an exhale.
“Dr. Hudson,” I said, forcing myself to take steps into the waiting area, not stand by the door like I was seconds away from darting.
“Chase,” he corrected, moving out from behind the desk and toward me, making me stiffen. But he walked past me, locking the front door, before turning to me. “You look nice.”
Oh, my.
“Oh, um,” I fumbled, shaking my head. “Thanks.”
His hand moved to my lower back, feeling way too good, and I was wondering if he was just a touchy-feely person if it this was part of the 'trying to get me comfortable with physical contact' thing. Either way, it was nice. He guided me toward his office door, opening it and letting me step through.
“You're welcome,” he said as I passed him. “How was your weekend?”
“Uneventful,” I supplied, meaning I spent all my time trapped in my room because Jay had female company all Saturday and guys over all Sunday to watch some game on TV.
“Ava,” he said as I walked over toward the little seating alcove. “This way,” he said, holding an arm out toward me and I fell into step next to him.
And then he did something straight out of a god damn spy movie. He reached into the bookshelf and opened a freaking hidden door behind it.
“Seriously?” I asked, smiling at him with raised brows.
He offered me a small smile back. “Yup,” he said, pressing his hand into my back and pushing me through.
And this was what I had sort-of been expecting on my first visit. But also, so much more. The walls were painted a deep, deep blue color. White treatments covered the window and billowed across the top of the canopy bed which was also covered in white sheets and comforter. Same hard wood floors. To one side was a small dark blue mini sectional in front of an electric fireplace. Beside the door was a long white sidebar with a state of the art stereo system and a collection of decanters full of, I imagined, liquor. At the end, was another closed door.
“Why don't you find some music to put on?” he suggested, letting his hand fall and moving over toward the liquor. “Would you like something to drink?”
Whatever will make this less nerve-wrecking. “Sure,” I said, pressing the touch screen read out on the stereo and flipping through the play lists.
“Red, white? Something stronger?”
“Red is fine,” I said, selecting a list called “coffeehouse music” because I figured it was the least likely to get sexual.
“I see what you did there,” he said, and I turned to see a smirk toying with his lips as he held out a wineglass to me.
“What?” I asked, hoping to sound innocent as I took my drink and had a quick sip.
But he just shook his head, stepping away. “How about we go sit down?” he asked, gesturing toward the sectional.
I followed blindly behind, taking slow, deep, deliberate breaths. He placed his wineglass down on the single end table, turning his back on me as he fiddled with the fireplace and, apparently, the lights because they dimmed dramatically.
I sat down two cushions away from the cushion next to the end table, sitting back stiffly and sipping my wine. For courage. For something to do. The fireplace clicked on, the flames at once relaxing and exciting, the music got slightly louder and, finally, Chase turned back toward me, taking in my seat choice with a barely noticeable raised brow.
He walked over to his wineglass, picking it up, and drinking the entire contents, placing it back down, and moving to the cushion next to mine. He sat, slightly turned toward me, his feet next to mine, his hips pivoted away.
“Nervous?” he asked, putting his arms across the back of the couch, but not touching me.
“Yes,” I admitted because, well, if I wasn't honest, this process wasn't going to work.
He nodded, then the hand that wasn't behind me, reached out and landed on top of my knee. “What, exactly, are you nervous about? Me touching you?” he asked, and I felt myself nodding tightly, watching the fake fire. “I'm touching you right now.” He didn't need to tell me that. I felt like the contact was shooting right up my leg into my core. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked, his hand squeezing slightly.
Did I? I was so caught up in the what might happens that I wasn't even actually sure how I felt about the contact. In the end, I decided, “No.”
“Good,” he said and I sucked in a deep breath, “because I don't want to stop.”
The air hissed out of my mouth, my head turning quickly to find his on my face, “Wh... okay,” I finished, not sure what I was about to ask him.
His hand moved downward, stroking across the front of my leg, then back up to my knee, casual, lazy, but fuck if it wasn't sending off sparks. My hand gripped hard at my empty wineglass and his hand reached up, “Why don't we get rid of that?” he suggested, taking it, his fingers brushing against mine as he did. He turned, placing my glass next to his, then faced me again. This time, when his arm reached out, it went to the further knee, his arm like a barrier across my body, blocking me in.
And the heart palpitations started.
That's always how the anxiety worked. First the pounding heart, the sweaty palms, the hot and cold at the same time sensation, the trouble catching my breath, then the dizziness, the nausea, the absolute certainty that if I didn't get away, I was going to be sick all over myself and then pass out.
“Ava,” Chase said, making my head snap toward him. “Breathe,” he told me and I realized he was right, I was holding my breath. I sucked in a shaky breath and he nodded. “Good. Now, tell me why you're anxious.”
I swallowed hard. If there was one thing that people didn't get about anxiety and panic attacks, it was how much the sufferers didn't want to talk about it. How they didn't want to be perceived as weak or crazy or dramatic.
“I feel trapped,” I admitted.
“Okay,” he said, his hand squeezing my knee. “Are you really trapped?”
“No.” Of course not, but that didn't matter. Anxiety wasn't rational.
“Can you leave at any time?”
I bit into my lower lip for a second. “Yes.”
“Do you think I would be mad or disappointed if you needed to get up and walk away?”
My eyes went to his, surprised. Because, well, yes. That was exactly what made the sensation so bad, knowing that the guys I was with wouldn't understand, that they'd be offended or upset. But he wasn't them. He understood. He wasn't judging me. “No,” I said finally.
“Okay, so why don't we stop thinking about that?” he suggested, his hand dipping low, stroking down the front of my leg, then snaking around to my calf, before moving back up to my knee. “Do you like this?” he asked, his fingers sliding toward the outside of my thigh, snaking upward.
I looked down from his eyes, staring at his throat instead. “Yes,
” I whispered.
“Good, I like that,” he said, and it sounded like praise... something a man had never offered me before. “I like touching you,” he said, making my belly do a strange little flip flop. His other arm, the one behind me, slid downward, settling behind my shoulders, just pressure, not wrapping around me. “And I'm not just saying that because it's my job,” he said, sounding closer, and I glanced lower to see he had scooted closer, his hips just an inch or so from mine. I hadn't even felt him move.
“Really?” I asked, a blush creeping up my cheeks, hot and furious.
His hand suddenly stopped toying with my leg, moving upward, stroking across my jaw, then grabbing my chin lightly, forcing my face up to look at him. “Babe,” he said, sounding serious, “if I saw you in a bar, I'd have taken you home in a heartbeat.”
Oh, my.
My eyes dropped self-consciously, but his hand stayed there, patient, waiting. For me to look at him again. When I finally did, “Do you believe me?”
Did I? He had no reason to lie. He didn't need to admit that in the first place. “Yes.”
He nodded slightly, just the barest of movements, still not dropping his hand from my chin. “I would have walked over to you, gotten close, whispered in your ear, told you how fucking gorgeous you are...”
Oh, my god.
Was he really saying that?
Seriously?
“And then, I would bring you back to my apartment and as soon as you stepped inside, I would push you up hard against the door, and crush my lips to yours,” he said, his thumb moving upward and stroking across my lips. The words settled, like a fluid sensation in my belly, sending a jolt of desire so strong I felt my panties start to get wet, and pressed my thighs tightly together to stem the chaos brewing between them. “Does that sound good?” He asked, his thumb stroking again, my lips parting slightly and his finger pressed between the crease.
“Y... yes,” I admitted.
“Are you turned on, Ava?” he asked, his eyes dropping to look at my lips.
The Sex Surrogate Page 3
