by Roni Loren
Ainsley, the friend she’d told her secret to, had suggested therapy and meds. Elle had sucked at talk therapy. Doctors were notoriously bad patients, and she had been beyond difficult. She’d quit a few weeks in. But the prescription had helped, and once she was able to get some of her energy back, she’d forced herself to start eating right and exercising again, and had thrown herself into her work and research. Eventually, it’d gotten her out of the hole, and all that hard work had afforded her an opportunity to interview here at The Grove—a job she’d wanted for a long time.
Since then, she’d been hypervigilant about not letting herself sink into that quicksand again. She stayed busy, focused on her health, and had kept her attachments to others in check so she didn’t put herself at risk again. But at the same time, she hadn’t let herself become a monk. Having a sex life was important to her. She knew herself well enough to know that she needed that physical connection on a regular basis. It kept her feeling feminine and sexy and alive. She’d simply chosen to go about it like a young single guy would instead of how a thirty-nine-year-old woman was expected to. It worked for her.
Or at least it had been working.
But now that tendril of unease was growing in her, sprouting vines and spreading. Donovan had started it. He’d put a wrinkle in her neatly ironed-out life. He’d shown her how things could be when you stuck with the same person instead of stringing together one-night stands. How the experience became richer, more satisfying.
Things hadn’t been romantic with her and Donovan. Neither of them had had any interest in committing to an actual relationship—well, he hadn’t until he’d met Marin. He and Elle had barely talked outside of bed unless it was work-related. But it had filled a need for something steady that she could count on and was strictly physical. Safe and satisfying. And without the stress of having to manage a relationship.
For a while the other night, she’d thought that maybe she had found something similar in Lane—only a hundred times more intense. Their physical connection had been electric and amped up to a level she’d never had with Donovan. There was something more there—darker, dirtier. Lane had been fully present and into it. Donovan had never been like that. Donovan had only slept with her after he had a few drinks in him, and he had always kept an emotional distance between them. He didn’t try to get in her head. Lane, on the other hand, left nothing standing between them. He’d wanted her eyes on him. He’d wanted her stripped. Naked in every way.
It’d freaked her the hell out.
But it had also left her craving more. Had made her realize how wholly unsatisfying it’d be to go pick up some guy at a bar and have perfectly adequate vanilla sex where the guy would tell her she was smart and pretty and sexy, whether he meant it or not. Where the guy would try to impress her with his job or his car or his timeshare in Mexico.
Snore.
That was what had her restless. She’d finally figured out what she needed and now she couldn’t have it. Not with Lane at least. Even if she hadn’t insulted him and he was open to some kind of arrangement, he was too dangerous. He saw too much too easily. He expected emotional openness. He would require things she couldn’t give.
She just wanted the hot time in bed, not that guy who had recognized how lonely she was at the party. But she didn’t have the faintest idea of how to find that with someone elsewhere. Donovan had once suggested she go to a kink club and find a dom. She’d visited one a few weeks afterward—out of curiosity or as a last resort, she wasn’t sure. The staff had been welcoming and the place upscale. But after spending the evening observing, she’d only confirmed what she’d known in her bones already. She wasn’t submissive—or dominant, for that matter. She wouldn’t be what those guys wanted and vice versa. Everyone would be left disappointed.
Elle sighed, polished off the rest of her wine, and idly flipped through stations. When a young and very naked Richard Gere filled the screen, she stopped the aimless clicking. Ah, the eighties. When full-frontal male nudity in movies was somehow less scandalous than it was today. The thought only made her feel old, but she didn’t change the station because…Gere. Naked.
She hadn’t seen American Gigolo in at least a decade, and an old movie with a good-looking guy seemed like a better way to spend the evening than flipping over to the news or catching up on emails. Richard could be her date tonight. Tomorrow, she’d figure out a more realistic solution to her nonexistent dating life. She wouldn’t let that melancholy feeling linger too long. Depression had an insidious way of sneaking back into people’s lives, especially when it’d made a home there before. She’d seen it with her patients and she refused to let it happen to her.
She poured herself another glass of wine and grabbed a blanket off the back of the couch to curl up for the movie. Richard the gigolo—or his character, Julian, rather—was standing naked by a window and talking to Lauren Hutton about how he had a client who couldn’t orgasm and that it’d taken him three hours to get her off. Who else would take the time? That was what he asked Lauren.
But Elle found herself answering him with a derisive snort. No one. Not unless the guy was getting paid to do it.
Paid.
Of course, that thought had Elle’s mind wandering again. That was what Lane did for a living. Who would take the time? He would. That was his job. The images that infiltrated her mind made her stomach twist. Lane being patient and gentle with some stranger. Lane putting his hands on the woman and coaxing a response from her body. Lane giving her something no other guy had been able to accomplish.
Elle wanted to maim the woman in the fantasy, and she was only imaginary—which further confirmed that Elle had made the right decision. Shutting things down with Lane was the smart thing to do. She was already feeling territorial. Way, way too dangerous a feeling for some guy she’d only slept with once.
She shook the images from her head and tried to focus on the movie. But then her mind tiptoed off in another direction. Lauren Hutton gazed at Richard Gere with that hungry look of a woman who knew she’d won some kind of sex lottery. In the movie, she was playing the older, married woman to his hot, young prostitute. In a way, she had won the lottery. Cake and eating it, too. And all she’d had to do was offer to pay for the privilege.
Elle took another long sip of wine, her thoughts now softening with the alcohol. She’d done the same. Offered money to Lane. She’d done it out of panic, knowing it would piss him off, knowing it would push him away and end things without her having to reveal how much he’d gotten to her. But what if he hadn’t been offended? What if he’d pocketed it and asked when they could do it again? What would she have said? Would she have agreed to pay for sex?
The idea seemed gross and pathetic on the surface, but did it have to be? When her muscles hurt, she paid for a massage. When she needed something done around the house, she hired someone. Why was sex so different from that?
If there was a man out there who was open to it and healthy and not forced into that kind of lifestyle, what would be the problem? It was simply a business arrangement. An exchange. She’d get what she wanted without the strings, he’d get money and hopefully enjoy himself as well. Did it have to be seedy? In the movie, Richard wasn’t hanging out on street corners and turning tricks. He was a high-end escort. He spoke three languages, could have intelligent conversation, and liked giving women pleasure. He lived a lifestyle that he enjoyed. Well—until he got framed for murder. Being in a movie was tough that way.
But hiring someone seemed like it could be the ideal set up. Neat. Clear. Lane would never go for it, but what if she could find someone like Lane? Someone who was capable of pushing edges? Someone who wouldn’t be insulted by the prospect of a business exchange, who would happily take a woman’s money and play by whatever rules she set?
She knew they existed. Gossip was a high-level sport in the circles her family had moved in. She’d heard her mother and her friends whisper about some of the men Mrs. Dawson would take to parties after her husba
nd left her. They were always handsome, younger than she was, and amazingly attentive. Mrs. Dawson had claimed she’d met them in the sculpting classes she was taking at the local college, but no one believed that. Male escorts. That had been the rumor. Men who were trained in the art of being gentlemen in public and pleasing women behind closed doors.
Elle sat up a bit on the couch, the whisper of an idea becoming a bit louder in her head. At first blush, it made her feel like she’d officially hit desperate. Hell, maybe she had. Finding a man to sleep with wasn’t difficult. She could go to one of the many bars closer to the city and meet someone. But even when she found a guy she was attracted to, the sex was usually vanilla and not all that exciting. How could it not be? She wasn’t going to bring up kinky stuff with a stranger, especially if the guy showed no predisposition for that kind of thing. And the ones who did show that predisposition day one—well, she probably wouldn’t feel safe going home with them.
How many times had she wished she could just write out a checklist and then make that guy appear? It was a fantasy, but what if it didn’t have to be? What if she could hire a guy who would enjoy what she liked to do and who wouldn’t require any commitment from her except a payment?
In a lot of ways, it sounded ideal. It also sounded crazy.
But what she’d been doing had been failing miserably for a long time. Maybe it was time for a little crazy.
Chapter 6
Carlotta clutched the edges of her robe, groaned, and tipped her face toward the ceiling, her long dark hair falling along her back. “I feel so stupid.”
Lane sat in the metal fold-out chair he’d set up in the room. “Take a deep breath. There’s no rush and you’re not stupid. Anxiety is a badass villain to take down.”
“But we are in a rush. I need to get over this shit. I know they’re this close”—she pinched her fingers together—“to firing me. I mean, why deal with all of my drama when they have a hundred other actresses who’d kill for this role and have no problem dropping trou?”
Lane gave her a sympathetic smile. “I’d say the fact that they’re giving you some extra time shows that they really want you in the role. That you’re not so easily replaced.”
She sighed and finally met his eyes. “Everyone’s replaceable, Lane.”
The softly spoken words dug at something inside him, but he didn’t let it show on his face. Positivity. That was what Carlotta needed. “Maybe so, but you’re not going to have to worry about that because you’re going to get past this. I’m awesome at my job.”
She laughed at that, some of the tension lines in her face softening and revealing just how stunning she was. Long, shining hair, olive skin, and bright hazel eyes that would catch anyone’s attention. So many people would watch her on screen and envy her, thinking they want her life, but would never know how much Carlotta struggled with feeling good enough.
This was their fourth session in two weeks, and she hadn’t made it through one yet without a panic attack. Wednesday night, it’d happened with her just stripping down to her bra and modest underwear. But today, she’d insisted on trying to go topless with a G-string like she’d wear in the movie. She was convinced the only way to get it done in the timeframe she had was to rip the bandage off, but Lane had his doubts. He appreciated the determination but deep wounds didn’t get fixed overnight.
“Why don’t you try to do some of the choreography with the robe on?” he suggested. “Close your eyes and imagine that you’re topless when you’re doing it. Get into the head of your character and don’t open your eyes to break that. You’ll still know I’m here and watching. Pretend I’m a customer in the strip club scene.”
Carlotta chewed her thumbnail as she pondered and then nodded. “Yeah, okay. I can’t take this off yet. My heart’s about to jump out of my chest.”
“Practice the deep breathing you learned with Dr. Rush. Get your heart rate back down before we start. I’ll get the music set up.”
He rose from the chair while Carlotta practiced her breathing, and he cued up her music. But while he was doing that, he got another idea. He’d set up the session in a private rehearsal room at a dance studio so they’d mimic a little of the real scene she’d have to act out, but every light in the place was on and the mirrored wall was a distraction.
“You can start it,” Carlotta said, a tremor in her voice.
“Hold up for a sec. Let’s try something.” He walked over to the panel of light switches and messed around with them until there was only one shining spotlight in the center of the room. Carlotta was standing right at the edge of the lit circle.
She gripped the lapels of her robe again. “What are you doing?”
“Let’s do this in stages. I want you to start with dancing in the dark. I won’t be able to see you. In fact”—he grabbed a bandanna he used at the gym from his bag—“I’ll blindfold myself so you know for sure I can’t see you. I’ll put my chair near the light. Try to work your way toward me, pretending I’m a customer in the scene. If you feel comfortable enough at any point, take off the robe. I won’t be able to see you unless you want me to. You can pull off the blindfold whenever you want. Or not at all, if you’re not ready.”
Carlotta eyed him. “You promise you can’t see through that thing?”
“You have my word.”
She rolled her shoulders and shook out her hands. “Okay, I guess it’s worth a shot.”
Lane hit play on the music and dragged the chair over to the small circle of light. He tied the bandanna around his head and closed his eyes. He wasn’t used to being the one blindfolded, but he hoped this would help. He was giving her privacy while still pushing against her fears. Carlotta was afraid of being evaluated, of the judgment. He couldn’t do that if he couldn’t see, but she would have someone else present, which would be a step in the right direction.
She inhaled a yoga-deep breath in time with the music and then the sound of her bare feet against the smooth wood floor filled his ears. He could get a sense of where she was in the room but didn’t turn his head toward the sound in case she was worried he was looking.
The music increased in tempo, the beat heavy and grinding, music appropriate for a strip club, and a hand brushed over his knee. He forced himself not to smile as the heat of her body swept by him. She was close enough to touch. She was in character.
He cheered silently for her. He couldn’t seem to get passing grades in his classes, but at least he could do this. He could help someone.
The sound of swishing fabric drifted over him. The robe being removed? He dared to hope.
“You look like a guy who’d do dirty things to me.” The words whispered against his ear, husky and full of promise. It was a line from the script delivered with the perfect amount of come-hither sex appeal. Carlotta had slipped into character.
But the tone and her nearness had his brain cutting Carlotta out of the picture and inserting someone else into the scene. Not the dark-haired beauty working through her issues, but instead a sharp-tongued blonde with a voice that went raspy when she got turned on.
You look like a guy who’d do dirty things to me.
Lane tried to shake the image from his head. He did not need to be thinking about Elle right now. He was working. He needed to focus on Carlotta. She deserved his full attention.
Hands curled over his shoulders and lips brushed his ears. “What if I said I want you to do dirty things to me?”
Fuck. He had no idea if Carlotta really sounded that much like Elle or if his mind was screwing with him. But his dick certainly had an opinion. He could feel the beginnings of a hard-on pushing against his zipper.
Focus. He tried to talk himself down. He was a master at self-control with his clients. He’d worked with some of the most beautiful women of Hollywood and had managed to temper his reactions to only what the patient needed. He didn’t get hard unless it was necessary. But right now, his body was rebelling.
In his mind, it was Elle dancing around him, Ell
e’s voice in his ear. “Carlotta…”
“Shh…” A finger pressed over his lips. “My name’s Ginger.”
Lane swallowed hard, trying to bring himself back to what was actually happening. But before he could, Carlotta took his hand and placed it on her breast—her bare breast. Somewhere, his mind registered victory. She’d stripped down. But the other part of him was still fighting the fantasy of Dr. McCray. He forced the other woman from his thoughts and caressed Carlotta, searching for what he was supposed to be doing. “I thought customers couldn’t touch, Ginger.”
“For you, I’ll make an exception.”
Feeling Carlotta beneath his palm helped drag him back to reality. Her skin was soft and supple, but her breasts were small, nothing like the lush handful Elle had offered. Lane didn’t usually have a preference either way. He’d been with enough women to appreciate the many different variations of the female form, but right now his libido seemed to be hung up on the doctor. And feeling the differences helped center him.
Carlotta shifted in front of him and he felt her fingers playing along the back of his head. Then she was tugging. The blindfold fell away and he opened his eyes.
Carlotta was in front of him, nearly straddling him, and wearing nothing except the tiny gold G-string. She braced her hands on his shoulders and he left his hand where it was. She was shaking beneath his touch.
He lifted his eyes to hers and found worry on her face, but also fierce determination in her gaze. Her throat worked as she swallowed. “Like what you see?”
That was still Ginger talking, but it wasn’t a line from the script. Carlotta was facing the fear of being observed through her character.
Lane let his gaze travel along her body and trailed his hand down from her breast to her hip. “I like it so much I think we need a visit to the VIP room.”
Carlotta let out a whooshing breath and stepped back. She put her hands on her knees, her back rising and falling with quick breaths. Lane recognized the panic attack but didn’t rush to help. She was strong enough to work her way through it. They’d been practicing how she could handle it if one happened on set.
