“Nah. Never that.”
Riku is half right. I did roam Europe in style, driving up the coast of Monaco, staying at luxurious resorts and indulging in the most amazing cuisine. I also indulged in my fair share of hot, European pussy. But, hey, I was on vacation.
“Sure, sure,” he remarks, not the least bit phased by my aloofness. He already knows that privacy is a big deal to me and that I rarely disclose any personal information. “Just toss one my way if you ever find your hands too full to juggle all those Vicky Secret Angels you like to keep stashed away.”
One swimsuit model. One. And suddenly I’m Hugh Hefner with a fresh Viagra refill.
I finish my beer in silence, listening to him ramble on about the insanely frustrating demands of our guests.
“No butter. No gluten. No dairy. No fat, no calories, no flavor. What the hell do these chicks want to eat? Air?”
“If you could put it on a plate and garnish it with parsley, it’d be a hit.”
“Fuck that,” Riku remarks with a shake of his head. “I want a woman that eats. Someone I can cook for and feed while she’s curled up next to me in bed. Ain’t shit I can do with a bag of bones. I mean, have you seen most of them? Shit, if they turn to the side, they fucking disappear. I’ll take tits and ass over Skeletor any-damn-day.”
I nod, feeling the double-edged sword of his words. Of course, these women want to eat. They crave rich foods and sugary desserts just like anyone else. They detest having to spend every waking moment obsessing over every pound and calorie. But when you live in a society that praises skinny and shames anything that doesn’t fit that extra-extra-small mold, you make sacrifices. And that’s exactly what they’ve done. They’ve sacrificed their happiness, their peace of mind, and in many cases, their health. And in the end, it’s not even about food or body image. It’s just another notch in the good ol’ fucked up, modern America belt.
I drain my beer before crossing the courtyard to my home. It’s warmer than usual, and under the dark cloak of night, I decide to take a swim to clear my head. After stripping off my suit and tie and changing into something more liberating, I dive into the turquoise water, letting the coolness drown the heat building deep in my gut.
This time feels different. I’ve been in this business for years, yet I feel oddly unprepared. It’s only the end of Day Two, and I’m already on edge, temptation closing in on the edges of my rationale. At this rate, I won’t last.
Ok, I lied before. Not lie-lie. Just didn’t tell the whole truth. When I said I endure six, sexless weeks during instruction, what I meant to say was that I try to endure six, sexless weeks. Sure, I’m nearly always successful, but I must admit, there are slip-ups. That’s why I always keep a girl on standby. Very few outsiders know where the property is located, and the few who do are given that information under special circumstances. No strings, no expectations, just someone to scratch that proverbial itch so I can concentrate on the task at hand.
I swim the length of the pool, feeling my muscles flex and pull, igniting an entirely different burn in my thighs, calves and biceps. I push off the edge once more, causing my body to forcefully slice through the water. Damn, it hurts good. I want to keep going—keep pushing—until I’m too exhausted to think about what I really crave. I want to feel this burn of exertion until it eclipses the fire currently licking up my spine.
Most think I’m some kinda health freak. They see me doing laps, running, banging out pushups like it’s going out of style. But in reality, it’s necessary. It’s the only way I avoid what I really want. Without that release, I’d combust from the inside out. Either that or jerk my shit until it falls off. No bueno.
“Wow, no wonder there’s no decent junk food in this place. The owner is Ryan Lochte.”
I spin around to take in a pair of pale legs draped in floral silk to just below the knee. My curious gaze trails those stems up to the bend of soft hips that taper into a narrow waist before flowing into the bottom curves of full, pert breasts.
A grand says she not wearing a bra. Two says her nipples are practically winking at me under that maliciously thin sheath of silk.
Saliva collects in my mouth like a hungry lion and I swallow, forcing myself to look away before I allow myself to know the answer for certain.
I don’t need to see the rest. I already know. I can nearly smell her perfume in the whisper of wind that’s followed her to me. Hell, I can almost imagine the smirk that undoubtedly rests on those delicate lips.
“Seriously, what’s a girl gotta do to get some real ice cream around here?”