Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
He takes another sip. He gives me a moment to fill the space.
"What are you thinking, Ivy?"
"It's been a long time since I've been drawn to someone," I say. “How lucky that I'm drawn to you. Considering. How awkward would it be if someone hired you and then said, no, no, you don't smell good to me."
"It's happened," he says.
"Did you take it personally?" I swallow another sip.
He shakes his head. "If they still want to talk, we talk. Otherwise, I take my money and go."
"No refunds?" I ask.
"Only for poor performance on my part."
I suppose sex workers experience performance anxiety too. "You'd really admit to that?"
He shrugs coyly. Maybe. Maybe not. "I'm my own worst critic."
"Me too."
He takes a long sip and finishes his drink.
I look down at my glass. It's empty too.
Right. One drink. And then I have sex with him. That’s what I want. That’s what I’m paying him to do.
He offers his hand. "If you're ready, I can take it from here. Show you how it feels to embrace only what you want."
Chapter Six
Romeo
Ivy suggests a second drink. She's nervous. Which is sweet. It's been a while since she's had good sex. She said as much, and I can tell from the way she speaks, the way she moves.
I know, I know, I sound like the world's biggest egomaniac, but after half a decade in the trenches, I have a sixth sense.
She fixes another round, and this time, we chat. I should probably start the clock, but I don't. I'm more interested in what Daniel and Mom would think of her.
Besides, she's cute. Younger than I expected. Only a year or two older than I am, probably. Smart, yes. I do like smart women. That is true. But not condescending the way Daniel is. Curious, the way Dad was. She asks a lot of questions. More than most clients.
Maybe it is an occupational hazard, looking at everyone else's problems. Clients do ask questions, but usually they're looking for assurance I enjoy my work, enjoy their company, look forward to enjoying their bodies.
I do, mostly, but this is a job, like any other. Some clients are great. Some are terrors. At this point, I can afford to drop anyone who doesn't treat me with respect or pay on time. But I don't turn a woman away simply because she isn't my type or in my preferred age range.
Ivy's questions feel different. As if she really wants to know how I feel, what I do, what it's like to work in the trenches.
Or maybe I'm the man who thinks the stripper giving him a lap dance really wants him.
Maybe I'm mistaking her professional courtesy for interest.
Maybe I'm distracted by Daniel's wedding.
After all, I need a woman on my arm. And showing up with a doctor—
Mama would love that.
But what am I going to do, pitch the woman a business agreement? If I fuck you an hour a night, will you pretend you love me to my family for two hours a day?
I should hire a professional. Keep it simple.
But my brother—
He's too smart for that. He'll look her up. Check her credentials. No. I need someone with a good cover story. Whether that's Doctor Ivy or someone else, well—
I should stop thinking about my tragic circumstances and do my job.
We finish our second drink.
This time, when I offer my hand, she takes it. She lets me pull her to her feet.
She leads me to her bedroom and stops outside the door.
"I haven't done this in a long time." Nerves fill her green eyes.
I can't say I know. That's dismissive. And no one wants to hear you give off I don't get laid energy. That's not what I mean, anyway. Ivy may not be a supermodel, but she's beautiful in that intelligent, quirky way. The sort of woman who will talk to you all night and surprise you with an open mind. And not some idiotic porno idea of an open mind, where she's willing to try anal and facials. A truly open mind.
She's willing to explore. I can sense that about her.
What would I say, if this was a real date?
I don't have the faintest idea. I haven't had real sex in a long, long time.
But I don't need to know now. She's paying me to bring the charm, no matter what I feel. She's paying me to tend to her needs. I may enjoy the action, but it won't be what I want.
That's what women want out of a night with a sex worker. Yes, they enjoy the abs and stamina, but, mostly, they want to know they can ask for anything and get it.
They want to know a man won't push them past their comfort zone or ignore warm up or complain if they struggle to come.