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)
"Did you use it?"
"It wouldn't fit," I say.
She laughs. "It's easier if you put a condom on it. Lubes up better. You were using lube, right?"
"Yes, Mom."
"Don't even. You lecture me all the time." She play-swats in my general direction.
Then it falls. The awkward silence.
We still don't have an answer.
She's still off the market.
I'm still unable to get laid.
"What is it… that stops you?" she asks.
"You saw that guy," I say. "He didn't even pretend he's interested in me. He went straight to 'I like your tits.' If it's not that, it's, 'do you like it in the ass' or 'I want to bend you over the sink.'"
"That can be hot."
"From a stranger on an app?" I ask.
She nods okay, yeah, fair point. "Oh, what about porn? We could do a week on 'porn for women.'"
"We've done it." Twice. We already get a lot of calls about porn. I'm not as big a fan as most sex-therapists. I've seen the downsides too close.
"You could make a porno," she says.
"On the air?"
"Well…"
I shake my head no way and take a long sip.
She lets the silence fall. Studies me carefully. "Do you really want a good time, Ives?"
"Are you asking if I want to have good sex?"
"I am."
Damn. That's harsh. But possibly fair. "I do, but I'm not like you. I can't do the casual thing the same way. I need a little more of a connection. Or at least a guy who treats me like a princess."
"What about a guy who pretends you have a connection?"
Huh?
"He'll treat you like a queen. Like an empress, actually. And you’ll have plenty of material to report back."
"You've slept with him?" I ask.
"No. A friend of mine did. She said he was great. The perfect lay."
This time, I raise a brow.
"Great conversation. Plenty of foreplay. You don't have to ask him to grab a condom. And he'll do any position you like, however you like, for as long as you like."
"Oral?" I ask.
"As much as you like."
"And he's reasonable looking?"
She shakes her head. "He's gorgeous."
Something doesn't add up. "What's the catch?"
"He's a professional."
"Like me?"
"No, Ivy. Not like you. He's not a sex therapist. He's a gigolo."
Chapter Three
Romeo
There's a saying about sex workers:
You don't pay a woman to fuck you. You pay her to leave afterward.
A stereotype about what men want. True for women too.
About half my clients hire me for a good time. They want me here for as long as it takes for them to get off.
But lots of people are lonely.
They want the boyfriend experience. A handsome young man who wines and dines them, flirts just enough all through dinner, teases them with promises of more, peels their clothes off, whispers sweet nothings in their ear as he kisses a line down their body—
Let's just say I've got a routine at this point.
And enough practice that my clients don't notice it's a routine.
It's not a bad gig, really.
After all, look at this place. High ceilings. Angular windows. Thick white blinds. The view of the ocean.
Silk sheets.
I’m naked in silk sheets.
What could be better?
I convinced my client to switch from cotton. To treat herself to a more sensual life. After all, she has the cash—her late husband was loaded—and she doesn't have many pleasures left in her life.
Why not enjoy this?
She wants a replacement for the man she loved for thirty years.
I don't blame her for paying for a younger, more virile partner.
And, yes, she likes the attention. But she also likes dictating when it starts and ends.
Once upon a time, I didn't think I'd ever find my way into a two-million-dollar house, much less an estate like this one, worth ten times more.
Sure, I could have spent my life mowing millionaires’ lawns. That’s what my father wanted for me. If I tended to enough front yards and saved enough money, I could open my own landscaping business.
But when someone hires Romeo to prune the shrubbery, they have another goal in mind.
Not that I blame my mother for picking the name. Not entirely. It’s not the name. It’s the poetic temperament I inherited from her.
When we were young, we didn’t have much, but we did have each other. Or however the story goes.
And then, all of a sudden, my great-aunt married into money, and we had a lot. And then her husband passed, and she passed, and Dad inherited her fortune, and we had everything.
Even after Dad died, we had money. And it didn't matter that we had each other anymore.
Because we had money.
Who needs class or street smarts or good behavior with that?
I went from a child who didn’t expect presents the way the other American kids did to a teenager with the entire world at my fingertips.
Not that my brother Daniel acts like he's set to inherit a fortune. No, my 4.2 GPA, straight-as-an-arrow brother worked two jobs every summer, earned his MBA while working as an executive assistant, and is still climbing the corporate ladder.