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 Surrender Forever Surrender Series Volume 1 by Anita Lawless.
Surrender To A Sex Therapist
(Surrender Series Volume 1, Part 1)
By Anita Lawless
I enjoyed my new job so much it was almost too good to be true. An old friend of Dad’s from the precinct, Sherri Taylor, had landed me the interview with Dmitri Nichvalodov, and I’d become the secretary of this prominent sex therapist three weeks ago. At first I’d had reservation about working for him. Not that I was a prude, but I knew little about sex—I’d only been with two men in my life, and one was a disappointing fumbler at best—plus I’d heard Dmitri was a stunner. Being introverted and a social kumquat, my reservations stemmed from the fact there was a good chance I’d stumble over my words, or tip over a coffee table, and make a complete ass of myself. I tended to do just that when I was nervous or intimidated by the subject or persons involved.
However, the salary promised was generous, and it would cover Dad’s mounting medical bills. Dad came first, so I swallowed my fear and accepted the position.
“Charlotte,” Dmitri said, his green eyes meeting mine, making my stomach do a flutter I tried to ignore. “Would you join me in my office when you’re finished up there? I’d like to ask you something.”
“Oh, certainly, Mr. Nichvalodov.” I adjusted my glasses, thankful they slipped down my nose at that moment, because it gave me a chance to break away from his penetrating gaze.
“It’s Dmitri to you.” I watched his broad shoulders, clad in a pinstriped suit, disappear behind the door. His long hair gleamed as the sun caught it just before he vanished. He wore his straight, black mane in a braid that fell to the middle of his back. How a psychiatrist managed to look like a male stripper was beyond me. Maybe it had something to do with being a sex therapist. I scolded myself for picturing him out of that suit for the second time today.
Dmitri also came from money, a lot of it, and his family held a history of investing in entrepreneurial ventures that had, for the most part, paid off well. He’d told me, in some of our frequent office conversation, that there had been some risky investments in the early days, and his great-great grandfather lost his shirt a couple times over a hunch that went sour. However, these days the family had enough wealth to take a million or more dollar loss and not even feel it. They invested a great deal in green energy technology. Dmitri told me the only thing holding green energy back, in his educated opinion, was the lack of funding for researching and developing these techniques.
“Why work as a sex therapist then?” I’d said one day, and when he turned those penetrating green eyes on me, I’d added, “If you don’t mind me asking.”
He flashed a wide, dazzling smile. “Our parents encouraged my brother and I to be more than a part of the family empire. Mom and Dad worried focusing on one thing would narrow our minds, our pursuits. They wanted us to be well rounded, so here I am.”
Now, as I stepped into his office, I tried to slow my heartbeat to normal. Had I entered some data incorrectly in our patient database? I mentally checked over the day, looking for a mistake. There had to be one. I’d been doing a great job so far, but this had to be about a screw up. I just knew it.
Dmitri looked up from a sheaf of papers and gave me that winning smile. “Please, have a seat, Charlotte.”
I sat in the chair he indicated, crossed my right leg over my left, uncrossed, repeated the process. Then I silently scolded myself for fidgeting.
He sat in his looming, leather office chair, folded his hands on top of the desk, and gave me an intense gaze. “How would you feel about seeing me outside of the office? Maybe tomorrow night? Dinner perhaps?”
I choked and coughed on my nervousness. Enough so that I had to get up and excuse myself so I could grab a glass of water. As I brushed a lock of mouse-brown hair from my face, I noticed how badly my hand shook.
“Sorry about that,” I said, after I sat in his office once more. “I must be coming down with a bit of a cold.”