Surrender to a Sex Therapist (4 page)

That being said, there have been hot kisses and much more, but we haven’t had sex yet. I don’t want to lead Jake on, or confuse my own currently messed up head and heart. Still, when he moved in here to help me and the kids out, it was a blessing I was entirely grateful for.

“
There’s a lot more I could do for you,” he says, standing to walk behind my chair and feather a few kisses up my neck.

I try to make a quip about this. “Two redheads shouldn’t sleep together. The results could be catastrophic.” His tiny kisses make me shiver.

Just at that moment, my boys decide to run into the kitchen. Preston, my youngest, holds a paper in his hand and his eyes are wide. “Mom, can I please sign up for hockey this year?”

I don’t know what to say to that sweet, freckled face. His brown, puppy-like eyes beseech, but we simply can’t afford it. Not ready to break his heart, I say, “We’ll see, hon.”

He prunes his face and makes a minor protest, but Jake distracts them both with the proposition of some two on one road hockey, out in the dirt alley that runs between our place and Mrs. Granger’s. I’m thankful for the time this gives me to think.

And that’s when I see it. An ad in the employment opportunities section catches my attention. I already work on an assembly line building slot machines for a living, but that wage barely covers the bills. It sure won’t fix the roof and the other repairs this old home needs, and it won’t cover hockey fees for Preston either.

But the job notice I stare at, the amount indicated, certainly would. So long as the hours don’t conflict with my other work, I could take this, should I get it, and finally get this house spruced up, give my kids some money for recreational activities that they’ve been dying to join.

The notice says: Woman between 20 - 35 needed to test innovative new designer products. Must have an open mind and a healthy attitude toward sex. Apply in person with resume at Suite 001-353 Bloominfield Blvd.

And the monthly income it cites makes my eyes widen. I can do this, I think. I’ve got an open mind and a healthy attitude toward sex. For the income offered, I’ll dance naked on tabletops at this point.

But when I show the ad to Jake after I join him and the boys outside, he gently takes my arm, gives me a concerned expression, and ushers me to the side of the house.

“
Are you crazy, Carrie?” He looks angry as well as concerned. “This could be a setup. You could get raped or killed.”

I shake my head at his protest, cross my arms over the front of my spring cardigan. “I’ll be fine.” When he frowns deeper, I put an arm around his shoulder and give him a reassuring squeeze. Close to his ear, I whisper, “I’ll take protection with me, and I’ll text you as soon as I get to the place and once I meet the interviewer to let you know I’m safe. How’s that?” I’m registered to carry a handgun, and I’m a very good shot, too. Years of target practice with my dad, now also passed on, gave me an eagle eye and aim.

“
You should let me come with you,” Jake says, still wearing that deep frown that barely crinkles his smooth, pale face.

“
Someone has to take care of the kids,” I protest, feeling a bit guilty for asking his to be a last minute babysitter yet again. “I’ll pay you.”

He shakes his head at me, then a smile spreads, bringing out his adorable dimples. “You don’t have to pay me for watching the kids. Don’t even think about it.” Then he wraps his arm tighter around my shoulder, swipes a quick kiss over my lips before saying, “Please be careful.”

I swat at him playfully. “Don’t mother me, for cripes sake. I’ll be fine.” Then I quickly give him another kiss before adding, “Thanks for watching the kids again.”

***

A few days later, I’m up way before the kids and Jake, showered, and dressed before they even stomp down the stairs for breakfast. Jake protests, saying I should’ve let him help me with the bacon and eggs. I wave him off to ask if I look presentable for my upcoming interview.

His green eyes shine. “You look beautiful.”

The kids make silly noises at this, and Michael asks when me and Jake are getting married, with a cheeky grin spread across his face. I tell him to eat his bacon and mind his business. He just laughs. He gets his precocious streak from me, I admit. His brother just grins a lopsided grin and chows down on his eggs.

Now sitting in my beat up old Pontiac Sunfire, I take a last minute to inspect myself before I drive off. I’m wearing my best dress--one of my only dresses, now I’m on a tight budget. A spring knee-length number in pink with tiny white polka dots spotting the thin material. I’ve put on my Aunt Peg’s pearls for good luck and pinned up my fiery red hair in a neat, simple chignon. Applied a bit of makeup to my cheeks, a wisp of shadow to enhance my blue eyes, and a tint of pink lip gloss to my lips. I frown at my reflection, worried that I look more like June Cleaver than someone with an open mind and a healthy attitude toward sex.

“
Oh well.” I tell my worrisome self. “It’ll have to do.”

***

The building at 353 Bloominfield Blvd used to be an old brownstone, but it’s been recently converted into office space. I approach a man with a pleasant smile and a bulldog face to ask him where exactly Suite 001 is. But first I send Jake a text to let him know all looks good so far.

His face blanches and he raises an eyebrow. “Why does a respectable looking lady like you want Suite 001?”

I play with my pearls and almost consider telling him I’ve made a mistake. I contemplate this and leaving, but the dollar amount in the ad flashes in my mind again. “I’m here about the job advertised.” I point to the classified I’ve circled with yellow highlighter.

His bushy eyebrows climb higher. He clears his throat and straightens his navy blue uniform coat. “Lady, that job is not for you.”

Now I’m getting just a little miffed. No one tells Carrie Brannigan what to do. And when someone tells me no, I just get all the more determined. “I think I’ll be the judge of that, thank you. Now, if you don’t mind?”

With a disapproving scowl, he directs me to an elevator with ugly orange doors.
Someone really needs to paint that
, I think.

“
Basement,” the security guard says, and as the doors close he adds, “Good luck. You’re gonna need it.”

“
Not exactly a confidence booster,” I mumble to myself before I hit the button indicating lower levels.

When the elevator slides open, I find myself in a drab, narrow grey hallway lined with white doors with gold numbers and keycard slots on each one. I locate Suite 001 and ring a doorbell situated near the keycard slot. A brief moment passes before someone swings it open.

The man standing before me has an aura of danger and mystery that instantly puts me on guard. “Hello,” he says, letting his thick, pouty lips curl in a sensuous smile full of lecherous intent. I detect a slight British accent. Then he steps back from the threshold, still not inviting me in as he gives me a bold up and down perusal while stroking his trimmed goatee. “Yes… as long as you’re not as good a girl as you look, I think you’ll do quite nicely. Come in.”

He takes my hand and I feel an instant spark. I study his face briefly as he leads me into the room. His eyes are ice blue, like slivers cut from a glacier, and set wide apart, which gives him a deceptively innocent look. His nose is wide at the nostrils, tapered as it moves toward the bridge, and his cheekbones are not too defined but still prominent. He reminds me of a man found in paintings of old world nobility. He’s slender and not much taller than my 5 ft. 6. With my curves and heavy breasts, I feel fat next to his proud figure with spiked hair that isn’t quite sure if it’s meant to be brown or golden blond.

The retort I had ready dies in the back of my throat when I glance around the room I’ve entered. Stainless steel tables are strategically placed close to stark, black leather couches and chairs. And on these stainless steel tables are dildos and assorted sex toys like I’ve never seen. At least, I think they’re sex toys. In my marriage to Colby, the boys’ father, we experimented--I even proposed an open relationship when I found he’d cheated on me for a third time--but our tastes had been fairly vanilla compared to the assortment I gaze at now, mouth hanging wide open.

He gestures for me to sit in a chair opposite a plain, wooden desk. “As you can guess, I’m not big on subtly,” he jokes, indicating the toys on display. “But I believe in giving full disclosure to all applicants as soon as they walk in.”

With a slightly shaking hand, I give him my resume. “Exactly what position am I applying for?”

Giving a vulpine grin, he ignores my question at first and extends a hand. When I take it, he brushes those soft lips just below my knuckles before he introduces himself. “Luke Wesley, but my good friends call me Dom Luke.” He used my hand to tug me closer to the desk. “And you’re applying, my dear, to test out designer sex toys.”

At this point, I’m sure I’ve given him my deer in the headlights stare.

***

Read an excerpt from a sizzling Wild & Lawless release
Waking Up Werewolf Series
by C.J. Sneere.

Waking Up Werewolf

(Waking Up Werewolf Part 1)

By C.J. Sneere

Warren appreciated the perfect life he now possessed. He just doubted it would last. He chided the cynic in him for being unappreciative as he walked his and Tamara’s dog, Tulle--a Boston Terrier / Beagle mix who had to sniff everything within her path.

“
That tulip smells the same as the last one you smelled,” he told the dog, bending down to give her short coat a pet. “And, anyway, tulips don’t even smell, do they?”

Yes, life was good. No, great. He’d just been promoted to head ad designer in his department at his advertising firm. Tamara had moved in with him six months ago, and their relationship had deepened. He’d decided it was time to pop the question. But, first, there was something Warren had to tell his girlfriend of two years.

It was time to come out of his closet and admit he was bisexual. If he and Tamara were going to spend the rest of their lives together--and Warren didn’t plan on getting divorced--then she needed to know everything about him. He wanted no surprises after they said ‘I do.’

He thought about their honeymoon as he and Tulle strolled down a walkway domed by hedges grown in arches.

“
What about Queen Charlotte Islands, hmmm, girl?” The dog just sniffed another tulip and ignored Warren.

But he thought a trip to Haida Gwaii might be just the thing. He’d never seen the islands of his ancestors, though Grandma had told him what she remembered of Moresby. Even though he lived in Richmond, relatively close to the place of the Hadia Nation, it might as well have been a world away. Particularly when he was a kid, and he and Gran had to make due on her tiny pension and some left over from his parent’s insurance. He’d been a Surrey boy back then. How far he’d come, he mused.

Little Tulle stiffened, and the short hairs along her spine stood up. She curled her lip and focused forward as she let out a low, warning growl.

“
What’s up there?”

Warren held the leash tightly and shielded his eyes against the harsh glow of the globular streetlamps. At first, he saw only darkness and hedges, but then something shifted in the shadows. Something with massive shoulders hunkered low at the end of the walkway. It rose up a bit, and he caught a glimpse of pointy ears atop a shaggy head.

“
Hello?” he called, and instantly felt the fool for it.
Haven’t you seen enough horror movies to know NOT to do that?
he thought, then he turned on his heel and said, “Come on, Tulle. Let’s go home.”

But the thing at the end of the path growled, loud and ferocious. Fear tingled along the back of his neck. It zipped electric spikes up and down his spine. He picked up Tulle and walked faster.

The creature let out another angry snarl. Then it started to charge toward them. It’s lumbering gait made an ominous
thuwp thuwp
against the concrete sidewalk.

Warren put speed under his heels and ran. He dared only a quick glimpse behind him. “Oh fuck,” he blurted, when his gaze lit on a ball of powerful fur and muscle streaking closer.

Warren ran faster.

Claws dug deep into the meat of his back, tearing his t-shirt to shreds with an audible 
briiiiiiip
. Tulle flew from his arms and landed on her feet. The dog took one look behind her, as if to say, “Sorry, dude!” and then she booked it out of there big time.

The creature smelled of wet dog and forest undergrowth. It sank powerful teeth into Warren’s shoulder and he screamed. He thrashed under the weight and strength of the beast, finally flipping onto his back and pinning the creature beneath him.

Warren reached behind him with one shaky hand, searching for his attacker’s eyeballs. With much effort, he managed to find them and jab a thumb deep into the soft, egg-like eyeball. The sensation was disgusting, but revulsion was the last thing on his mind. Survival occupied his every thought. He dug the thumb in deeper as the thing tried to thrash away. A soft pop sounded, and eyeball ran down his hand. The creature howled in pain and the claws in his back loosened then fell away.

Pain shrieked through the muscles of his back and neck. Warren touched the wetness that trickled down his clavicle. Blood, and lots of it, streaked his palm. Though his world was blurry, like someone smeared greasy fingers over his vision, he pulled a deep breath into his lungs, pushed down the weak feeling, and ran again.

The thing was in pursuit once more. He felt its hot breath on his heels. Warren thought it would take him down again, but then two gunshots sounded, followed by a whimper and a piercing series of yips. He turned to see the beast that pursued crumple into the green grass, just as he did. It looked like an oversized timber wolf, he thought, just before blackness bloomed over his sight, stealing consciousness away.

A short time later, face pressed in the cool, damp grass, Warren heard voices.