The Sex Surrogate (4 page)

“I
don't need a sympathy ear,” I said, spine straightening.

“It's
not sympathy. It's interest. Hell, maybe I should get a job working
as a sexual surrogate...”

“It's
good money,” I said, starting toward my room.

“How
much money?” he asked, pushing my door open as I went to my
closet.

“Three
grand for ten, well, technically eleven, sessions.”

“You're
paying this fucker three K to teach you how to have sex?”

“Not
exactly,” I grumbled, reaching for a pair of huge, baggy
sweatpants and a big t-shirt.

“Ava,
I'll fuck ya for half that,” he laughed.

“That's
charming,” I snorted, grabbing my towel off the back of my
door.

“I
have references,” he said, following me to the bathroom.

“I've
met all your so-called references,” I laughed over my shoulder
at him, putting my clothes on top of the closed hamper.

“Yeah,
so you know,” he laughed. I went to push the door closed, but
he grabbed it with his hand and held it open. “Seriously
though, if you can't go through it with him, I am here if you need
someone you know and trust to... experiment with.”

“Who
says I trust you?” I smirked, cocking an eyebrow, trying to
push the door shut.

“Ouch,”
he said, still smiling. “Just... keep it in mind,” he
said, suddenly letting go of the door and send me falling into it as
it slammed closed.

Okay.

Weird
day.

I
stripped out of my clothes, running the water on hot, and stepping
in. I had already showered, but sometimes I just needed the water to
calm down, clear my head, get my thoughts in the right order, have
imaginary conversations for hypothetical situations that will
probably never take place. You know, normal stuff.

So,
not only did I have stuff with Dr. Chase to think about, I have
whatever the fuck just happened with Jake to consider to. I mean...
what the hell
was
that? Never once had he ever even come close
to insinuating he would sleep with me. If he had, he probably would
have been out on his ass a long time ago. It was my name on the
lease, after all.

But
his offer was almost... sweet.

Jesus.
Did I just say that anything, literally anything, related to Jake
Summers was... sweet? This was the guy who once told me that the
dress I chose to wear to my work's New Year's Eve party was going to
inspire a thousand flaccid penises. The guy who once announced, to an
apartment full of people I didn't even know, that I hadn't gotten
laid in over a year... and asked if anyone was up for ending my
“drought”.

He
was a grade A fuckwad ninety-nine percent of the time.

So,
seriously, why the sudden pep talk and sex offer? Just because it was
a challenge? Because I wasn't, like he thought, just some uptight
bitch. That I had actual issues. And, what? He wanted to try his hand
at fixing them? Like the other four guys who had tried? Probably.
That was very likely exactly why he was interested. Because I was an
anomaly. Because I didn't make sense. Because he wanted to prove his
manhood by trying to get me all hot and bothered.

Unfortunately
for him, I couldn't think about him without thinking about the pile
of clothes sitting right in front of the freaking hamper. Not in it.
In front of it. Or the shakers full of dried protein powder smoothies
from his workouts sitting on the counter. Or his steadfast refusal to
take the full garbage bag out of the can and put a new one in.

I
would be laying in bed with him silently seething about the water
marks his beer left on my coffee table.

Like
a freaking resentful, unappreciated wife.

And
that wasn't sexy at all.

Now,
Chase.

Chase
was the poster boy for sexy. What had even led him into psychology in
the first place? He could have made a fortune just posing for
pictures. Or reading the phone book to women who would drool over
every last number coming from between his lips.

I
mean... he would have needed to go to college and then grad school.
Totaling at least nine years in education. He must have had some
strong interest in the psychological field, not just sex therapy. And
then after graduating with such a lofty degree, and the potential to
earn all kinds of money, why would he decide to become a sexual
surrogate on the side? Had he, himself, suffered from some sort of
sexual dysfunction at one time? Did he see a surrogate that helped
him? How does someone come to work in such an odd field?

Nine
years of education. Which meant he would have graduated, at earliest,
around twenty-nine. He couldn't be much older than... thirty-five or
thirty-six. He hadn't even been practicing for very long.

Unless...

Unless
he became a sexual surrogate before he graduated. As a way to make
money to get him through his schooling. And he just... continued it
because he liked it. Or was good at it.

Which
I hoped, for my sake.

From
what I read online, there is no law stating a sexual surrogate needs
to have any kind of license or certification. Dr. Hudson did. Along
with his doctorate. Which made him the best possible choice for me. I
had the highest likelihood of success with him.

It
had to work. Because I was out of other options. And I couldn't pay
to go through the program again.

“Yo,”
Jake's voice called through the door, making me start and slip
slightly, arms flying out to brace myself. Just what I needed, to
break my ass, naked in the shower with only Jake around to help me.
“You've been in there long enough. You're gonna have to let
your surrogate get the cobwebs off that pussy with his mouth. Soap
and water ain't gonna cut it,” he called, making me take a
slow, deep breath. The asshole was back. And that was good.

“What
the hell do you care how long I'm in here?” I growled, angry
that I had settled on
an
apartment with one bathroom.

“I
have a client coming in twenty. I want to clean up.”

“Fine.
I'm getting out.”

“Halle-fucking-lujah.”

Jake,
by some awful twist of fate, was a massage therapist. I got to walk
into my apartment at all hours to see someone laid up on a table,
their naughty bits covered (or surprisingly often,
not
covered) by one of my bath towels. I was constantly surrounded by
half, or full, nudity in my own home. There was no escaping the
in-my-face proof of how unusual I was. Me and my inability to even
walk around the house in a pair of panties and a t-shirt.

I
dried, slipped into my clothes, opened the door and gave Jake a
scathing look, then made my way to my room.

In
truth, yes, Jake drove me up every goddamn wall (and across the
ceiling) in the apartment, but I had come to love him. Like the
brother I never had. Which was probably why I was so put-off by his
invitation. Because, seriously, he was an excellent male specimen.
And underneath all the innuendos, foot-in-mouth tendencies, and
sloppiness... he was actually a really good guy.

He
totally did buy me tampons once. I had literally grabbed the last
one, cursing under my breath about having to run out so late at
night, when I walked out into the living room to him unloading more
jugs of protein powder, then turning and holding out a box of tampons
to me.

It
was the small things.

And,
he was right. The walls were thin in the apartment and I had heard
more than my fair share of his sexual conquests night after night.
The girls screamed until they lost their damn voices, talking to me
all hoarse in the morning. He was good.

But
he wasn't man meat material for me.

He
was the only real friend I had in the world.

I
prayed to whatever almighty power there might be to the universe,
that he was not, in any way, harboring sexual feelings toward me.
Before, or after, the day's conversation. I sighed, walking over to
my computer where noise was coming out of the speakers. A very
specific kind of noise. An unmistakable noise.

And,
sure enough, the asshole left the porn site up on my screen. I
clicked it closed, shaking my head. I didn't have an issue with porn.
I could watch it. It didn't (usually) freak me out. But it didn't
particularly do it for me either. It was so cold. Devoid of
something.

But,
then again, I guess so was what I was about to do. What could be more
passionless than paying someone to talk you through intimate acts?

I
set a password on my computer, shut it off, and made my way toward
the bed. It was early, but I felt drained from all the anxiety. I
curled up on my side, staring out the window, and not... absolutely
not, thinking about Dr. Chase Hudson.

Not
about his dark hair. Or his blue eyes. Or his big hand on my knee. Or
the fact that he was going to kiss me in three days.
Kiss
me.
In all his
gorgeousness. And I certainly did not think about his sexy deep voice
telling me I was beautiful. No, I didn't think about that at all.

It
totally did not go on repeat in my head all through the weekend. And
then the whole day at work on Monday. Nope. Not at all. I wasn't that
ridiculous.

First
Session

“The
one that shows more of your tits,” Jake said behind me, making
me jump and swing around.

“Dude.
Knock,” I scolded for what must have been the millionth time
since he had moved in.

“Like
you'd hear me,” he smiled, leaning against the doorjamb.
“You're all lost in your little doctor fantasy dream world.”

“No,”
I said, but I was. I absolutely was. “I am just trying to find
something appropriate to wear.”

“Like
I said... the one with more boobage.”

“What,”
I started, raising a brow, “in my wardrobe has ever screamed
'boobs'?”

“That's
a good point,” he said, unfolding his arms and walking toward
my closet.

“What
are you doing?”

“You
obviously can't be trusted to pick your own clothes out. I mean what
was that shit you wore to work?” he asked, rummaging around,
making all my neatly folded piles topple. “Here,” he
said, producing black skinny jeans and a black tank top.

“It's
cold outside,” I objected, taking them because he didn't really
give me a choice.

“Fine,”
he said, reaching and ripping something off a hanger and flinging a
lightweight red wine colored cardigan at me, “But leave this
open.” He moved back toward the door. “Heels and put your
hair down,” he said, closing the door and leaving me alone.

Dressed,
I had to admit, he made a good choice. Better by far than what I
would have chosen. I paced my room for a good twenty minutes, messing
with my hair occasionally, applying endless coats of lip balm,
rubbing a small amount of vanilla scented lotion across my neck and
chest. By the time I got there, the scent would be dull, just a hint
on the skin. Which was the only way to wear any kind of scent, not
bathing in the fucking stuff like the women I worked with did.

“Go
get you some ass,” Jake said, swatting my butt as I walked past
him toward the door, only twenty minutes early. It wouldn't take me
more than ten to get there. But ten minutes early wasn't ridiculous.

I
walked up to the doors a short nine minutes later, taking a deep
breath, and pulling it open. Expecting, I guess, to see the same
secretary from my last appointment. But no, there standing behind the
front desk, was Dr. Chase Hudson himself, looking way too good in a
gray suit, the jacket open, only one button undone on his (this time
black) dress shirt.

He
looked up at the whoosh of cool air, something that might be
considered a smile tugging at one corner of his lips. “Ava,”
he said my name on an exhale.

“Dr.
Hudson,” I said, forcing myself to take steps into the waiting
area, not stand by the door like I was seconds away from darting.

“Chase,”
he corrected, moving out from behind the desk and toward me, making
me stiffen. But he walked past me, locking the front door, before
turning to me. “You look nice.”