Taint(7)

“Relax, Mrs. Rose. As you all have read in the documents you’ve signed, I will never physically harm nor violate you. In some instances, though, I will have to touch you. Guide you. If at any time you feel uncomfortable, simply say stop. That’s all. Now…may I touch you, Mrs. Rose?”

Her shoulders rise and fall with her labored breaths, anticipating the feel of my hands on her. This is the tricky part. I know what I do to these women. I know what they see, what they feel from me. They’re used to powerful men– they’re attracted to them– and that fact alone draws them to me. Add in the denim-blue eyes and 6 foot 2 inch dominating physique, and I’m reduced to high-priced man candy for the next six weeks. That’s why I keep things very professional. My tone is always clipped and straight to the point. While I try to be cordial, I’m never overly friendly. So, while they may be attracted to the physical, I’m too much of an asshole to warrant unwelcomed advances from lonely housewives.

“Yes,” she breathes. I can almost visualize her eyelids fluttering closed.

Towering over her from behind, the calloused pads of my fingertips lightly graze the sides of her arms, raking over her skin in a harsh whisper. She shivers under my touch, her breath coming out in quick pants while the rest of the women stop breathing altogether, their mouths agape in enviable lust.

I move in closer, letting my front mold into her back. She shudders for just a second before melting into the hard contours of my chest with a sigh. “You have amazing arms, Lacey,” I say just above a whisper, my lips only a breath away from her ear. “Toned, tan, smooth. Your shoulders are sexy. Has anyone ever told you that? Imagine hands massaging them– gently at first– kneading away the day’s tension. Then a little more pressure. Harder. Then harder still. Feels good, doesn’t it? Imagine lips trailing kisses across them before moving up to your neck. A tongue snakes out to taste you…so sweet…so soft…”

Just as an anxious noise escapes her throat, I take a step back, causing Lacey to fall backwards into my arms, channeling her inner Scarlett O’Hara. Before she gets too comfortable, I set her on her feet, making it known that I’m nobody’s Rhett Butler.

Her face flushed with embarrassment and arousal, Lacey quickly staggers to her seat, as ten women pelt her with questioning stares.

“Now,” I bellow with a loud clap of my hands, capturing their attention. “That was the art of attraction—working with what you’ve got. Playing up your strengths, and being confident in your sexuality. Any more volunteers?”

Eleven hands shoot to the sky. No, wait…make that 14. A few ladies are double fisting.





AFTER A DAY of stroking fragile egos and another awkward dinner, painfully watching most of the diners push food around their plates pretending to eat, I nearly sprint to the main kitchen for a cold beer and to check in with my staff.

“What’s up, J.D.? How’re the Erotic Eleven treating ya?” greets the Oasis sous chef, Riku. The kid is an anomaly. Half Japanese and half Brazilian, he’s used to getting mauled by horny housewives enamored with his jet black hair, broad build, copper-colored skin, and fine, Asian features. When I asked him how his parents managed to merge their cultures, he replied, “Everyone’s fluent in the language of love.”

Yeah right.

Still, he’s a good guy, if not slightly green when it comes to matters of the heart. If someone like me had friends, Riku would be it. But, alas, I am someone like me.

I grab two cold ones out of the fridge and pop them open before handing Riku his, which he gladly accepts.

Everyone here knows that, while I may sign their paychecks, I am as far from a boss as possible. There is no Mr. Drake here. No formal reprimands or hoops to jump through. The rules are simple: If you want to work with me, great. Do your job. If not, fine by me—everyone is replaceable. With the pay, benefits and mutual respect amongst all employees, whether you’re a dishwasher or head chef, I am rarely dealt the task of hiring or firing.

“Erotic Eleven? Hmmm…not much different than the last group. What’d you call them? The Sizzling Seven?”

Riku laughs before tipping back his beer, then looks down at the label. “Krombacher, eh? Where’d you get this one?”

“Germany.”

“That where you spend your summer? Corrupting a bevy of beauties in Berlin?”

“One of the places,” I shrug. “Kinda just wandered through Europe. Stopped in Amsterdam, Brussels, Prague—even made it out to Spain.”

Riku shakes his head, his mouth curled into a smirk. “You make it sound like you were backpacking and sleeping in hostels or some shit. Be real, man. You did it up playboy style like you always do. Probably found your very own Heidi Klum out there.”