An excited shiver races through me thinking about him giving me those little instructions with every date. Little ways he wants me to do this or that, what color panties to wear even though there’s no chance he will ever see them. Gah, it’s such a turn on and my walls are struggling to stay sturdy around his calm, demanding persona.
The younger one that’s been on my schedule on the regular is named Flint—much closer to my age, football player, likes to keep things private because evidently, he’s something of a celebrity in the local sports world, which I know nothing about, but he doesn’t care and I get the feeling, he almost prefers it that way. He’s both extremely cocky and unbelievably kind. He calls me “Babe,” and says I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
With me, he says, he feels like himself for the very first time.
He has his own ways of making my belly flutter. At the beginning of every date, he asks me to show him a picture of something that made me happy, or made me smile, since he saw me last. I swear, when he looks at the photo—whatever it is—when he listens to me describe the scene or the event or whatever, it makes him happier than it does me.
The thought of each of them makes my mind go all swimmy.
And the thought of the two of them together makes my clit clench like it’s doing the same pliés and pirouettes as the poodle on Elena’s phone.
I’ve known them both for just under two weeks, and it seems the more I see them the more they want to see me. This week has been a whirlwind with the two of them.
On Monday, Hale took me to an advanced showing at the museum of modern art.
On Tuesday, Flint took me to a private room in a fancy fondue restaurant.
On Wednesday, Hale brought me to a restaurant opening downtown.
On Thursday, Flint set up a special private visit for us at the zoo.
So I’ve spent the week seeing beautiful art, eating delicious meals, and petting baby zebras…and my entire semester’s tuition is now paid.
And I know that even if I had to choose, I couldn’t.
You’re being ridiculous. Reee-dick-you-lusssssss.
I scrunch my toes into the textured bottom of the tub and chide myself. It’s a hard rule that we don’t develop feelings for the clients. A firm boundary that professional not become personal.
So all these feelings, all this excitement, have to stay on the other side of my heart.
Because this is business. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Taxes, paperwork, the whole nine yards. We even work for an agency,
The Cherry on Top, and as far as such things go, it’s quite upstanding. The whole thing is that the girls are smart, accomplished in our own ways—attractive of course—and capable. We are no-strings-attached dates who are here for company, not for sex. Though I’m sure the sexy stuff does happen. I have just never crossed that line.
For me, it’s a side hustle that pays my tuition and means I don’t have to eat off-brand ramen noodles for every meal. It means that I get to wear my Doc Martens during the day and Louboutin’s at night. It means I get to wear my thrift-store jeans with Chanel lipstick. It means I get to start to carve out a little life for myself, starting here and now.
And all the men who have bought my time have been wealthy and respectful.
And sexy, at least lately I think, with a fluttery explosion in my stomach, imagining Hale’s marble jawline and Flint’s muscular veined forearms.
God.
“But I’ve got some hot goss’ for you.” Elana lowers her already sultry voice, dropping her phone into her lap. “Apparently two guys got into a bidding war over you for tonight.”
I turn to her, blinking, while the bubbles hiss and pop around our calves. “They did?”
“You’re so cute when you pretend to be surprised.”
Of course I know which two without even asking, though I had no idea there was a bidding war for little old me. I knew I had a date set up with Hale on my calendar but there would be no way I’d know anything else.
My body responds at just the thought of them, a molten rush of heat through every cell.
Stop it, I scold myself. Stop. It. I pinch my thighs together, but it doesn’t help at all.
“Apparently, they decided they were both hell-bent on having you as their date tonight. See? The group chat with the work girls is all about it.”
I hate the group chat. I can never keep up, so I don’t even try. Instead, I try to still my nerves. I tap on my work phone to open it and check my calendar again. I only use this smartphone for work, and I’m feeling pretty proud that I’ve had this one for six whole weeks and haven’t lost it or broken it. Yet.