Can You Handle It (Naughty Bedroom Collection)

(Only mention this service to “Chris” at the reception desk)

I immediately returned to the desk and cleared my throat until the agent looked up at me.

“Yes, Miss McGuire?” he asked. “Would you like me to fetch you a biscuit before you wander off to do some crochet?”

“Not at all. Is your name Chris?”

“It is.” He smiled, flipping his name tag. “Why do you ask?”

I slid the paper toward him. “I’d like to book one of these.”

“Shit, I didn’t realize this was in here.” He looked around as if someone was listening, crumpling the sheet between his fingers. “Would you like a male or a female technician?”

“Male.”

“How do you want him to get you to an orgasm?”

“Um, all the way.”

“No, no, no.” He lowered his voice. “Do you want the guy to use his hand the entire time, or do you want him to take things further?”

“You mean fuck me?”

“Yeah, that.” He nodded to his left. “As you can see, that’s not something that’s out of the ordinary.”

I swallowed and looked over at the corner of the lobby. A red-haired woman was taking a man’s cock down her throat while he was grabbing fistfuls of her hair. A blonde sat on the couch close by with her legs spread, touching herself while watching.

It’d been so long since I had sex that I’d forgotten how badly I needed to be touched, even if it was just for a few seconds. Even if it was in some place like this where anyone could watch.

“Miss McGuire?” Chris cleared his throat.

“Sorry.” I faced him again. “Maybe just fingers for now. I can change that later, right?”

“Of course,” he said. Then he whispered, “Now, between you and me, even though this is a sex resort, the massages are supposed to be legit. Like, ‘just massages.’ My boss who contracts us out knows nothing about these little add-ons, okay? So, don’t mention this on the survey card at the end, okay?”

“Um, okay.”

“Good. The massage will be charged to your room, but I’ll need two hundred dollars cash right now for the other part.”

Something told me to give a second thought to this shadiness, but the words on that paper sounded too promising.

I pulled two hundred-dollar bills from my purse. “I won’t mention it.”

“Perfect,” he said, sliding me a card. “Check off on all your boundaries, write exactly—and I mean, exactly—what you want, and arrive at the spa building at seven o’clock tonight.”

Temptation Island

Harlow

Later that evening, I stepped into the massive villa that housed the spa.

Freshly showered and wrapped in a custom white robe, I took several deep breaths.

Relax, Harlow. Relax.

“You can follow me, Miss McGuire.” A woman beckoned me to follow her down a hall and into a small beige room.

“Whenever you’re comfortable, take off your robe and get on the table,” she said. “Be sure to pull on the eye mask and place the sheet over your body. The technician will knock before entering the room.”

“Wait.” I didn’t want her to leave me alone yet. “Does getting something like this make me seem desperate?”

“Every guest at this resort is desperate.” She smiled. “That’s the entire point. Any other questions?”

“Just one.” I nodded. “This is one hundred percent legal? Like, the FBI won’t burst through the door mid-massage and say anything about indecency or paying for sex acts, right?”

She gave me a blank stare.

“I just want to be sure that none of the things I requested will cross an ethical line.”

She glanced at the clipboard in her hand.

“You’re damn near thirty years old and you gave full consent for a full body massage with oil, water, and hot stones,” she said. “According to what you’ve written, you want the tech to ‘Make me come with his fingers and his tongue if possible, deeply kiss both sets of my lips, and not make me feel guilty if I come in his mouth because I tend to get super wet when I’m turned on and—”

“Okay, okay.” I cut her off. “I know what the hell I wrote.”

“You should hurry up and get on the table.” She shot me a look of sympathy. “You need a release more than any person I’ve ever seen.”

She left without another word.

Letting out a breath, I took off the robe and draped it over the sofa. Then I pulled the black silk face mask over my eyes and climbed onto the table.

I lay face down on the feathered pillow and inhaled its soft vanilla scent.

Minutes later, the lights dimmed, and the sound of falling rain filled the room. The soothing scents of eucalyptus and lavender followed.

The door creaked as it opened from behind, and I tensed—anticipating the tech’s first touch.

“Hi,” I said.

He didn’t answer.

Without removing the sheet or introducing himself, he caressed the crease of my spine with his fingertips.

Sliding a warm hand against my neck, he threaded his fingers through my hair for several moments. Then he pulled it into an elastic band and took his time making a messy bun.