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)
I like it far too much.
I like him far too much.
But that's ridiculous. Where would he ever fit into my life?
No. This is perfect. We're two people whose paths will never cross again after this.
Meredith says that's the key to a successful casual thing.
There is one problem though.
Ahem. "I… I appreciate this was on my terms," I say. "And I do need that. Someone who will encourage my desires. But I don't want it to be the sort of thing I pay for."
"You want to have real sex," he says.
I nod. "If you're not really interested, I understand. I'm sure, you—"
"I'm interested." He says it matter-of-factly. As if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "It won't be what you'd get with a boyfriend, but I can drop the pretense. Give you a more honest fling. No charge."
No charge as part of the deal or because he actually wants to have sex with me? I’m not sure I want to ask. Does it matter, really? I need the material and I want to have sex with him. I need to do what I tell clients to do: focus on what I want, not on other people’s motives. "Was there pretense last night?"
He doesn't answer. "I'll drop a little pretense each time, to ease you into a more honest dynamic."
He can tell I can't handle asking for what I want without encouragement. He's good. He should get into my line of work.
Or maybe we should collaborate. I handle the mental prep. He takes on the actual experience.
It's not a bad idea. In a world where people don't look down on sex workers. In this one, the law isn't on our side.
Which means I need to keep my current gig. "Are you sure I can say anything I want?” I ask.
“Do you already have a book deal?” he jokes.
“Something like that.”
He nods. “As long as you change my name,” he says again. “Then go wild.”
I shake.
We iron out the initial details over another cup of tea (coffee for him). The rest, we figure out over text, over the next few days.
The wedding is in three weeks. The retreat starts in two. I iron out the schedule with Meredith, so we won't miss an episode, so she deals with minimal retreat interruption.
She wants details, but I'm not ready to share. I don't really want to share them with my listeners either. Not yet.
What would I say about the experience? How do I explain how it feels to pay someone to pretend they like me?
It was good sex.
But it wasn't what I want out of sex either.
And here I am with two weeks to figure that out. What I want from sex, from my job, from my life as a single woman.
I spend my time researching, swimming extra laps, prepping future topics. Then, three days before we go on the trip, Romeo and I meet for a real date.
Well, a lightning round of getting to know each other.
Then a practice date.
With his best friend as the judge.
She'll decide if we're selling this or not.
No pressure.
Chapter Nine
Romeo
The second the doorbell rings, Sasha jumps to her feet. Her big brown eyes shine with evil glee.
That's why men love her. Because she can switch between Mistress of Pain and sweet, loving girlfriend in the blink of an eye. She can't help it. She loves to see men in pain. Especially me.
"Don't get too turned on, Sasha," I say.
Her fire-engine red lips curl into a wide smile. They stand out against her light skin and dark hair. She isn't in full glam today. Her choppy bob is messy. Her eye makeup is a simple black line. And she's dressed more like an ordinary Orange County woman than a Dominatrix on her day off.
Ankle boots, stretchy magenta dress, studded black purse.
Okay, more like an Orange County Dominatrix on her day off.
"Oh my god, Rome, do you really think you could ever turn me on?" Her nose scrunches in distaste.
"Me? No. My pain? Yes," I say.
"Not even if you were writhing on the floor in agony." She taps her chin. "Although…"
"See?" I say.
She smooths her dress and motions to the door. "Do I need to let her in?"
No. I can do it. I just need to believe this isn't a totally insane idea. "Don't scare her."
"Isn't she a sex therapist?"
"You're intimidating," I say.
She smiles in the way that means she knows I'm flattering her. Not that she minds. "I am going to get the door if you don't."
I nod, turn, walk the five steps across the foyer, open the door for Ivy.
She's standing on the balcony in a turquoise blouse, teal pants, and black wedges. And not the same ones she was wearing last time. A different monochrome blue-green outfit.
Her long, sandy hair is tucked into a neat bun. And she's holding a blue tote with a notebook poking from the top.