The Gentleman Mentor(10)

“They’re regular women. Your girlfriends, coworkers, and acquaintances. They are women who never reached orgasm. Women whose partner has strayed, and they want to learn how to satisfy their man, women who want to take control of their lives.”

She nods along as I speak, seemingly enchanted by my words. Although there have been a few times when a woman has requested my help in winning over a man she already knows, like Brielle, I don’t tell her that. I’ve never seen this scenario successfully play out. If a man hasn’t taken notice, there’s a reason. There is truth in that old saying, “He’s just not that into you.” If he were, you wouldn’t be in my bed.

But I won’t burst her pretty little bubble today. Because something tells me it would be fun to see her ride my dick and learn to be the seductress I see lurking inside her.





Chapter Six


Brielle



I’m lost in his eyes, in his deep, watchful stare, wondering what will happen next. He’s in no hurry to rush our first meeting, and I appreciate that. This is all so new for me; I want to soak up every detail.

“Did you do what I asked?” His voice is soft and controlled. It’s the kind of voice that washes over you, making you feel warm and desirable. I could listen to him speak for hours.

“What do you mean?” My heart begins to hammer as if it knows something I don’t.

He leans in closer, and my pulse pounds in my ears as he draws near. His gaze never wavers. Never strays from mine. Being in his presence is overwhelming. He’s so strong and sure, as I suppose a Dom is, but I had no idea it would feel like this.

My body heats up, growing warm for him. He hasn’t even touched me, hasn’t spoken a single word. He simply studies me from across the table, and it’s as if he owns me. He could do anything he wanted, and I’d mold to his wishes.

His eyes remain on mine, and though my natural response is to look away, I don’t. This is a test, and one that I very much want to pass. It’s as though he can read me with a single look. Those warm, mocha-colored eyes just dismantled me like a bomb.

“Your panties,” he says coolly after several minutes. “Go into the bathroom and take them off. Place them into your purse and bring them to me.”

Say what now?

In his e-mail he asked me to wear red panties, and it was a point I fought with myself over. I didn’t own a red panty-and-bra set. And I knew he’d never see them anyway—this being the first time we’ve met, and my general sense of modesty. So why, for the love of God, I rushed out to Victoria’s Secret at the last minute last night and bought a red G-string and push-up bra, I can’t explain. Maybe my subconscious anticipated this moment.

“I can’t just go take off my panties in a public restroom.” I meet his icy stare with an incredulous look of my own.

He raises his chin. “The choice is yours. I need to know you’re dedicated to this. To me.”

This is apparently my first test. And my stupid type-A personality not only wants to pass, I want to ace it.

I rise from the table on shaky legs. He watches me while I lift my purse from the seat beside me and exit the booth. I feel wicked and dangerous, and suppress a naughty giggle at the thought. I like this side of me that so rarely comes out to play. This feeling could become addictive.

When I enter the ladies’ room, I glance into the mirror to see a smirk slashed across my face. My cheeks are stained with two splotches of pink, and there’s a mischievous glint in my eyes. We’ve hardly begun working together, and I feel like a different woman already. Funny how taking control of your life will do that to you.

Alone in the bathroom, I slip into the first stall and latch the door behind me. A moment later, the outer door opens and two sets of high-heeled shoes click across the tile floor.

“Did you see who that was? He was sitting with a woman, but now he’s alone,” a woman’s voice says.

“How could I miss him? Six foot three of sexy with a bedroom stare powerful enough to knock you up from across the room,” the second woman answers, and they share a wave of polite laughter.

I can’t explain how I know, but I’m sure they’re talking about my date. With my skirt bunched up around my hips, I wait and listen.

“It’s good to see him out. That was so sad what happened to him.”

“It was devastating,” the second woman agrees.

The water from the faucet drowns out their voices and I can’t make out their words, but I’m trembling. They implied that something tragic happened to him, and now that I think about it, there has to be more to his story.

He’s a handsome, successful bachelor. Why is he single? Why does he do this?