Taint

“What’s your name?” I ask, undoing the second button. She gasps as it falls open, revealing the top of her cleavage.

“Shayla. Shayla Adkins,” she relays, panting. Of course, I already knew that. Shayla Dawn Adkins, married to George Adkins, Jr., heir of a popular weight loss program that most of these women swear by. Her husband, affectionately known as Georgie, is also gay. And he sent her to me with the intent of going away for an extended vacation with his best friend/personal trainer, Arturo. Needless to say, there is nothing I can teach Shayla that will make her what her husband desires unless she makes a trip to Thailand and starts calling herself Sherman. And the sad part is, she’s completely clueless. She believes the bullshit he feeds her about being too stressed out at work to make love to her. She’s even proud of his dedication for spending countless hours “training” at the gym. Poor girl is as na?ve as a baby lamb in a den of wolves.

“Shayla.” I step in so close that our bodies meet, her heat melding with mine. She sucks in a breath. “Shayla, do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Silence falls around us, and not even the sounds of heated breaths or the distant clattering of dishes from the kitchen can be heard. Just the muted rustling of fabric slipping over another ivory button fills the space, coupled with Shayla’s shallow panting.

My index finger falls on the front clasp of Shayla’s white lace bra, and she stops breathing altogether. I rake my fingers over the delicate fabric, toying with her, making her ache for what comes next. She lifts her head and gazes at me through long lashes, begging with those blue eyes. How long has it been since a man touched her? How long has it been since she felt desired?

“Seduction,” I breathe, and I feel her shiver under my touch. I pull open her blouse just a bit more, exposing her chaste lingerie. A hiss slips through her teeth as I splay a hand on her bare chest. “It lies in the sway of your hips when you walk. The light, breathy tone of your voice. The way your hair whispers across smooth skin. The way you’re looking up at me through your eyelashes right now, eyes hooded and smoldering.” I barely caress the shell of her bra and she quivers, drawing her bottom lip into her mouth. “Seduction, Shayla. I’m going to teach you how to seduce me, just as I have seduced you.”

In the next breath, I’m a foot away from her, yet my eyes are still locked on her angelic white lace bra. “Your bra is…cute. Practical. But it’s not seductive.”

I look around the room, addressing all of the ladies. “And I can bet money that each of you are wearing similar undergarments. Which is why you all have an assignment. In order to be seductive, you need to be confident. And that’s something that can’t be taught. It needs to come from within. So for today’s exercise, we’re going to do something a little different. You’ll all go back to your rooms and change into something a bit more…seductive. You’ll find that your suite has been stocked with lingerie from Agent Provocateur, and not a stitch considered sensible or practical. I want sexy, ladies. I want suburban slut. Housewife meets whore. Sell it. Make me believe it. Own it.”

“You want us to strut around in lingerie?” asks the matronly Maryanne Carrington, pulling her cardigan closed.

“Not right away. But today, you will strut around in front of me. By the end of the course, you’ll be comfortable enough to walk around practically naked on Rodeo Drive while drinking a latte.”

Horrified murmurs resound around the room, yet only one voice has the nerve to speak up. “Don’t you think that’s a little uncalled for? We came here to improve our marriages and our sex lives. Not abandon our morals and become your personal strippers.”

Numbly, I turn my gaze on Allison’s rigid expression, the light in her eyes dimmed by her annoyance. It’s the first time I’ve let myself look at her since last week. Since the day I kicked her out of my home with fallen stars drowning in her eyes.

“Like I said before, Mrs. Carr, if you find my teachings too risqué for you—if you think you don’t need this course—you can leave.”

Ally narrows her eyes into slits yet doesn’t say a word, resolving to wring her hands instead. I lift a brow, challenging her to storm out of this house and my life for good, restoring the carefree, I-don’t-give-a-f*ck attitude that has placated me for almost 30 years. My indifference has always been my safety net. And now…now I’m fighting just to hold onto it.

You reject people before they have a chance to reject you.

My head snaps to Allison as if she had just murmured the words herself. I know it’s just my conscience messing with me. My Jiminy Cricket has a sick, twisted sense of humor.

“So…how is this supposed to work?” Shayla asks, her face still flush and top buttons undone.

“Starting in about half an hour, someone from my staff will come to retrieve you one by one, then lead you to a secluded room. From there, we will have a private session of sorts. I want to gauge both your strengths and weaknesses so I can determine the best way to personally consult you. So…ladies, if you will…” I extend my hand toward the hallway the leads to the staircase. The staff is already lined up, waiting to assist them in any way. Once the last reluctant face disappears from sight, I make a beeline for the kitchen.

“A LITTLE EARLY for a brew, eh, J.D.? Let me guess: Lingerie Day.”

I nod at Riku before tipping back my beer, nearly draining it in just a few gulps. I open the fridge and grab two more, handing him one. A little mid-morning beer never hurt anyone. Hey, it’s five o’clock some where in the world.

Riku pops the top and takes a swig. “Wait a minute. Don’t you usually do that around Week Three?”

I take another big gulp. Holy hell. I’ll be halfway drunk if I don’t get some food in me. “Yeah. But these girls…they need to be shocked. They’re too comfortable. I need to push a bit and see if they actually push back.”

Riku shrugs. “You’re the boss. But don’t be surprised if one of those chicks gets a little fire in them and pushes you right on your ass.”

I turn toward the fridge and immerse myself in a hunt for snacks to hide my expression. If Riku only knew how right he was.

Someone did push back. And now it’s physically impossible to get back up, dust my shit off and walk away.

I pop a few grapes into my mouth to keep from speaking the bitter truth. Then I drain my beer and prepare to give these women what their husband’s hard-earned money paid for.

“BRING IN THE next one.”

I wipe my brow with a handkerchief and take a calming breath. So far, five ladies have been brought to me, all shaking like leaves on their 6-inch hooker heels. But they came. No matter how reluctant they may have been, they came willingly.

Minutes pass before I hear the telltale signs of stilettos on hardwood. They grow louder, echoing in my head, mimicking the sounds of a ticking time bomb. I know it’s inevitable, and I’ve done this hundreds of times. I’m almost immune to the sight of scanty lace stretched over round, full breasts. I’ve seen more than my fair share of thong-clad asses. And every p-ssy looks good when it’s kissed and caressed by buttery-soft silk.

Still, none of my experiences could have prepared me for the vision that stood in the doorway in the next instant.

Allison steps into the room just far enough for Diane to close the door behind her. She flinches, though she’s trying like hell to remain cool and indifferent to being half naked in front of me. I stay seated, choosing to remain in my safe zone. Standing would only make the urge to rip that goddamn cock-tease of a satin robe off her shoulders, that much stronger.

“So?” she asks, raising a brow.

“So.”

“So…I’m here. Now what?”

I stroke the dust of hair on my chin, contemplating my next move.

She’s just like everyone else. She’s nothing special. Just a paycheck.

I chant it in my head over and over again until it becomes real. Or at least believable.

You’re full of shit. She’s more than that, and you know it. And you hate it.

“Take off your robe,” I say brusquely, trying to silence the voices in my head.

Allison hesitates, still riding the imaginary fence between the doorway and the actual room space. She pulls the robe around her tighter, the drawn satin revealing the curve of her hips. My mouth waters.

“I can’t help you if you won’t let me, Ally.” My voice is softer than it should be. Probably softer than she deserves. “Take off your robe…please.”

She doesn’t fight, though I know she wants to. Instead, she takes a breath and clenches her eyes shut. Then slowly, almost painstakingly, her grip loosens on the pinched fabric. Light brown freckles adorn the top of her chest and shoulders. The contrast of those tiny sprinkles against her milky white skin, and that scarlet hair frosting her shoulders, reminds me of a red velvet cupcake. I lick my chops lazily, the urge to feast on her sweetness growing stronger and hotter.

When the robe slips over the bodice of her corset, my head and limbs become disjointed, and all sense of control begins to slip away. I can feel my legs aching to stand, and my hands burning to touch her. To trace the mosaic of cinnamon freckles blessed with the privilege of living on her creamy skin.

Allison looks down as the satin uncovers more of the lace cinching her breasts and waist as if she is seeing it for the very first time. Eyes wide with wonder, it’s as if she’s experiencing this practice in restraint with me, surprised with her own willpower.

The robe drops to the floor, unsheathing the embodiment of heaven in heels. Her lace bustier and panties are winter white, adorned with rose-pink detailing around the cups of her pert breasts. White stocking are hooked by a matching garter belt over long, toned legs.

She’s an angel. My angel with a halo of fire.

Against the bare walls and sparse furnishings, she looks out of place. A woman like her should be surrounded by beauty, immersed in all things soft and gentle.

Not cast into the darkness of tainted desire.

Our eyes find each other, and our mouths part, yet no words are said. There aren’t any. Just indefinable friction filling this space, the electricity so thick that even the surface of her skin seems to glow. She’s effervescent.

“Walk to me,” I command.

Allison takes a few shaky steps toward me before I halt her advances by raising my palm. “Stop.”

Hurt and confusion flashes across her face. “What?”

“Don’t just stalk over here like you’re walking the green mile. Exaggerate the sway of your hips; sashay to me. See how the heels elongate your legs and sculpt your calves? Give me time to appreciate that. Ok? Now, try again.”

She rolls her eyes before a steely determination settles in them. Head held high, she slowly takes a step forward, and something hot descends into my gut, leaving a scorching trail of lust down my spine. Another sinful step, those teal eyes locked on me like a seductive sniper, and the heat twists and radiates into my lap. A third step with those round luscious hips playing peek-a-boo from under the frilly lace of her panties, and I feel like my pants will burst into flames, causing me to jump to my feet and swiftly stride toward her.

I know Allison can read the desperation and urgency in my hungry eyes. I know she notices how my hand shakes as I reach out to tuck a lock of her strawberry mane behind her ear. Yet, no witty remark or snarky joke escapes her. Instead, she sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and gently rakes her top teeth over it. Without even thinking, I slowly run my thumb along her mouth, coaxing out that tormenting lip. Ally releases it, and with it still glossy and glistening, my thumb trails her mouth once more.

There is nothing between us now but air, opportunity, and forgotten obligations. I don’t care about it any of it. With one hand gripping her back and the other tracing her lips, all the rules and boundaries just fall away.

To hell with the consequences.

I close my eyes, because touching her and seeing her is just too much to bear. “What the f*ck are you doing to me?” I whisper. I don’t expect her to answer, or even hear me for that matter. But I want her to. I need her to.

The angel tumbles down to Earth into my own personal realm of lust, hedonism and shame. With eyes the color of the ocean and her halo of fire burning as bright as the desert sun, she speaks to me. And while she is raw and sullied, tainted by this beautiful hell, her words breathe life into the darkest, loneliest parts of me.

“Exactly what you taught me.”

Reality rushes in, throttling me into an icy-cold pool of awareness.

I’m touching another man’s wife.

I almost kissed another man’s wife.

I want to f*ck another man’s wife.

Thinking it– letting it linger on the edges of your conscience– is one thing. But admitting it? Knowing that shit for a fact, so much so that it damn near hurts not to be near her? To anticipate every glance and sigh as if they drive my very existence?

This is madness.

I step away from her and keep stepping away until I am at the door. And even as I watch as pain dims the light in her eyes, I know that I have to leave. Because if I don’t, I’ll make good on every one of my unspoken admissions.

SHADES OF PINK smear the cloudless sky as the sun sinks into the shadowy depths of the horizon. I watch it in wonder, almost overwhelmed by the beauty of it all. People see the desert as lifeless, dry and desolate. I see peace, stillness and freedom.

I hear her approach, but I don’t move, still watching as pink fades into the darkest of blues, allowing the stars to reemerge and shine. I imagine them twinkling in her teal eyes as she smiles. I’m just too afraid to look at her and see it for myself.

The slap of her sandals stops at the lounger beside me, and she takes a breath before sitting down. We don’t speak. We don’t have to. The stars speak for us.

“What do you see up there?” she whispers after several minutes. We’re bathed in darkness now, aside from the muted light coming from the main house.

“Space.”

Ally snickers. “Wow. Such a profound observation, Mr. Drake.”

I turn my head just in time to see her throw her head back and laugh, the sound so pure and unexpected that I find myself smiling.

“Not space-space. Not like the “final frontier” or some shit like that. But space…room to breathe. To grow. To dream.”

“Mmmm.” The sound is throaty and erotic as hell. “Poetic.”

It is poetic for me, and I instantly regret my words. Seems like I can’t stop the word vomit when I’m with her. There’s just something about Ally that distracts me just enough to forget myself, beckoning my truth like a siren’s call. I just want to tell her…everything.

Maybe we were friends in a past life. Or lovers.

“Why did you leave me this afternoon?” she finally asks. I knew it was coming, yet the words still feel like nails on a chalkboard.

“I had to.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “I was distracted. And when I’m distracted, I can’t do my job.”

She frowns, and turns to her side, her front completely facing me. “You were distracted…by me?”

“Yes.”

She hums a response but doesn’t press for more. Instead she jumps to her feet, her sandals slapping against the pavement. “Hey, are you hungry?”

“Hungry?”

“Yeah. You weren’t at dinner. I figured you must be hungry.”

I shake my head. Sharing a beer or a bowl of ice cream is one thing, but breaking bread with the woman would be just asking for trouble. And I’m fairing just fine in that department on my own, f*ck you very much.

“I’m good.”

Ally takes a step forward, close enough for me to see the floral pattern of her sundress from the corner of my eye. “Did you eat dinner?”

“No.” I peer at her just in time to see her roll her eyes.

“Well, I want to eat something. And you’re not going to make me eat alone, are you?” She flutters those dark auburn lashes, and her eyes grow as large and round as the moon.

“What about your ice cream?” I don’t tell her that I already polished off that carton and had to send out for more.

“Nah. I need real food. I’m hungry.”

“How are you hungry? Wasn’t dinner a couple hours ago?” I let my gaze sweep her slight frame, wondering where the hell she packs away all those daily bowls of ice cream. To society’s standards, Allison would be considered skinny, maybe even a bit understated. Her breasts aren’t naturally large or inflated with mounds of silicone or saline. Her ass is pert and small, just large enough to fit in my palms. And her hips are narrow, yet shapely and feminine.

Allison is a real woman. She isn’t pumped full of filler or snatched and pulled to the point that she can’t breathe. She’s comfortable in her skin, and that makes me all the more intrigued by her, and confused by her reasons for being here. Women as confident as her shouldn’t give two flying f*cks about being subservient sex slaves to douche-canoe little shits like Evan Carr.

“Yeah, it was. And while Pan-seared Chilean Sea Bass in a dashi-soy broth is good, it’s just…not satisfying. It’s kinda cold and vacant. There’s no heart in it. No soul.”

I quirk a smile and with a deep, resigning breath, I stand. And against my better judgment and the God-given sense I once possessed, I offer her the bend of my arm. “I’ll be sure to tell my Michelin star, highly paid chef.”

“Oh God! Please don’t do that!” Allison laces her arm through mine without provocation as if the act is completely innocent. As if I hadn’t nearly tasted her lips just this afternoon.

“No? I shouldn’t fire her for serving such cold, soulless food? Or maybe I should can my sous chef, Riku. Good kid. He’ll land on his feet eventually,” I jibe, as we stroll toward the main house.

“No, you shouldn’t. That would make you a dick. And I’m quite enjoying the non-dick you.”

I turn to her, my eyes wide in mock mortification. “Non-dick me?”

“No! No, not what I meant! I mean, the dickless you. No! Um, uh, you without the dickiness!” Ally covers her rapidly reddening face with her other hand and shakes her head. “Oh my God, I’m hopeless. Cut out my tongue now before I make an even bigger fool of myself.”

“You are oddly fascinated with dicks, Ally. Freud would have a field day with you,” I laugh, tears forming at my eyes. I pull her hand away from her face, and she quickly turns away. But not before I catch a bright smile and the sound of her cackling laugh. She has one of those laughs that make you laugh. It’s not sweet or dainty. It’s a raspy, full-on belly laugh. The kind that’s sometimes accompanied by a snort. I chuckle even harder, and shake my head in disbelief. Yeah…even her snorts are adorable.

And f*ck me. I’m using words like adorable.

Our laughter tapers off as we make it into the house, and we silently shuffle towards the kitchen.

“I hope we don’t get in trouble for being in here after hours,” Ally whispers, her arm still locked with mine. I flip on the kitchen lights and give a half shrug.

“I hope not. I heard the boss is a dick.”

She giggles and looks up at me, those animated eyes so alive with wonder. My gaze locks with hers, and I smile at the woman in front of me, like she is mine.

Now that we’re here, alone, the halogen lights illuminating that tainted smile that I have no f*cking right to bear, my lazy ass Jiminy Cricket decides to intervene. I quickly unravel my arm from the warm comfort of hers and go to lean against a prep table. Ally doesn’t notice, at least she doesn’t show that she does, and begins to rifle through the large, stainless steel refrigerator.

“Anything in particular you want? You know…that isn’t incredibly pretentious or requires a dialect coach to pronounce?” she asks, her head still in the refrigerator. She picks something up and brings it to her nose, then gags and puts it back. I stifle a chuckle.

Ugh. Chuckling. What am I now? A giddy ass tween whose balls haven’t fully dropped yet? I palm mine just to make sure my boys are still intact.

“Anything you want.”

Ally emerges, holding up a wrapped wedge of Brie and a block of Manchego cheese like she just hit the jackpot. “Well, it won’t be gourmet, but I bet I could make some kickass grilled cheese. Now…what are the chances of us finding just regular white, sandwich bread?”

I make a face and shake my head. “Not likely.”

“Eh. Your soulless, hoity-toity bread will have to do,” she winks. And the hot, heavy feeling from earlier unfurls once more.

“WHO WOULD KICK whose ass in a fight: Iron Man or Batman?”

Ally tears off a piece of her grilled cheese sandwich and pops it into her mouth. We’re both propped up on stools at a prep table, a spread of focaccia bread grilled cheeses, green grapes and red wine in front of us. Ally sits across from me, plucking off a few grapes to make a happy face on the metal tabletop.

I swallow a bite and wash it down with a sip of wine. “Why are Iron Man and Batman my only choices? Why can’t I pick Superman? Or Spidey?”

“Nope,” she says, shaking her head. “You can only pick two. Iron Man or Batman. And, ew…Spidey? Lame.”

I take a bite of sandwich and contemplate my answer. “Fine. I guess I’d have to go with Iron Man.”

“Why him?” She finishes her grape happy face then eats the poor guy’s left eye.

“Well, he’s got the suit-”

“Batman has a suit!”

“—and he can fly.”

“Batman can fly!”

“But Batman can only swing from things from a bungee cord. He can fall. He does that a lot. He’s a pretty great faller.”

Ally frowns. “He is not a faller. He glides. He’s an ass-kicking glider.”

“With a rubber suit?” I smirk. “Because that is just so much more impenetrable than crystallized armor.”

“Bullshit. Iron Man is only good because he has Jarvis. They should just rename the franchise Jarvis Man because the computer does all the work.”

“Jarvis Man?” I raise a playful brow.

“You know what I mean. Or Jarvis and the Iron Asshat. They could be a team.”

We share an easy laugh and take sips from our glasses. That’s how things feel between us—easy. Uncomplicated with expectations or formalities. We’re just two people who share a mutual love of grilled cheese and superheroes.

“Why only two choices?” I ask as I refill our glasses.

“Huh?”

“When you ask me these little random gems of useless information, it’s only two choices. Mint Chocolate Chip or Rocky Road. Batman or the Iron Asshat.”

“I don’t know.” Ally shrugs and picks at a crust of bread. “I guess, to me… Life is just a series of choices. We try to always make the best ones, but really we’re just settling for the lesser of two evils. Or at least trying to.”

She looks at me and a sad smile touches her lips. I don’t know how to deal with it so I just look down. Coward.

“Is that what you feel you’ve done? Settled for the lesser of two evils?” I don’t elaborate, but she knows what I’m talking about.

“Honestly? I don’t think the choice was ever truly mine to make.”

I know I should just leave it at that, letting her words drift into another, simpler conversation. But, of course, I find myself needing to delve deeper into those turquoise waters. “Why do you say that?”

“There are things expected of me. Things I can only provide by marrying into an influential family and representing them in a certain light.” She turns to me, pinning me with those haunted, ocean irises. “We’re all just trophies. Shiny, plastic, useless trophies. Exciting at first, but we have no real purpose other than attesting to someone else’s grand achievements.”

I tilt my head to one side thoughtfully, my eyes trained on anything but her and those sad eyes. “A diversion—something pretty to distract from the real turmoil festering just beneath the surface.”

She nods but asks, “Is that how you see me?”

I lift my gaze to hers and find her expression filled with genuine curiosity—not anger or hurt. I shake my head. “No. Not you.”

“I had dreams, you know. Goals.” She smiles, but looks down, hiding its brilliance. “Now, I’m no different than them. I’m just like all those other women. Fighting, clinging on to the hope that we could be more than arm candy for business functions or designer incubators. That we could be truly loved for who we are, and not what we represent.”

I don’t respond, letting the words hang in the air until they dissipate under the weight of Ally’s pain. She stands and begins to collect the uneaten food. “It’s late. And you need your beauty sleep,” she winks at me, that carefree smile restored. I help her discard the trash as she takes the dishes to the sink.

“Me? Beauty sleep? What makes you think I care anything about beauty?” I take a washed dish from her and dry it with a towel.

“You’re kidding, right?” she smirks, scrubbing a pan. “You possess beauty like most women possess shoes.”

“Not following you.” And I’m not. I could give a f*ck about what’s deemed beautiful by modern society’s standards.

“Well, first of all, look at this place,” she says, waving a wet hand around the room. “This estate is magnificent. Like paradise in the middle of the desert. Seems almost like a mirage.”

I nod my head in agreement. Oasis is my oasis—my refuge. My escape from all the incessant narcissism and f*ckery that comes with fortune. I didn’t end up in the middle of the desert—as far away as I could possibly get from my original home in NYC—by accident. Eleven years ago, when I said goodbye to the noise, traffic and permeating scents of piss and diesel fuel, I told myself that I would never, ever look back at my old life with a sense of fondness. A few years after that, I found Oasis, and I knew I was home.

“And then,” she says, turning to me, her cheeks flushed pink, “there’s you.”

I smirk and look down to hide my own blush.

Yeah. I’m f*cking blushing.

My entire life, I’ve been told I was strikingly handsome, and I’ve always believed it. Dark hair, cobalt eyes, and naturally tanned skin—I was the good ol’ American Abercrombie prototype. That theory was confirmed soon after puberty when girls constantly defied their daddies and tarnished their good family names by spreading their legs without so much as a wink in their direction. As a kid, I knew about sex, but I wasn’t really interested it. Not until my seventeen-year-old Algebra tutor, Jessica, undressed me and swallowed my thirteen-year-old dick during a lesson on linear equations. It was an act of divine intervention that I passed the class with an A-minus, because I didn’t do much more than study every inch of Jessica’s body that school year.

Yet, hearing Allison even imply that she finds me attractive, let alone beautiful, makes me feel brand new.

She hands me the rinsed frying pan, and I take it from her without looking.

My hand covers hers.

Now this is the part in every gag-worthy, chick flick where the guy and girl instantaneously lock eyes and sparks fly. Cue James Blunt or some other sappy cliché as they move in slowly, lips parted in preparation for their first kiss.

F*ck that.

See, that’s the kind of bullshit that makes it difficult to have real, genuine connections. It’s what gives these women a false sense of hope that their men are anything more than walking dicks with eyes and limbs.

I’m a guy; I should know.

And even though I am so goddamn distracted by her every quirky laugh and goofy grin, that I ache to spend hours tracing patterns with her freckles while she’s spread out beneath me, I’m smart enough to know that this is reality. This isn’t some movie where the underdog wins the girl, saving her from a lifetime of heartache. This is real life, and in this episode of “Lifestyles of the Rich and Lonely” the good guy doesn’t rescue the girl from her philandering husband.

No. He teaches her how to f*ck him.

I pull my hand back and quickly dry the pan before stepping away from the sink. “This was…fun. Thanks for the sandwich.”

“It was. Thanks for the company.” She dries her hands on a towel and smiles. She’s always smiling at me. I soak them up like precious rays of sunshine, because if she really knew me, if she knew the truth, things would be different. She wouldn’t only pity me—she would loathe me. I’m not sure which one is worse.

I usher her out of the kitchen, flicking off the lights on the way out. The rest of the house is completely quiet and still, and only the pale moonlight illuminates her face.

“Goodnight, Justice.”

“Goodnight, Ally.”

I walk back to my little home, hating the stupid grin on my face. It hurts my cheeks, and gives me hope that I have no right to feel.

I kinda love it too.

I WAIT FOR them to file in and take their seats, noting the questioning looks as they take in the new additions to the room. It sinks in for a few, and curiosity turns into shock.

Ah, there it is. The pitter-patter of my little black heart. It’s been a while, old friend.

It's like that zombie romance movie, as ridiculous as it sounds. The more I hang around Allison, the more alive I feel. The dark coldness of my heart begins to heat and bloom into something vital, and for once, I feel…normal. Like somehow, I belong.

The only difference is, I don't want to belong. Not really. I don't want to fit into her world. I don’t want to be defined by the media’s perception of me, or an image cooked up by my publicist. I’ve never been good at coloring inside the lines, and I won’t start now for some married chick I’ve known for five minutes.

That’s why I know it’s better this way. I’m not the good guy. To be honest, I’m the villain. Good guys wouldn’t do what I’m about to.

“Ladies, we have an exciting session for you today. I know you’re wondering about the changes to our regular instruction space. Well, today we have a special demonstration for you.” I turn to the young lady on my right and place my hand on the small of her back. “This is Jewel. And this is her colleague, Candi. And they are going to show you the art of the striptease.”

“You want us to be strippers?” Lorinda Cosgrove shrieks. She’s lost the ugly moo-moos and cardigans and traded them for something more form fitting and chic. She’s learning. Whether she wants to admit it or not, it’s starting to sink in.

“It’s not about what I want. It’s about what’s going to happen with or without your consent. Men like strippers. They go to strip clubs. They get lap dances. Now you can either cry about it or learn to do it yourself. And, get an inside glimpse of what is so damn enticing about exotic dancers. Now, I suggest you pay attention, because during our final review, you’ll be asked to do a little striptease…for me.”

“No way,” Shayla pipes up. “There’s no way I’m taking my clothes off for another man.”

“Not necessary, Mrs. Adkins. It’s all about the journey, not the destination. The tease of a woman losing her clothing. Anticipation. Do you know how f*cking hot that makes us? Waiting, hoping, praying that you’ll show us just an inch of that smooth, silky skin?

“I’ve showed you how to get our attention, and now I’m going to show you how to keep it. Anticipation is what keeps us at home, dick hard, wanting you. Understand?”

They all answer with looks of shock and interest, so I fish out the tiny remote in my pocket and press a button. Booming bass lines and drumbeats fill the room, accompanied by the voice of Justin Timberlake.

Yeah. I put on JT.

Bitches love JT.

“Ladies?”

At my word, both Jewel and Candi begin to sway side to side, rolling their hips with every move. Jewel slowly makes her way to the pole situated in the center of the room, her 6-inch heels keeping in time with the beat. Candi slides over an empty chair and turns to me to rake her fingers over my chest. She gives me a naughty smile before biting her red, bottom lip, then pushes me back to sit in the chair that happens to be facing the makeshift stage. She doesn’t look away. Her big, brown eyes stay locked on mine, giving me her full attention. Making me feel like I am the only man in the world that makes her wet.

Candi’s red-tipped acrylic nails slide down my chest to my stomach. Her fingers explore the rigid planes of my abs through my white linen shirt, and she licks her lips in approval.

“Oooh, baby, you’re so hard here,” she coos. “I wonder where else you’re hard.”

The line is laughable, but she knows that’s exactly the kind of shit that simple-minded f*ckers want to hear. Her hands drift down to my upper thighs, just a breath from my cock. Her eyes flick down to my lap then back up, mischief gleaming behind dark eyeliner and heavy mascara. I lift a brow, challenging her. If she wants it, she has to come get it.

Candi giggles and her hands trail down the tops of my thighs before she stands upright. Hungry eyes still locked on mine, she begins to move, her own hands sliding over her curves. She palms her breasts, giving them a squeeze before caressing her flat, bare stomach.

I watch her as she dances for me in her sexy red lingerie, yet all I can think about is how daring that color would look on Ally accompanied with her red hair. How coy and mischievous she would act in front of me, moving those hips to the music. I close my eyes for a few beats, trying to blink away these thoughts and just focus on my job. And right now, my job consists of sitting back and enjoying a striptease. Not fantasizing about another man’s wife.

Candi can see the distance in my gaze and moves to stand between my legs. Body writhing, she reaches to her back to unhook her lace bra, letting it fall to the floor. Perfectly round DDs look back at me, not even drooping an inch with the lack of support. She cups her breasts and runs her fingers over her hard, light brown nipples. “Mmmm,” she moans, eyes nearly closed. “I want you to touch me.”

I nod, but I don’t give her what she desires. Instead, I look over at Jewel just as she slides down the pole, holding herself up only by her thighs. She spins, platinum blonde hair whipping around her face dramatically. She feels my gaze and looks to me, her expression burning hot and sultry. And with Candi now straddling my thighs, those perfect, doctor-designed tits bouncing in my face, Jewel performs just for me.

This is every man’s dream—a topless woman riding his lap while another dry-humps a long, hard pole. I watch them, but I don’t see them. In many ways, I’m no different than Candi and Jewel. We provide a service that is surrounded by sex. I know their angle. I know the only thing that truly gets them hot is cash. It’s the same thing that motivates me.

They take their clothes off. I encourage women to do the same.

Jewel steps away from the pole and makes her way to Candi, who is still dancing, her back to my front. She grinds her ass on my dick, stirring it from rest, and I grip her hips, guiding her erotic movements. Jewel moves in close, pressing her bare breasts against Candi’s, and they both moan. Their hands tangle in each other’s hair, caressing hot, puckered skin and humid lace. They’re putting on a show, touching each other with over-exaggerated wonder and desire.

For their final act, Jewel pushes Candi back to rest on my chest, her face beside mine. Then her tongue snakes out, licking Candi’s cherry lips before delving into her eager mouth. The kiss lasts for several seconds, both sets of their hands touching me, and each other, in ecstasy. Then, as if on cue, they stand upright, baring their near nude bodies shamelessly.

Eleven sets of eyes stare back in bewilderment.

Then, all at once, as if their brains have just simultaneously processed what they’ve just seen, questions, comments, and even expletives drown out JT.

“You want us to do that?”

“Oh my God, there’s no way I’m kissing a woman!”

“Do we really have to take off our bras?”

“Hell no! My family would kill me!”

“I can’t believe my husband likes that crap!”

“Wow, that was kinda hot!”

I put my palms up, hushing their flustered chatter to a murmur. “Ladies, I assure you—you will not be required to take off your clothes for me. But let me remind you that I have already seen each and every one of you in lingerie. Some less than others. So please do yourself a favor and kill the false modesty. I probably know the female body better than you do.”

A sardonic snort grabs my attention, and my eyes reflexively seek Allison. She looks back at me, her expression unreadable, and shakes her head slowly. I can’t tell if she genuinely disapproves or is amused. I look away, telling myself that it’s not my concern to find out.

“For the rest of the afternoon, Candi and Jewel will work with you personally on the art of anticipation. I’ll oversee it, but please think of me as merely a silent shadow. You have no reason to be coy with me. This is nothing, compared to what you’ll do for me over the next few weeks.”

I find Ally’s eyes again, her unblinking stare sparked with something new. Something dark and sultry. Something that’s answering my challenge with a rousing, “Hell yes!”

Maybe the graceful, meek gazelle that I thought I saw on Day One is not a gazelle at all. She is fierce and sexy. Confident yet restrained. I just need to get close enough to uncage her inner beast.

God, I love my job.

CANDI AND JEWEL divide the ladies up into two groups. They start out slow, demonstrating a simple, seductive hip roll before moving onto some racier moves. The ladies look on at the sidelines, too embarrassed to join in. I’m not surprised. It always takes a little time and gentle coaxing to break them out of their shells. Luckily for them, breaking them is my specialty.

I step up closer to Maryanne Carrington, pressing my front into her backside. She startles at first, then melts into me as soon as she feels my breath at her neck and my voice in her ear.

“Relax, love. You’re alright. I’ve got you,” I say just for her. I begin to sway my hips, gripping her sides and guiding her body to flow with mine. She’s stiff at first, but at the feel of my firm touch and my voice gently consoling her, her limbs loosen, and she submits to me. I work her body with mine, her softness giving into my hard plains. She sighs and nearly sags against me, her head rolling back to rest on my shoulder.

“Do you feel sexy in my arms, Maryanne?” I ask, my lips at her ear.

“Oh, yes. Oh, God yes,” she pants.

“Good. I want you to feel sexy. You know why?”

“Nuh uh.”

“If you feel sexy, you look sexy. I need you to feel like this all the time. I need you to own it. And the only way you can do that, is if you own your sexuality.” I run my hands from her round hips to the front of her stomach. She shivers and presses in closer to me. “This is part of it. This is just taking that inner sex kitten and showing her how to display her goods. You can do that for me, can’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, I can do that for you.”

“Good girl. Now you see Jewel there?”

“Yes…?”

“See how beautiful she is? See how sexy? You like the way she moves, don’t you, Maryanne?”

“Um…uh…” Her body goes rigid against mine, but I keep my hands on her, manipulating it to heavy drumbeats.

“Don’t lie. You like it, don’t you? You wish you could move like that.” I can feel every eye on us, but I keep my focus on her. “Tell me.”

“Y-yes,” she stammers. “I do.”

“Good. That’s what I want to hear.” My gaze flicks up to Jewel, and she’s already moving into place, coming to stand beside me. I place Maryanne into her skilled hands without missing a beat. We’ve done this a dozen times—seeking out the most resistant client and breaking her down. The other women will soon follow suit.

I step back, as Jewel shows Maryanne how to use her body like only a woman can—to drive men f*cking crazy.

I feel her stare on me. I can hear the unspoken questions and visualize her forehead dimpled in frustration. But I don’t look at her. If I do, she’ll see it in me. She’ll see what I was really thinking while my hands slid up Maryanne’s hips. She’ll hear whose name I really wanted to whisper, my voice raspy and thick. All my secrets will be laid bare for the entire world to see. And while I may not give two shits about appearances, I do care about my reputation. It’s all I have.

So I walk until I’m out of those four walls, away from those excited voices and those treacherous thoughts that are so easily displayed whenever I look at her.

Away from that urge to smile whenever she smiles, and laugh whenever she laughs.

I step into my home just as the cleaning staff is finishing up. I dismiss them brusquely, needing to be alone in my thoughts and misery.

I told myself I wouldn’t do this again. I’d be stronger than this. Yet, even as I think it, I’m unbuckling my slacks and yanking them down, my briefs quickly following. I groan as cool air envelops my burning hot flesh.

So hard. So damn hard it hurts.

I wrap a hand around my cock and squeeze, prolonging the needy ache. Life pumps through it, tortured by the promise of a relieving death. I stroke, feeling the veins slide underneath my thin, taut skin.

I can’t even think about how wrong this is. Never in my life have I had to jerk off in the middle of the day, and I damn sure haven’t done it in the middle of a session. I’ve never had to. But Allison…she has me off my game. Thinking about shit I shouldn’t be thinking. Doing things I shouldn’t be doing. And right now, I just need to release it. I need to purge it from my body like a sickness, so I can get better. So I can get back to being me.

I try. F*ck knows I try. I rub my shit raw like a man possessed, urging the madness from my bones. But relief never comes. Fire doesn’t erupt from deep in my gut. It just stays and kindles, building and burning to the point of pain.

With a growl, I stop, frustrated at my body’s failure to launch. I can’t do this. I can’t go on like this. What the f*ck am I supposed to do?

F*ck her. F*ck her and get it out of your system.

I shake the tiny voice from my head and busy myself by straightening my clothes.

Just do it. She wants it. You know she does.

I need water. Maybe I’m dehydrated. I make my way to the kitchen and down a glass of water. I refill seconds later. I’ll flush it out of me. I’ll drown this shit and move on.

You deserve her. Not him. YOU.

“F*ck!” I slam the glass down into the sink basin, shattering it into a million, tiny shards. I can’t do this. I can’t survive like this for another four weeks.

I pull out my phone and send a quick text.

Something came up.

Take over for me.

Then you and Jewel come see me when you’re done.

xx