The Sex Surrogate (5 page)

Oh,
my.

“Oh,
um,” I fumbled, shaking my head. “Thanks.”

His
hand moved to my lower back, feeling way too good, and I was
wondering if he was just a touchy-feely person if it this was part of
the 'trying to get me comfortable with physical contact' thing.
Either way, it was nice. He guided me toward his office door, opening
it and letting me step through.

“You're
welcome,” he said as I passed him. “How was your
weekend?”

“Uneventful,”
I supplied, meaning I spent all my time trapped in my room because
Jay had female company all Saturday and guys over all Sunday to watch
some game on TV.

“Ava,”
he said as I walked over toward the little seating alcove. “This
way,” he said, holding an arm out toward me and I fell into
step next to him.

And
then he did something straight out of a god damn spy movie. He
reached into the bookshelf and opened a freaking hidden door behind
it.

“Seriously?”
I asked, smiling at him with raised brows.

He
offered me a small smile back. “Yup,” he said, pressing
his hand into my back and pushing me through.

And
this was what I had sort-of been expecting on my first visit. But
also, so much more. The walls were painted a deep, deep blue color.
White treatments covered the window and billowed across the top of
the canopy bed which was also covered in white sheets and comforter.
Same hard wood floors. To one side was a small dark blue mini
sectional in front of an electric fireplace. Beside the door was a
long white sidebar with a state of the art stereo system and a
collection of decanters full of, I imagined, liquor. At the end, was
another closed door.

“Why
don't you find some music to put on?” he suggested, letting his
hand fall and moving over toward the liquor. “Would you like
something to drink?”

Whatever
will make this less nerve-wrecking.
“Sure,” I said,
pressing the touch screen read out on the stereo and flipping through
the play lists.

“Red,
white? Something stronger?”

“Red
is fine,” I said, selecting a list called “coffeehouse
music” because I figured it was the least likely to get sexual.

“I
see what you did there,” he said, and I turned to see a smirk
toying with his lips as he held out a wineglass to me.

“What?”
I asked, hoping to sound innocent as I took my drink and had a quick
sip.

But
he just shook his head, stepping away. “How about we go sit
down?” he asked, gesturing toward the sectional.

I
followed blindly behind, taking slow, deep, deliberate breaths. He
placed his wineglass down on the single end table, turning his back
on me as he fiddled with the fireplace and, apparently, the lights
because they dimmed dramatically.

I
sat down two cushions away from the cushion next to the end table,
sitting back stiffly and sipping my wine. For courage. For something
to do. The fireplace clicked on, the flames at once relaxing and
exciting, the music got slightly louder and, finally, Chase turned
back toward me, taking in my seat choice with a barely noticeable
raised brow.

He
walked over to his wineglass, picking it up, and drinking the entire
contents, placing it back down, and moving to the cushion next to
mine. He sat, slightly turned toward me, his feet next to mine, his
hips pivoted away.

“Nervous?”
he asked, putting his arms across the back of the couch, but not
touching me.

“Yes,”
I admitted because, well, if I wasn't honest, this process wasn't
going to work.

He
nodded, then the hand that wasn't behind me, reached out and landed
on top of my knee. “What, exactly, are you nervous about? Me
touching you?” he asked, and I felt myself nodding tightly,
watching the fake fire. “I'm touching you right now.” He
didn't need to tell me that. I felt like the contact was shooting
right up my leg into my core. “Do you want me to stop?”
he asked, his hand squeezing slightly.

Did
I? I was so caught up in the what might happens that I wasn't even
actually sure how I felt about the contact. In the end, I decided,
“No.”

“Good,”
he said and I sucked in a deep breath, “because I don't want to
stop.”

The
air hissed out of my mouth, my head turning quickly to find his on my
face, “Wh... okay,” I finished, not sure what I was about
to ask him.

His
hand moved downward, stroking across the front of my leg, then back
up to my knee, casual, lazy, but fuck if it wasn't sending off
sparks. My hand gripped hard at my empty wineglass and his hand
reached up, “Why don't we get rid of that?” he suggested,
taking it, his fingers brushing against mine as he did. He turned,
placing my glass next to his, then faced me again. This time, when
his arm reached out, it went to the further knee, his arm like a
barrier across my body, blocking me in.

And
the heart palpitations started.

That's
always how the anxiety worked. First the pounding heart, the sweaty
palms, the hot and cold at the same time sensation, the trouble
catching my breath, then the dizziness, the nausea, the absolute
certainty that if I didn't get away, I was going to be sick all over
myself and then pass out.

“Ava,”
Chase said, making my head snap toward him. “Breathe,” he
told me and I realized he was right, I was holding my breath. I
sucked in a shaky breath and he nodded. “Good. Now, tell me why
you're anxious.”

I
swallowed hard. If there was one thing that people didn't get about
anxiety and panic attacks, it was how much the sufferers didn't want
to talk about it. How they didn't want to be perceived as weak or
crazy or dramatic.

“I
feel trapped,” I admitted.

“Okay,”
he said, his hand squeezing my knee. “Are you really trapped?”

“No.”
Of course not, but that didn't matter. Anxiety wasn't rational.

“Can
you leave at any time?”

I
bit into my lower lip for a second. “Yes.”

“Do
you think I would be mad or disappointed if you needed to get up and
walk away?”

My
eyes went to his, surprised. Because, well, yes. That was exactly
what made the sensation so bad, knowing that the guys I was with
wouldn't understand, that they'd be offended or upset. But he wasn't
them. He understood. He wasn't judging me. “No,” I said
finally.

“Okay,
so why don't we stop thinking about that?” he suggested, his
hand dipping low, stroking down the front of my leg, then snaking
around to my calf, before moving back up to my knee. “Do you
like this?” he asked, his fingers sliding toward the outside of
my thigh, snaking upward.

I
looked down from his eyes, staring at his throat instead. “Yes,”
I whispered.

“Good,
I like that,” he said, and it sounded like praise... something
a man had never offered me before. “I like touching you,”
he said, making my belly do a strange little flip flop. His other
arm, the one behind me, slid downward, settling behind my shoulders,
just pressure, not wrapping around me. “And I'm not just saying
that because it's my job,” he said, sounding closer, and I
glanced lower to see he had scooted closer, his hips just an inch or
so from mine. I hadn't even felt him move.

“Really?”
I asked, a blush creeping up my cheeks, hot and furious.

His
hand suddenly stopped toying with my leg, moving upward, stroking
across my jaw, then grabbing my chin lightly, forcing my face up to
look at him. “Babe,” he said, sounding serious, “if
I saw you in a bar, I'd have taken you home in a heartbeat.”

Oh,
my.

My
eyes dropped self-consciously, but his hand stayed there, patient,
waiting. For me to look at him again. When I finally did, “Do
you believe me?”

Did
I? He had no reason to lie. He didn't need to admit that in the first
place. “Yes.”

He
nodded slightly, just the barest of movements, still not dropping his
hand from my chin. “I would have walked over to you, gotten
close, whispered in your ear, told you how fucking gorgeous you
are...”

Oh,
my god.

Was
he really saying that?

Seriously?

“And
then, I would bring you back to my apartment and as soon as you
stepped inside, I would push you up hard against the door, and crush
my lips to yours,” he said, his thumb moving upward and
stroking across my lips. The words settled, like a fluid sensation in
my belly, sending a jolt of desire so strong I felt my panties start
to get wet, and pressed my thighs tightly together to stem the chaos
brewing between them. “Does that sound good?” He asked,
his thumb stroking again, my lips parting slightly and his finger
pressed between the crease.

“Y...
yes,” I admitted.

“Are
you turned on, Ava?” he asked, his eyes dropping to look at my
lips.

Was
I turned on? Only more than ever fucking before. “Yes,” I
admitted.

He
made a short, low, almost growling sound. “I like that,”
he said, his hand moving back across my jaw, pausing, then slipping
down the side of my neck. And I swear the contact felt like
fireworks. I felt a small involuntary shiver shake my body. Chase
chuckled slightly, leaning closer. “You're so sensitive,
baby.”'

Was
I? I was usually so busy freaking the fuck out by this point that I
was just... almost numb to the sensations. “Not usually,”
I said, wanting to be forthcoming.

His
head dipped toward me, his nose grazing across my jaw, his warm
breath on my neck. “Just for me then?” he asked and I
felt my head float backward, begging for things I knew I never wanted
before. Lips on skin. Hands in hair. Fingers in... places.

“I
guess,” I mumbled, eyes closing.

“Do
you want me to kiss you here?” he asked, his nose brushing
across the sensitive skin underneath my ear.

Did
I? I think I did. “Yes.”

“Tell
me,” he said, his breath causing another shiver.

“Tell
you what?”

“Tell
me you want me to kiss your neck,” he instructed.

Fuck.
If the process was going to be 'I'll do things to you, but only after
you ask for them', then we weren't going to get anywhere. Because I
couldn't. Literally couldn't. It didn't make sense. I knew that
rationally. There was no good reason I couldn't open my mouth and
force the words out. But I just couldn't. No matter how much I wanted
to. The words would get caught on my tongue and some sort of
crippling anxiety kept me mute.

And
it wasn't just sex. It was anything that I really wanted. Or things
that I wanted to stop. The words just... wouldn't come.

“Ava,”
Chase said, tilting his head up to look at me. I swallowed, looking
down at him, and shook my head. “No, you don't want me to? Or
no you can't ask.”

I
brought a hand up to my face, wanting to hide. The rolling in my
belly was back and I knew what was next. The need to flee. I was
hoping we could get further before I needed to take steps back. “I
can't ask,” I admitted, my voice like a strange croak.

“Okay,”
he said, sounding unconcerned. “We can work on the verbal
stuff,” he said, looking away. “But first, this,”
he said.

And
then his lips touched the space his nose had traced, sending a shock
through my body, making me jump and my hand slam down on the top of
my thigh, balling into a fist.

So,
this was what it was supposed to feel like. The sweet, intoxicating
sensation that had me wanting to sink back into the couch as my body
came alive.

His
lips pressed into the skin and I felt the hint of teeth a second
before his tongue moved outward and traced a slow line down the side
of my neck. I swear I felt like I was going to explode. Just. Bam.
Shatter into a million little flecks of desire. Because that was all
that I could feel. The heat. His breath on my skin. His lips planting
lazy kisses. His hand on the other side of my neck, digging slightly
in.

My
head turned, giving him complete access as his lips landed down by
the collar of the cardigan.

And
then he moved away, leaving my skin feeling cold.

He
sat back slightly, fingers stroking down the other side of my neck
before catching in my hair. “Open your eyes,” he said,
his voice soft but there was an undercurrent of heat there too. I
took a breath, opening slowly to land on his bright blue. “Good
girl,” he said, quietly. “Did you enjoy that?”