by Bebe Balocca
“That’s a nice little toy,” she noted, folding it inside the handkerchief. “I didn’t know things like that existed. I bet you had fun playing with it on your end,” she said.
“Maybe a little bit,” Damien confessed. “It’s all yours now,” he told her, withdrawing the remote from his pocket and handing it to her. “Enjoy.”
“Thanks so much,” Chloe said. “But there are a couple more things, too.” She shook her tits to make the tiny bells sing.
“Yours as well,” Damien told her. “A gift from me. You should go ahead and take them off, though, to lessen the chance of soreness as the blood flows back. It may leave you a little tender, regardless, since it’s the first time you’ve worn them.”
Chloe slipped her hands inside the deep cowl of her top and carefully loosened one ring to remove it. “Ooooh, ouchie, it is a little sore,” she complained as she removed the other one. She placed the rings and belled chain in her purse and pressed her palms onto her protesting nipples. “Anywhere else I’d never consider sitting in public with my hands on my boobs, but you’ve got a pretty unique place here.” Chloe sat back in her seat, shaking her head with delight while gently massaging her breasts. “You’re pretty amazing, you know? You orchestrated that whole thing, didn’t you? I should probably be embarrassed at how I acted, but I’m not. It was a really great thing you did for me.”
“Everyone in the club is a former client or a friend of a client,” he explained. “They all had their own issues to overcome, and they all understand how important a meaningful sex life is. They are all very happy to help new clients when a need exists.”
“So, Arnaud—” Chloe began with a quizzical expression.
“Arnaud is one of my bouncers,” Damien told her, “but his job is pretty simple. He only allows in clients whom he recognises or those whom I’ve instructed him to admit. People off the street simply may not enter my club.”
“Ah.” Chloe nodded. “But I was going to ask if Arnaud was a client himself. Did he have an issue to work through?”
Damien smiled. “He did, as a matter of fact. He was one of my first clients. I don’t think he’d mind me telling you that he had a certain reluctance to show sensitivity. He had grown up in a home where boys were meant to have stiff upper lips and never, ever cry, but that policy turned out to work poorly in his personal relationships. With some, ah, positive reinforcement, Arnaud learnt that traits like tenderness and empathy are huge turn-ons for women.”
“I see,” Chloe said. “Well, you do very impressive work, Damien, and I feel that you’ve more than earned your payment.” She opened her purse, removed two crisp one hundred dollar bills, and slid them across the table to Damien.
Damien pushed the bills back across the table to Chloe. “I don’t want your money,” he told her.
Chloe sighed. “Look, you don’t need to worry about my job situation, okay? I wish I hadn’t mentioned it. I got a severance package, so I’ll be okay for a few months. Besides, I’m good at what I do. I’ll find another job, I know it. Please take the money. You earned it.”
“I’d like you to keep this money as a retention bonus,” Damien told her. “I want you to be more than just a client,” he explained. “I am in dire need of an accountant here at Volare. When I was doing my preparation work for our session, I learnt that you, Chloe, are a very skilled accountant who is newly back on the job market. It wasn’t news to me when you told me about getting laid off.”
Chloe started to sputter indignantly, but Damien held up one finger to shush her. “I make it a point to learn a little about each of my clients before we have our session. It’s just part of doing a thorough job. Please don’t take offence.”
Chloe gestured for him to continue.
“Volare has grown, as has my therapy business. I’d like to serve a greater number of clients during the week. I’d like to expand into a restaurant as well. Clients love coming back, so, as I help more people, my club business just keeps growing. As a client yourself, you know what I do and what happens in my club. You won’t be shocked or put off. It may be that you can also offer a hand with some of my clients who would be more comfortable with a female therapist. I’d like to explore that possibility with you, as well.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Chloe stuttered. “This is totally unexpected.”
“You don’t have to answer me tonight,” Damien assured her. “Here is a copy of the contract I had drawn up for you in the hopes that you would be a good candidate.” He handed a plump, sealed envelope to her. “Take it home and look it over. I hope you don’t mind, but I inquired about your salary at your most recent job. I’m willing to offer you a fifty per cent raise as well as some benefits that I think you’ll appreciate.”
Chloe looked down at the stack of bills on the table and the white envelope, stuffed with promise, in her hand. The wheels in her mind spun frantically and she grasped for something intelligent, or at least professional sounding, to say. She failed miserably. “Uh, really?” she finally gulped.
“Absolutely. Just give it a trial period if you like, and if it turns out you don’t want the job, you can always leave for a more traditional business setting. But I certainly hope you’ll like it here,” Damien added. “I think you’re just what the doctor ordered.”
He stood and gave a brisk nod. “I’d offer to shake on it, but I’m not sure that’s wise.”
Chloe rose and smoothed her skirt. “I’m not a client anymore,” she noted, “so you can touch me if you want to, right? It’s just a handshake—it didn’t seem to bother you when we met.”
“True,” Damien said with a glimmer in his eyes. “You are no longer a client. However, I don’t mix business with pleasure, and I fear that even a simple handshake would cross that line after the session I just watched you have.”
Chloe swallowed drily and felt a flush creep up her cheeks. Who would have guessed that job-hunting could be so exciting? Or that accounting could cross paths with freelance sex therapy? She nodded and tried her best to appear professional despite the girlish flutter in her chest. “All right,” she said. “I’ll check out the contract and get back to you within the next couple of days.”
“Hey, guys!” Monica appeared beside them. She appeared dishevelled, slightly out of breath, and deliriously happy. “How’s it going? What did you think of your session, Chloe?”
“It was great,” Chloe answered. “You were definitely right to bring me here,” she continued, “but I’m beat. Do you mind if we go home now?”
“Not at all,” Monica assured her. “Arnaud worked the front door until closing last night, and then worked the first shift tonight. He was worn out. He, um, fell asleep in your back storeroom, Damien. Hope you don’t mind.”
Chloe was pleased to see that her audacious friend was abashed. It was nice that she wasn’t the only one who was a little off kilter.
Damien chuckled. “That’s fine, Monica. I’ll check on him in a little while. I’m sure he was exhausted after all the taxing work he did tonight.” He turned his soft blue eyes back to Chloe. She warmed to see the corners of his eyes crinkle. “I look forward to hearing from you soon, Chloe.”
Chloe beamed, feeling like a goofy teenager, and allowed Monica to lead her outside to the waiting Accord. She fastened her seatbelt and raised her hands to her tingling cheeks.
Monica started the car and pulled away from the kerb. With a sigh, Chloe glanced back as the sign for Volare receded. “Well?” Monica asked impatiently. “Do you think you got over your whole no-orgasm thing? Is Mark behind you for good?”
“Huh? Who?” With effort, Chloe brought herself back from the most uninhibited nightclub she could imagine to the serene interior of an imported sedan. “Mark? Oh, yeah. I’m over him. All systems are go on the big O front, too.” She held up the envelope Damien had given her. “And it looks like I might even have a job.”
“No way!” Monica darted her eyes over at Chloe. “Damn, girl, just what kind of session did you have back ther
e? Tell me everything.”
Blushing wildly, Chloe confessed all. The nipple clips, the tingly salve, and, God help her, the chrome egg. Damien’s remote control, Melanie, Arnaud and the throbbing dance floor, much of which Monica had witnessed. “And finally”—Chloe giggled—“an orgasm that was way too long in coming.”
“Yeah, right.” Monica laughed. “But worth it when it came, right?” She pulled into Chloe’s drive and put the car in neutral. “So, are you going to be able to sleep tonight?” Monica asked, turning to her. Her warm red hair was slightly tousled and her makeup smudged, but her eyes sparkled with alertness. “We could go out somewhere else if you want, or I could come in and keep you company. You could let me try out your new toy…” She grabbed for Chloe’s purse. “I’d let you use the remote. It’d be fun!”
“Honestly, Monica!” Chloe laughed, snatching her purse from Monica’s iron grip. “Get your own!”
Monica sighed forlornly.
“Seriously, though, thanks, Monica,” Chloe continued. “Damien was…” she bit her lip, searching for the right word—“really helpful tonight. I feel more hopeful than I have in a long time because of him, and you’re the one who brought me to him.”
Chloe gathered her cast-off blue jeans and hugged Monica goodnight, then entered her quiet home and slipped into bed. She had pleasant, disjointed dreams of the liquid metal Terminator guy who had both turned nice and had developed a serious crush on her. He plied her with gifts of Bonne Bell Dr Pepper lip gloss, diamond-crusted nipple rings, and oddly, a plate of delicious scrambled eggs.
Chapter Seven
Chloe woke up ravenous.
Finding her fridge empty of everything but a lonely cup of strawberry yogurt and a Diet Coke, Chloe showered hurriedly and raced to the corner cafe. Over a Hungry Man breakfast—three scrambled eggs, two sausage links, cheese grits and buttermilk biscuits—and a strong cup of coffee with cream, she read through Damien’s contract. All seemed to be in order. More than in order, actually. His terms were generous to a fault. He had included a personal note to her—
‘Dear Chloe,
I’m hopeful that you’ll come on board at Volare, at least for the short term. I really need someone with your skills and experience, and I think you would enjoy the work environment. I’d love for you to get my financial books in order and assist with the growth of my restaurant, Razzo, and I’m interested to see if you’ll feel comfortable helping with my therapy practice.
Respectfully,
Damien’
After she’d cleaned her plate and had had two coffee refills, Chloe paid her cheque and headed home. She was curious, flattered and intimidated, no doubt. She was also very, very interested.
He answered his phone on the third ring. “Yes,” she informed him calmly. “I’d like to take you up on your offer.”
“Excellent,” he replied. “Can you come prepared to work Monday morning at nine?”
“Absolutely,” Chloe answered. After she had hung up, she looked around her tidy, spare kitchen. Everything was in its place. Orderly, clean and predictable. Just like her life. Perhaps her neat, tidy kitchen would survive this career move, but Chloe had a feeling that the rest of her life was about to change dramatically.
* * * *
Damien led her to the assistant manager’s office. It was across the hall from his own. Like Damien’s, Chloe’s new office was stylishly decorated with sleek mid-century modern decor and accessories. “Don’t hesitate to let me know about anything you need,” he informed her as he switched on the black enamelled ‘eyeball’ desk lamp. Chloe traced her fingers over the silky top of the boxy yet elegant, burl maple desk. Together they walked to the back of the office and stood in front of an ominous wooden door. “Here goes,” Damien muttered.
Chloe’s jaw dropped when Damien opened the closet door. He ran his fingers through his tousled brown hair and turned to her. “Well, it’s not that I don’t keep records,” he said defensively, “it’s just that they’re not organised in any way whatsoever.” As if to underscore his point, a receipt fluttered down from the top shelf of the closet like a dainty little feather and landed at his feet. Chloe and Damien reached for the receipt simultaneously. As in an old Three Stooges cartoon, their heads bonked together like coconuts and both gripped the slip of paper.
“Owie!” Chloe winced. She released the receipt and rubbed her forehead. “Don’t damage the talent, Damien! Sheesh,” she grumbled.
Damien looked unsteady on his feet. He took a step backwards with eyes squeezed tightly shut and one hand on his forehead.
“Oh, man, are you okay?” Chloe asked with concern. “I’m sorry I laughed. Come sit down.” She took Damien by the elbow to lead him to a chair, but he yanked his arm away from her grip.
“I’m fine,” he stated firmly. “Completely fine.” He stood up straight and lowered his hand to his side. “Just felt a little funny for a second or two. No worries, Chloe.”
Chloe shook her head in bewilderment. Damien evidently had more hang-ups than the local 9-1-1 service, but whatever, she decided. The gig was a good one, and she could forgive a guy who looked like Damien and had fixed her big O dilemma just about anything.
She turned back to the open closet door. It was stuffed to the gills with a scrambled mess of papers and notes.
* * * *
Chloe was awestruck. Volare had been a thriving concern for three years owing to Damien’s business acumen. Thanks to savvy investments and careful purchasing, combined with a sizable initial investment from Damien, the club was a solid money-maker.
However, Damien confessed that he was sure he’d wildly overpaid his federal taxes each year, just because his records were so difficult to access. The tax preparer had given it his best shot, bless him, but it was hard to find deductions in a jungle of snarled paper. Damien wasn’t entirely sure exactly how profitable Volare was, only that he was paying all the bills and had plenty of money in the bank. In short, he was a terrific manager and instigator. When it came to enacting ideas and providing professional assistance, Damien was a force of nature.
When it came to accounting, though, he totally sucked.
Chloe slogged through the mass of receipts, inventory lists, and invoices for an entire week. The previous year’s tax preparer had left her a bare skeleton of facts and figures to work with, but she had to toil unrelentingly to flesh out the whole massive beast that was Volare’s financial status. She arrived at nine sharp and closeted herself in her office until noon each day. At lunchtime, Damien knocked softly on the door to present her with a sandwich, tossed salad and fruit tea made to order from the gourmet sandwich place across the street. Chloe accepted the lunches gratefully, but insisted on working through her lunch hours. “You’re paying me premium prices,” she explained, “and I insist on giving you premium service. It’s imperative that all this”—she gestured at the snowfall of paperwork that surrounded her desk—“gets organised and accounted for. I am making progress, but I don’t want to take a real break until I’m done.” She had steeled herself to work all day, every day, until Volare’s books were perfectly in order.
* * * *
After an entire week of enduring paper cuts and squinting to read Damien’s neat yet minuscule handwriting, Chloe leant back in her desk chair and sighed contentedly. Damien had supplied her with a lovely set of sleek, teak file cabinets, and his paperwork was now perfectly organised within them. He’d also provided her with a powerful new laptop and an external flat screen monitor. She’d painstakingly entered all Volare’s financial information into computer files then had backed them up with an online storage site. Gone were the piles of crumpled receipts and folded notes. That once-overflowing closet now held only her jacket, her purse and a spare nightclub outfit. Chloe had Monica to thank for that stroke of genius. As the assistant manager of Volare, Chloe needed to be prepared to move from work-wear to club-wear at a moment’s notice, although, so far, she’d been working on the firmly buttoned-up side of the b
usiness.
She grinned when she heard Damien’s gentle rap on the door. He’d treated her like a princess this week, albeit a princess with a tape calculator and a spreadsheet. Wonder how Disney could spin my fairy tale, she thought. Princess Numberina in her sparkling coke-bottle glasses and holding her plucky HP calculator sidekick, perhaps?
“Mind if I come in?” Damien asked.
“Sure thing, Boss,” Chloe called out.
Damien entered and chuckled at the sight of Chloe. Her bare feet were propped on her desk and her hands folded behind her head. Damien looked every bit the hot, refined professional in his herringbone blazer, windowpane-patterned blue shirt and slim khakis. “I just finished up,” Chloe announced, “and was putting my feet up. I feel like I finally earned my place here, if you don’t mind me saying so. You, Damien Walters, are now a financially organised small business owner. And I’d like to offer my congratulations on a hugely successful nightclub and therapy practice. You are solidly in the black.”
“Excellent.” He nodded. “You’re a fast, dedicated worker, Chloe. I knew it was a smart move hiring you. You’ll find a project bonus in your next pay cheque in appreciation for your efforts. Hang on just a sec, I’ll be right back.”
Chloe heard his footsteps enter his own office across the hall, pause a few moments as he rustled around, then return to her office.
He held a chilled bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes. “I know it’s only three thirty,” he said, grinning wickedly, “but this seems like a good reason to celebrate, don’t you think?” He popped the cork with a practised hand. “Besides, I know the owner here. He’ll let it slide this time.” He poured two glasses and handed one to Chloe.
She sipped and let her head fall back against the cushioned headrest of her chair.
Damien moved a chair beside her and placed his flute on the table after taking a sip. “I really am grateful for your hard work, Chloe,” he told her. Chloe wondered if he felt, as she did, the strong, invisible magnet that pulled them together. Even gravity worked against her—she felt the room tilt so that the only direction she could move in was towards the inviting warmth of his chest. Chloe’s mouth went dry and her nipples tightened. She leaned towards him, breathless with hope that he felt a reciprocal pull towards her.
