By the Hour (The Pleasure Principle Series #2)

by Roni Loren

  He rubbed a hand over his face and tried to shake off the feeling. Get over yourself, Cannon. She had probably only been playing the game. She was supposed to hate him. She wouldn’t kiss someone she hates.

  But now that the game was done, he’d find out.

  Lane tugged on his jeans and draped his shirt over his shoulder. He didn’t want to leave Elle on her own too long. She’d seemed off at the end. She’d resisted his attempt at making sure she was okay, but that wasn’t going to fly. As a dominant, it was ingrained in him to check in with his partner, to provide that aftercare. He relished that phase himself—those quiet moments after the intensity of a scene when the world came back into focus.

  But when he walked back into the bedroom, Elle wasn’t tucked under the covers waiting for him. The bed was neatly made, the sheets he’d stolen from the other room were gone, and only a lamp had been left on. It looked like a tidy hotel room instead of a personal space where he’d just had some of the best sex of his life.

  He frowned and dragged his shirt over his head. Clearly, he wasn’t going to be invited to spend the night. He wasn’t surprised, but her absence made tension gather in his neck.

  He headed out of the bedroom and toward the living room. The low sound of a late-night talk show drifted his way, and TV light flickered on the wall of the hallway. When he stepped inside, Elle was on the couch, drinking something from a mug and watching the screen. But it wasn’t a cozy picture. This wasn’t, Hey, we just had great sex. I made us some decaf. Let’s hang out and get to know each other a little.

  Her back was as stiff as stone and her knuckles were white around the mug. Her expression revealed nothing. He cleared his throat.

  “Hey,” he said, when she didn’t look his way.

  She glanced over but didn’t meet his eyes. “Hey. Found the towels?”

  “Yeah, and your shower gel. Now I smell like peach blossoms and girl.”

  “Sorry. I should’ve grabbed you a bar from the guest bathroom.”

  He’d meant for his comment to lighten the mood, but her deadpan response put a chill in the room. He took a breath, trying to find his patience. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay. You seem—”

  “I’m good. Thanks for tonight,” she said, the words clipped. The doctor voice. “I trust you’ll be discreet about what happened. Your keys are on the table by the door.”

  His fingers flexed at his sides. He was so used to being in charge that he had to fight the urge to walk over and put her on her knees for the disrespect. But she wasn’t his submissive. She wasn’t his anything. “So, I’m dismissed. That’s how it is?”

  She glanced over at him, expression smooth as glass. A porcelain doll back on the shelf, flat blue eyes revealing nothing. “We both got what we wanted tonight. I have rounds early in the morning.”

  He stared at her until she looked away. He wanted to call her out, to figure out what this bullshit was. The budding therapist in him wanted to untangle it all. But what could he say? She hadn’t promised anything more than what had happened. They’d had an attraction and acted on it. Fine. Done. She wasn’t acting any differently than how a lot of single dudes he knew acted. They may put on a better show, but this was one-night-stand protocol without the window dressing of, I’ll call you.

  “Yeah. Well, see you around.”

  When she didn’t respond, he headed to the door. He didn’t need this shit. Yeah, he’d had a great time with her and the sex had been top shelf, but he had no interest in hanging around where he wasn’t wanted.

  For a little while, he’d thought maybe there was more to her than the ice queen she portrayed herself to be. But if there was, clearly she wasn’t interested in showing him that side. And he definitely had no interest in being involved with someone so damn cold. If this was how she wanted things, that made it easy for him. He was the king of walking away. That was part of his job.

  But when he grabbed his keys, there was an envelope lying next to it with his name on it. Wary, he picked it up and peeked inside. There were three crisp one-hundred dollar bills inside.

  “What the fuck is this?” The sharp edge in his voice cut through the laughter on the television.

  She stared at the screen. “I don’t know what your fee is, but I figured that would cover it. That’s all the cash I had on hand.”

  “My fee?” Oh, screw that noise. Anger sparked bright and his voice boomed as he stepped closer to her. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

  She turned his way, the haughty, above-it-all expression back in place. “Do you charge more?”

  He scoffed, amazed at the gall of this woman. “This was a hookup, McCray, not a job, and you know it. What are you trying to do here? Is this part of your game?”

  “What I’m doing here is making things clear. This isn’t an anything. I wanted sex. You were available and provided. This keeps it neat and doesn’t leave any questions going forward. And I know you have no qualms about charging for your services. You do it every day.”

  He shook his head in disgust. “Unbelievable. You’re screwed up, doc. You know that?”

  She looked away.

  “You want to label me a whore because it’s easy to dismiss me. You can box me up neatly instead of treating me like a person—or God forbid, a colleague. You think this is what I do with clients?” When she didn’t answer, he charged on. “Yeah, you probably do. Better to assume instead of asking and finding out that I don’t even get off with clients, that I help them work through anxiety or trauma or self-esteem issues and the focus is one-hundred percent on them. That it’s not sexy. Or fun. Or a paid fuck. It’s work. It’s therapy. But instead of asking, you just let yourself believe the stereotype. You don’t want to know because then you might actually have to consider that I’m not an enemy and that you liked what happened tonight. That I’m just a guy you talked with at a party, who had kind of a shitty day himself and who tried to make small talk with a co-worker so that she didn’t have to sit there alone on a night that was probably kind of difficult for her. And that it turned into more. And that you wanted it to.”

  The words made her posture stiffen, but she didn’t turn his way.

  “Stop bombing allies, McCray. There’ll be nothing left but wasteland.” Exhaustion washed over him, his bad day sinking in deep now. If he thought he was getting through to her, he was fooling himself. And he’d been made a fool of enough for one day. “Enjoy your night, doctor.” He leaned down close, bracing his hands on the arm of the couch. “And for what it’s worth, I charge a hell of a lot more. And what I just did to you in there? Sweetheart, you wouldn’t be able to afford that even on your fancy salary. It’s not for sale. Now you can go to sleep knowing you’ll never get it again.”

  She glared at the TV so hard, he was surprised the screen didn't melt.

  He tossed the money onto the floor in front of her and walked out.

  What a fantastic fucking day.

  Elle rose from the couch and watched through a slit in the blinds as Lane strode down her walk to his black sports car, his anger still crackling in the air of her living room.

  His words echoed in her ears, and her body still thrummed from his touch, but she stayed glued to the spot. Maybe she should be the type of person who would go after him, apologize, try to get to know him and make a friend. But what then?

  Yes, sex with him had been explosive and more intense than she’d bargained for. But that was all there was. She wasn’t equipped for more than that, and she definitely couldn’t date someone who slept with other people for a living—therapeutic or not.

  No way.

  Plus, he was a world-class, egotistical jackass.

  She stepped away from the window, feeling a rush of self-righteousness, and collected the dollar bills that were strewn across the floor. But before she’d gotten all three of them, she felt wet warmth tracking down her cheeks.

  Goddammit.

  All the air sagged out of her and she sank down to the carpet, lett
ing the money fall from her fingertips and the despair she’d been fighting take over.

  He’d asked her if she knew how screwed up she was.

  She hadn’t responded.

  They both knew the answer.

  Chapter 4

  “She needs to be naked in front of you and learn how to be comfortable with you touching her body.”

  Lane hooked his ankle over his knee, considering Marin’s words while relaxing on the couch in her office. “But she doesn’t have issues with intercourse?”

  Marin set her steno pad aside and turned fully toward him. “No. Do you need something to take notes on, by the way?”

  He shook his head and tapped his temple. “I’ve got a good memory. I’ll just lose a notebook.”

  She smiled. “If I didn’t have my notepads, I’d lose my mind. I’ll email you the case file. But sex isn’t the issue for Carlotta as long as it’s done in the dark. The issue is more about being observed and feeling confident in her body when a man is looking at her.”

  “What triggered that?” he asked, already formulating some preliminary sessions in his head.

  Marin sighed, the move ruffling the bangs of her short dark hair and making her look more college student than psychologist. “She started acting when she was really young. She had a gig on a long-running kids’ show, and there was all this pressure to stay looking like a child in order to keep the job because she was supporting her entire family. So when her body started to change as a young teen, she tried to keep the curves away by restricting her food and it morphed into an eating disorder.”

  Lane frowned, empathy brewing. He knew what that kind of pressure was like, to need money so badly that you would do anything to stay afloat. He rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s a lot to put on a kid.”

  “Yes, it’s not surprising that things went downhill. Thankfully, she moved past the food issues with some pretty extensive therapy and got to a healthy weight in her early twenties, but she still has trouble believing that her body is good enough. The upcoming role she’s landed is the biggest of her life and she’s committed to making it work, but she’ll be playing a spy that has to go undercover as a stripper. There will also be love scenes that require nudity with Bradley Chastain. The first time they tried to do a topless scene, she had a massive panic attack. They’re shifting those scenes in the production schedule to give her a chance, but she only has a few weeks to get over the fear. If she can’t get past it, she could lose the role.”

  “More pressure on her.”

  “Yes, but I think she wants to move past this for more than just the role.” Marin tapped her pen on her pad. “She sees this as her last hurdle. She’s motivated to do what it takes, which is why I think she’s a good candidate for sessions with you.”

  He nodded, pleased to hear the client was ready to work. That was vital, especially with the kind of therapy he did. Gray areas weren’t acceptable. People were either one-hundred percent on board or he didn’t take them on as clients. “When would she be able to start?”

  Marin checked her notes. “How quickly do you have room in your schedule? Are you taking a lot of classes this semester?”

  Marin was one of the few people he’d told that he was back in school, trying to get his degree so that he could become a clinical social worker. But he hadn’t shared with her that he was struggling with his classes. He thought he’d figured out ways around the issues he’d fought with in high school. He’d done fine with the first two years of courses because he was good at retaining information he’d heard in lectures. But now that the classes were getting more intense and specialized, the amount of required reading and term papers was drowning him. He was a breath away from flunking out and had already dropped one class. He was beginning to think it was a pipe dream. “I have room. I could see her as soon as tomorrow afternoon, if needed.”

  Marin smiled. “Awesome. That’s perfect because she’s on a deadline. I’d suggest letting her get comfortable with you but not too comfortable. She needs to be able to replicate the behavior on set with Bradley, who is only a casual acquaintance.”

  “So don’t make it too warm and fuzzy.”

  “Exactly.” She jotted down a note and then turned back to him. “You have a natural talent for putting people at ease, and I want her to feel safe in therapy, obviously. But she's going to be doing scenes in front of a crew, and she’s not going to have the chance to get comfortable with each person. She has to be confident enough to be that vulnerable in front of strangers. Confident enough to do those stripping scenes on stage with other actors catcalling her.”

  “Does she understand what she’s getting into?” Lane asked, a thorn of worry poking at him. “I don’t want to do anything to trigger a relapse with the eating disorder.”

  Marin’s brow wrinkled and her lips pursed, her thinking face on full throttle. “I dug into a lot of that with her. No role is worth risking a relapse, but she’s determined and she’s been on track with her health for over four years now. I believe that she’s moved past it, but I need you to pay close attention. Any hints that things are going south and you come to me.”

  Lane sat forward, feeling the weight of that settle over him. “You trust me to be able to recognize that? I don’t have that Ph.D. in my pocket like you do.”

  Marin tilted her head and smiled. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’ve had training for what you do, and you’re very observant with your clients. Plus, you’ve been doing this a while now. I have no doubt you’d recognize warnings signs. I’ll be seeing her weekly to continue that portion of her therapy, so I’ll be monitoring her closely as well. But trust your instincts and if you have any questions, call me.”

  Lane rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off that kick of insecurity. He could do this. Of course he could. Understanding people and reading in between the lines had always come easily to him. It’s what made him a good dominant and why he wanted to be a therapist. It was goddamned school that was making him doubt himself.

  Some things never changed. He should probably give it up and stick to what he was good at.

  He thanked Marin and headed out of her office, mentally recording all the information he’d gathered about Carlotta and arranging his schedule for the week. He was supposed to go to an afternoon statistics class, but he needed to grab some lunch first.

  He headed toward one of the employee lounges to see what he could snag out of the vending machine. The Grove had a vast dining hall with lots of gourmet choices for employees. Everything was top notch here since they catered to celebrities and the wealthy. But he wasn’t in the mood to socialize, and really, he always felt a bit like an imposter. He was a contractor here, not a full-fledged employee, not a doctor. And though he wasn’t ashamed of what he did for a living, he knew a lot of the staff had their own opinions about his line of work.

  Like one Dr. Elle McCray.

  He hadn’t seen her in over a week, but he’d thought about her more than he'd wanted to. Half the time he got hot over those thoughts, remembering exactly how she’d looked pinned down by those sheets and tossing challenges at him. The other half of the time, he got pissed all over again, thinking of the money she’d tried to give him. No sex was great enough to make it worth putting up with that kind of bullshit.

  Last night, he’d gone to the kink club he belonged to in an attempt to exorcise thoughts about her, but he hadn’t found anyone he was interested in spending the evening with. A few of the women he casually played with had offered, but they all seemed too…submissive. Which was just a fucked-up thought because that was what he was normally drawn to. That was what had turned his crank since getting out of the escort business—all that control. But last night, the prospect of scening with one of them had seemed…too easy. Boring.

  He groaned under his breath as he pulled open the door to the lounge.

  Fucking Elle McCray. Now he had another reason to be pissed at her. She’d screwed with his head on top of everything else. She’d
tainted what he normally enjoyed.

  When he stepped inside the lounge, he found Oriana Wallace, a social worker who worked with Elle on the rehab wing, and a nurse—Joleen, if he remembered right—deep in conversation. A platter of frosted pink cupcakes sat between them. He lifted his hand in silent greeting.

  Ori smiled his way, her halo of curly black hair backlit by the window behind her. “Hey, Lane. How’s it going?”

  Joleen peeked at him and gave a shy smile. He’d caught her openly checking him out one day in the hallway when he’d helped her with some supplies she’d dropped. Joleen had blushed to her red roots when she’d realized he’d noticed her ogling him. She’d tried to play it off at first, and then had attempted to flirt a little, but he’d kept it polite. She was pretty and seemed nice enough, but she was young and had that tang of innocence about her.

  Innocence wasn’t his thing. He dealt with that type a lot with his job—women who lacked experience for one reason or another. But that was therapy. In his personal life, he liked women who’d lived some life already and weren’t afraid to own their needs and their sexuality. Plus, his job and what he craved in bed were too much for the innocent.

  Lane returned Ori’s smile. “Can’t complain, and don’t let me interrupt. I’m just hunting down snack food.”

  Ori shook her head and sighed, eyeballing the cupcakes as if they were going to blow up. “You’re not interrupting. We’re just stalling.”

  He lifted a brow as he dug his wallet out to get a few dollar bills. “Stalling? Over cupcakes?”

  “The delivery of the cupcakes,” Joleen clarified.

  “They’re for Dr. McCray,” Oriana explained, glancing at the offending baked goods again. “On my wing, I’m in charge of cupcakes. We get them for every employee’s birthday. But I got sidetracked with planning Marin’s party and kinda sorta missed McCray’s big day.”