Can’t. Stop. The. Word. Vomit.
I’m a lot of things– crass, stubborn, brutally honest, egotistical– but one thing I am not, is careless. I know my boundaries, and I never cross them. In a business where lines can be easily blurred, those boundaries are outlined in black Sharpie, traced in gasoline, then set the f*ck on fire, ensuring that no one even gets close enough to inhale the fumes of temptation.
Yet, here I am, touching, tempting, testing the limits. Begging to get burned by an angel with a halo of fire.
“My apologies, Mrs. Carr,” I straighten, my defiant hands balled into tight fists at my sides. “I assure you-”
“You like it?”
I meet her eyes, which are as big and bright as the moon, casting an ethereal glow across her face. This close, much closer than deemed innocent, I see they’re not quite blue, as I’d initially thought. Flecks of green and gold illuminate the irises, and I find myself getting lost in the liquid depths, wondering what secrets lie beneath. What past pain is hidden behind those long, auburn-hued lashes.
Yes, I like it. Much more than a narcissistic a*shole like me should.
Liking these women isn’t what made me the man I am today. It isn’t what built my solid reputation. I’m not known for my bleeding heart of gold or sugarcoated tongue. What I am known for is results. And that’s all Allison—or anyone else, for that matter—will get from me, and not a damn thing more.
I’m facing the entrance to her suite by the time I realize I’ve abandoned her, leaving her mouth agape and her question unanswered. I imagine those blue-green eyes narrowed in confusion at my erratic behavior, but force myself not to look. There’s nothing to see there that I haven’t seen already. Just another poor, little, rich girl.
“Class is in session at 10 am. Don’t be late.” My gaze stays fixed on the dark, cherry wood door, dying to break free. The walls are closing in, suffocating me, demanding I turn around and face my cowardice. That I confront my weakness, currently bubbling up like bile as I pass the threshold of her suite—away from those enigmatic eyes and the temptation to play connect-the-dots with those freckles, in hopes of uncovering more of her beautifully blemished skin.
Day-f*cking-One. I’m so screwed.
“UNLESS HE’S COMPLETELY desperate or under the influence, a man can’t—and won’t—f*ck what doesn’t get him hard.”
Less gasps this time, but every perfectly powdered face is beet red with embarrassment, causing my mouth to slide into a sardonic smirk.
Truth be told, I love this shit. I love ruffling their meticulously groomed feathers. Their obvious discomfort entertains me. Seeing the rosy hue of coyness bleed through their blush is like a balm to my little, sadistic soul.
“And in that case,” I continue, “you don’t want him anyway. What you do want is for him to be salivating at the soles of your Jimmy Choos. And let’s face it, ladies… that’s not happening. Why do you think that is?”
Crickets. F*cking crickets.
“Anyone? Come on, ladies. I can’t help you unless you want to be helped. So unless you all have picture-perfect marriages, and husbands that blow your backs out on a regular, I should see some hands.”
This time I’m rewarded with the almost simultaneous intake of eleven breaths. They’re all still here. All willing to bare their souls and dirty laundry, in an attempt to rekindle the doused flame between their thighs.
You see, women are liars.
Yeah, I said it. L-I-A-R-S.
They want intimacy just as badly as men do. But to them, intimacy is more than just the physical act of sex. They want to be cherished, yet want a man that will get down and dirty. They want tenderness, but crave to be banged like a $2 hooker. They want a man that’ll go all night but still have the energy to kiss and cuddle and talk about their feelings afterward.
Listen up, ladies. We’re f*cking tired! You try going jackrabbit-style, throw in some Cirque du Soleil moves and see if you can keep your eyelids peeled. Us passing out after sex is a compliment—a testament to how good it was. And quite frankly, if your dude can hop out of the sack and go to work or run a marathon, then he still has energy left for sex. He’s just done having sex with you.
Much to my surprise, a hand goes up, pulling my attention. Of course, fate would have a sick sense of humor.
“You’re saying our husbands aren’t attracted to us anymore,” Allison states flatly.
As much as I want to dispute her answer and curse that pathetic excuse for a man known as Evan Carr, my game face is fastened tightly in place. Still, I look down at my notes, not trusting it wholeheartedly. Business, Drake, I tell myself. Business before bullshit.
“Correct, Mrs. Carr.”
“Ally,” she retorts, causing me to nearly choke on my words.
“Excuse me?”
“Call me Ally. Just call me Ally. No one’s called me Allison since St. Mary’s prep. And if you call me Mrs. Carr again, I may have to sue for defamation. Mrs. Carr is my lovely, gracious mother-in-law,” she replies with a hint of snark.
Finally, someone who speaks my language.
It’s no secret that Mrs. Elaine Carr is a raging bitch in designer heels. Since her stint on The Real Housewives of NYC a few years back, she’s been known as the Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side. When the show caught backlash after one of her Pinot-fueled tirades involving a gay server and derogatory slurs, she wasn’t invited for the following season. She was furious, of course, and threatened to sue the network. Not that she needed the money. It was the humiliation of being thrown out on her little, augmented ass.
Lucky for her sake, Allison refused to be filmed, yet Evan was as much of a camera whore as his mother. As much as he enjoys screwing housewives, being a housewife seemed even more enticing to him.
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat. “Where were we? Attraction, ladies. It’s a powerful thing. It’s what nabs them, captivates them and keeps them coming back for more. And it goes far beyond physical attributes. Point blank, you have to be what they want. You have to offer what they desire. You see, men are simple creatures. We want what we want. And if you aren’t what we want, we find something– or someone– we do.”
“That’s disgusting,” says a murmur toward the back of the room. I look up, immediately recognizing the platinum blonde hair and disgruntled face of Lacey Rose, wife of legendary rocker Skylar Rose, who is also forty years her senior. They met and married when Lacey was only 16, which quickly sparked a media storm surrounding the child bride’s intentions, and the musician’s penchant for adolescent poon. That was ten years ago, and now that Lacey has blossomed into a woman and birthed two children, Skylar’s been trolling Forever 21 and mall food courts for another young flower to pollinate.
Does this shit sound wrong to anybody else?
“Disgusting, but true, Mrs. Rose,” I reply with a nod.
“So what…we’re getting makeovers? We’re supposed to change who we are just so they’ll be attracted to us?”
“Not necessarily. Think of yourselves as perfectly wrapped presents. All of you spend thousands on your appearance, so there’s not much we need to work on there. We just want to present the package in a different way. Not change what you have, just exploit it. Let me show you. Mrs. Rose?”
I leave my place behind the lectern and go to stand in front of her with an outstretched hand. Reluctantly, she places hers in mine and stands, letting me lead her to the front of the room.
“What are you going to do to me?” she asks, her eyes darting around the room nervously, as I move behind her.
“Relax, Mrs. Rose. As you all have read in the documents you’ve signed, I will never physically harm nor violate you. In some instances, though, I will have to touch you. Guide you. If at any time you feel uncomfortable, simply say stop. That’s all. Now…may I touch you, Mrs. Rose?”
Her shoulders rise and fall with her labored breaths, anticipating the feel of my hands on her. This is the tricky part. I know what I do to these women. I know what they see, what they feel from me. They’re used to powerful men– they’re attracted to them– and that fact alone draws them to me. Add in the denim-blue eyes and 6 foot 2 inch dominating physique, and I’m reduced to high-priced man candy for the next six weeks. That’s why I keep things very professional. My tone is always clipped and straight to the point. While I try to be cordial, I’m never overly friendly. So, while they may be attracted to the physical, I’m too much of an a*shole to warrant unwelcomed advances from lonely housewives.
“Yes,” she breathes. I can almost visualize her eyelids fluttering closed.
Towering over her from behind, the calloused pads of my fingertips lightly graze the sides of her arms, raking over her skin in a harsh whisper. She shivers under my touch, her breath coming out in quick pants while the rest of the women stop breathing altogether, their mouths agape in enviable lust.
I move in closer, letting my front mold into her back. She shudders for just a second before melting into the hard contours of my chest with a sigh. “You have amazing arms, Lacey,” I say just above a whisper, my lips only a breath away from her ear. “Toned, tan, smooth. Your shoulders are sexy. Has anyone ever told you that? Imagine hands massaging them– gently at first– kneading away the day’s tension. Then a little more pressure. Harder. Then harder still. Feels good, doesn’t it? Imagine lips trailing kisses across them before moving up to your neck. A tongue snakes out to taste you…so sweet…so soft…”
Just as an anxious noise escapes her throat, I take a step back, causing Lacey to fall backwards into my arms, channeling her inner Scarlett O’Hara. Before she gets too comfortable, I set her on her feet, making it known that I’m nobody’s Rhett Butler.
Her face flushed with embarrassment and arousal, Lacey quickly staggers to her seat, as ten women pelt her with questioning stares.
“Now,” I bellow with a loud clap of my hands, capturing their attention. “That was the art of attraction—working with what you’ve got. Playing up your strengths, and being confident in your sexuality. Any more volunteers?”
Eleven hands shoot to the sky. No, wait…make that 14. A few ladies are double fisting.
AFTER A DAY of stroking fragile egos and another awkward dinner, painfully watching most of the diners push food around their plates pretending to eat, I nearly sprint to the main kitchen for a cold beer and to check in with my staff.
“What’s up, J.D.? How’re the Erotic Eleven treating ya?” greets the Oasis sous chef, Riku. The kid is an anomaly. Half Japanese and half Brazilian, he’s used to getting mauled by horny housewives enamored with his jet black hair, broad build, copper-colored skin, and fine, Asian features. When I asked him how his parents managed to merge their cultures, he replied, “Everyone’s fluent in the language of love.”
Yeah right.
Still, he’s a good guy, if not slightly green when it comes to matters of the heart. If someone like me had friends, Riku would be it. But, alas, I am someone like me.
I grab two cold ones out of the fridge and pop them open before handing Riku his, which he gladly accepts.
Everyone here knows that, while I may sign their paychecks, I am as far from a boss as possible. There is no Mr. Drake here. No formal reprimands or hoops to jump through. The rules are simple: If you want to work with me, great. Do your job. If not, fine by me—everyone is replaceable. With the pay, benefits and mutual respect amongst all employees, whether you’re a dishwasher or head chef, I am rarely dealt the task of hiring or firing.
“Erotic Eleven? Hmmm…not much different than the last group. What’d you call them? The Sizzling Seven?”
Riku laughs before tipping back his beer, then looks down at the label. “Krombacher, eh? Where’d you get this one?”
“Germany.”
“That where you spend your summer? Corrupting a bevy of beauties in Berlin?”
“One of the places,” I shrug. “Kinda just wandered through Europe. Stopped in Amsterdam, Brussels, Prague—even made it out to Spain.”
Riku shakes his head, his mouth curled into a smirk. “You make it sound like you were backpacking and sleeping in hostels or some shit. Be real, man. You did it up playboy style like you always do. Probably found your very own Heidi Klum out there.”
“Nah. Never that.”
Riku is half right. I did roam Europe in style, driving up the coast of Monaco, staying at luxurious resorts and indulging in the most amazing cuisine. I also indulged in my fair share of hot, European p-ssy. But, hey, I was on vacation.
“Sure, sure,” he remarks, not the least bit phased by my aloofness. He already knows that privacy is a big deal to me and that I rarely disclose any personal information. “Just toss one my way if you ever find your hands too full to juggle all those Vicky Secret Angels you like to keep stashed away.”
One swimsuit model. One. And suddenly I’m Hugh Hefner with a fresh Viagra refill.
I finish my beer in silence, listening to him ramble on about the insanely frustrating demands of our guests.
“No butter. No gluten. No dairy. No fat, no calories, no flavor. What the hell do these chicks want to eat? Air?”
“If you could put it on a plate and garnish it with parsley, it’d be a hit.”
“F*ck that,” Riku remarks with a shake of his head. “I want a woman that eats. Someone I can cook for and feed while she’s curled up next to me in bed. Ain’t shit I can do with a bag of bones. I mean, have you seen most of them? Shit, if they turn to the side, they f*cking disappear. I’ll take tits and ass over Skeletor any-damn-day.”
I nod, feeling the double-edged sword of his words. Of course, these women want to eat. They crave rich foods and sugary desserts just like anyone else. They detest having to spend every waking moment obsessing over every pound and calorie. But when you live in a society that praises skinny and shames anything that doesn’t fit that extra-extra-small mold, you make sacrifices. And that’s exactly what they’ve done. They’ve sacrificed their happiness, their peace of mind, and in many cases, their health. And in the end, it’s not even about food or body image. It’s just another notch in the good ol’ f*cked up, modern America belt.
I drain my beer before crossing the courtyard to my home. It’s warmer than usual, and under the dark cloak of night, I decide to take a swim to clear my head. After stripping off my suit and tie and changing into something more liberating, I dive into the turquoise water, letting the coolness drown the heat building deep in my gut.
This time feels different. I’ve been in this business for years, yet I feel oddly unprepared. It’s only the end of Day Two, and I’m already on edge, temptation closing in on the edges of my rationale. At this rate, I won’t last.
Ok, I lied before. Not lie-lie. Just didn’t tell the whole truth. When I said I endure six, sexless weeks during instruction, what I meant to say was that I try to endure six, sexless weeks. Sure, I’m nearly always successful, but I must admit, there are slip-ups. That’s why I always keep a girl on standby. Very few outsiders know where the property is located, and the few who do are given that information under special circumstances. No strings, no expectations, just someone to scratch that proverbial itch so I can concentrate on the task at hand.
I swim the length of the pool, feeling my muscles flex and pull, igniting an entirely different burn in my thighs, calves and biceps. I push off the edge once more, causing my body to forcefully slice through the water. Damn, it hurts good. I want to keep going—keep pushing—until I’m too exhausted to think about what I really crave. I want to feel this burn of exertion until it eclipses the fire currently licking up my spine.
Most think I’m some kinda health freak. They see me doing laps, running, banging out pushups like it’s going out of style. But in reality, it’s necessary. It’s the only way I avoid what I really want. Without that release, I’d combust from the inside out. Either that or jerk my shit until it falls off. No bueno.
“Wow, no wonder there’s no decent junk food in this place. The owner is Ryan Lochte.”
I spin around to take in a pair of pale legs draped in floral silk to just below the knee. My curious gaze trails those stems up to the bend of soft hips that taper into a narrow waist before flowing into the bottom curves of full, pert breasts.
A grand says she not wearing a bra. Two says her nipples are practically winking at me under that maliciously thin sheath of silk.
Saliva collects in my mouth like a hungry lion and I swallow, forcing myself to look away before I allow myself to know the answer for certain.
I don’t need to see the rest. I already know. I can nearly smell her perfume in the whisper of wind that’s followed her to me. Hell, I can almost imagine the smirk that undoubtedly rests on those delicate lips.
“Seriously, what’s a girl gotta do to get some real ice cream around here?”
From the corner of my eye, Allison bends down to sit at the edge of the pool and tentatively dips her toes in. I turn to watch, amazed at the sight of the fragile gazelle at the watering hole. She visibly shivers and those large, animated eyes smile with amused wonder.
I clear my throat, praying that when I finally grow the balls to open my mouth, actual words and sounds will come out.
“Perhaps the kitchen would be the best place to direct your request, Mrs. Carr.”
Too absorbed with every other (forbidden) part of her, I don’t even notice the spoon and small dish of ice cream in her hands.
“Yeah, but it’s some nonfat, soymilk crap that tastes like baby poop,” she replies, wrinkling that freckled nose.
I allow myself to take a few steps towards her. I’ve earned them. I’ve been a good boy…sorta. “And you know what baby poop tastes like?” I ask, cocking a cynical brow.
“Well, I don’t know, obviously. But based on how it smells, I would say this ice cream is pretty darn close.” She sets the dish down beside her after giving it one last, shaming grimace. “So what are you doing out here? I’d think you’d be exhausted from that very… hands-on lesson today. Very enlightening, Mr. Drake.”
“Well, we try our best, Mrs. Carr,” I respond with a blank face, though my voice is teeming with amusement.
Allison rolls her eyes and shakes her head, her auburn hair brushing her bare shoulders. “I told you—do not call me Mrs. Carr. I have no interest in eating my young nor nursing them until they’re old enough to pay taxes.” She brings her feet to the surface of the water and watches as she wiggles her toes. “So…is that how it’s going to be all the time?”
“What do you mean?” I take a few steps closer, a frown pinching my forehead.
“I mean, will you always be so intense with us?” Before I can brace myself, her gaze locks onto mine, piercing straight through my impassive fa?ade. “Will you…touch us like that? Say those things to us?”
“All physical contact is specifically outlined in the contracts, Mrs. Ca-, excuse me, Allison. Now, if at any time you feel uncomfortable with the physicality or feel as though I’m being too demonstrative, say the word, and it stops. Understand? Are you saying I make you uncomfortable, Allison?”
I don’t even notice how close we are now, as if the ebb and flow of our chlorinated sea has somehow pushed us together. Only inches of water, breath and clothing separate us, yet I know any space we share will feel too intimate.
I know what I need to do. It’s what’s right, what’s responsible.
I need to tell her to leave.
I need to send this woman back to her cheating, piece of shit husband and let her work out her issues like the rest of America—with therapy, pills and the occasional bad decision. But most importantly, I need let her do it without my help. Because, right now, all I can think about is helping myself.
“No,” she says suddenly, as if those bright eyes have infiltrated my mind. “You don’t. And, remember, it’s Ally.”
She pulls her feet from the water and stands, collecting her now melted nonfat-soy milk-baby poop-ice cream. Before she turns to walk away, she smiles at me, not at all put off by my icy approach as I had hoped.
Note to self: Be more of an a*shole.
And get real ice cream.
TODAY ON THE Hollywood Reporter, playboy billionaire, Evan Carr, caught with another woman while wife vacations solo at a spa?
Sources close to the couple say the pair had been having problems for months, amidst outrageous cheating rumors. Claims have even been made that wife Allison Elliott-Carr has not been at a spa retreat, but rather in rehab after a mental break. With her unavailable for comment, and whereabouts unconfirmed, Hollywood Reporter reached out to Evan Carr who did not deny, nor confirm, rumors of infidelity.
I click off the television and scratch the short layer of hair on my chin, my jaw tight with irritation. F*ck. This is exactly why all outside communication is forbidden during instruction: shit like this worms its way into the ladies’ heads, sucking out whatever tiny glimmer of hope they have left and sending them running back home.
Of course, they’d have reason to, since 95% of these stories have some truth to them. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and the Carr marriage has been a blazing inferno of lies and deceit since before Allison even said, “I do.”
I should know.
With a huff, I make my way toward the main house, just as the women are finishing up breakfast and morning yoga. One by one, they trickle into the great room, silently taking their seats. A few of them glance up at me through long, false lashes. Others knead their hands in their laps, their cheeks red and warm with memories of my hands touching them, coaxing their inner deviant to come out and play. Yet, I don’t notice it. I don’t see their longing stares. I just keep watching, waiting, until she walks in.
Once I see her filing in with the rest of the ladies, something hot and heavy collects in my gut. It’s torture. It’s relief. It’s goddamn confusing. I’m too edgy, too anxious, and there’s f*ck all I can do about it now. Impulse takes over, and I’m striding toward her just as she takes her seat.
“Stand up,” I command. I don’t ask. I never ask for what I want.
“Excuse me?” Allison asks, with a frown wrinkling her forehead. I want to reach out and smooth those tiny creases, but I don’t. I’m not a total narcissist.
“Stand up, Ally.” I extend my hand to her, which she studies cautiously before taking. Her palm is warm and soft…everything I imagined her to be. Simultaneously smoothing her dress down her backside, she stands, closing the small space between us.
I hold her hand a beat longer than I should, before pulling it back. “Turn around. Let me see you.”
“Wha-? Um, I don’t understand what you-”
My hands are on her shoulders, their boldness catching her off guard and causing her to gasp. I guide her, turning her body 180 degrees. “This. This is what determines whether or not a man f*cks you, ladies. The packaging. The allure. The temptation.” I turn her back toward me, letting those questioning, blue-green eyes bore into mine unabashedly. I can’t turn away. I can’t even f*cking blink. I talk to her like she’s the only one in the room, yet I make sure my voice carries to the other eager ears. “Men are visual creatures. They need to be enticed. Excited. And while A-line dresses and ballet flats may be sensible, it’s not sexy.”
“This is Alexander McQueen!” she scoffs.
“It’s ugly as day-old sin. F*ck the labels.”
Her eyes grow wide at first, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. Then my words sink in, and pain creeps onto that porcelain canvas of sandy brown freckles. I don’t want to hurt her, but shit, the truth hurts. Life hurts. Hell, it hurts like a motherf*cker.
Before she can protest, I’m touching her hair, pulling out the silver pins that secure it in a practical bun. Flames cascade down her back, spilling into her face and kissing her shoulders. I coil an auburn lock around my finger and inch my face closer to hers so only she can hear these words I shouldn’t say. These words that threaten to eat away at the once steel fortress of my logic.
“I think you’re sexy as f*ck, Ally,” I whisper, my breath tempting the skin right below her ear. “You just don’t know it yet.”
Just as swiftly, my touch abandons her, and I’m hurriedly making my way to the lectern, away from her. Away from the temptation to rake my fingers through that fiery mane before fisting the hair at the nape of her neck—pulling her head back so she has no choice but to see me. But is that what I really want? For her to see who I really am? Or do I continue to spoon-feed her, and everyone else, the illusion that will provoke their own inner temptress?
I clear my throat, fidgeting with the lapel of my linen suit jacket. Allison is still standing, still looking at me with eyes wide and mouth agape. That was necessary. I had to tell her that. Who knows what spin the tabloids will put on her absence from the public eye?
Yes, yes, all part of my teaching methods.
I’m full of shit.
A hand goes up, saving me from the turmoil of my f*cked up inner monologue. “Yes?”
The sound of my voice prompts Allison to take her seat, and I force my eyes to Maryanne Carrington, the portly, middle-aged woman from Day One who has proved to be the mother of the group. Probably because her husband likes to f*ck girls young enough to be their daughter. “It’s evident that I’m no longer a spring chicken,” she says in her endearing southern drawl. “I’m not a size 2, and gravity has taken its toll. There’s only so much nippin’ and tuckin’ I can do without looking like a circus clown. How can I be tempting? What can I do to make my husband find me sexy again?”
“Mrs. Carrington, forgive me, but do you have tits?”
“Wha-what?” she stammers, clutching her chest with phantom palpitations.
“Tits? You have them, right?”
“Well…yes. Of course.” Her cheeks heat with crimson, and she lets out a nervous chuckle.
“And ass?”
“Why…yes.”