The Sex Surrogate(13)

“What?”

“Completely shaving,” he supplied.

“What?” I asked again, smiling, “Did you expect everything to be all...unruly?”

“Yes, actually,” he said, shrugging. “I figured you would find any way you could to hide.”

“Just a personal preference,” I said, watching as his hand reached for the edge of the blanket that was just barely on me then, covering only my breasts. He paused for a second, then flicked the material away.

“Fuck me,” he murmured again, his hand landing hard on my ribs. “Ava,” he said, his voice firm again as his eyes drifted to my face, “breathe.” I took a slow breath and his eyes slid downward again, coming to rest on my breasts. His hand slid upward, stopping high on my ribs, his thumb barely brushing the sensitive underside of my breast. “Babe, you're perfect. I can't wait to touch these,” he said, his thumb stroking across the bottom, sending a shiver through my whole body. “Mmm,” he growled. “So sensitive.”

His hand drifted quickly away then, almost like he couldn't trust himself not to cross that line if he didn't force himself to focus on something else. He ran his fingers across my belly, making me arch slightly off the bed. His eyes drifted to my face, my eyes half closed in my desire.

“Okay,” he said, almost like a sigh, like he was disappointed. “Why don't you roll onto your belly, sweetheart?”

“Why?”

“Please.”

My eyes opened wider, taking in the pleading in his eyes. I glanced downward as I started to move, seeing his cock, seeing the wetness at the tip. He was just as far gone as I was with need. I somehow found that all the more hot.

His hand moved to the side of my hip as I started to turn, grabbing hard, before letting me finish moving. I brought my arms up, resting my head on them, facing him. His arm reached out, starting at the base of my neck and moving down my spine in a way that was becoming comfortably familiar. But it kept moving downward, up and over the roundness of my ass, resting on it.

I felt my brow raise at him and he shook his head, looking guilty. But that didn't stop him, his hand slipped lower, touching the underside of my ass and if he shifted his fingers even slightly inward, he would be touching my heat. As if sensing the thought, his hand paused there, watching me.

“Are you wet for me, Ava?”

Oh

my

gosh.

And, oh my god, yes I was.

I felt myself swallow and nod.

He drew in a slow breath. “I can't wait to touch and taste and feel that,” he said with feeling. His hand moved to the backs of my thighs then pulled suddenly away. “Okay,” he said, “come over here,” he added, rolling onto his back and patting his chest. I moved to him like it was the only place in the world I wanted to be.

And I had a sneaking, nagging suspicion that that was all too true.

A while later. A long while later, he chuckled beneath me. “Your belly is growling,” he said, moving to sit up. “Let's go get you some food.”





After the Session





Okay. I was sure I misheard him. But then he was sliding out from underneath me and moving bare-ass naked over toward our clothes, his underwear in his hand for a long time before he finally slipped into them. Then on went his pants, socks, shoes, shirt. But he left his shirt open, bending down and retrieving the pile of my clothes and walking back toward the bed with them.

And it was then I realized I hadn't even bothered to cover up. And I certainly couldn't do so now with him looking at me like he was looking at me. Hungry. Like he was going to devour me.

But then he walked around to the foot of the bed, setting all my clothes neatly down, then getting on the bed on his knees, moving closer to me. He reached for the swatch of fabric that was my panties, opening them and reaching for my feet. He lifted one, slipping my foot into the hole, then went to the other.

Holy fucking hell.

He was dressing me.

And it wasn't weird.

It was sexy as all get out.

The material slipped up my thighs and his hands paused, waiting for me to lift my hips, then settling into place. Next went the garter belt. Then the stockings, his hands expertly sliding them up then clasping them. He bent forward, reaching for my hands and pulling me upward into a seated position. Then he slipped my bra onto my arms, settling the cups around my breasts without actually really touching them, then sliding around my back to clasp the hooks. He reached back, grabbing my dress, rouching it up in his hands, then slipped it over my head. My arms went into the sleeves.

He sat back on his heels, running a hand down my leg before it disappeared.

And then I was moving, pushing myself up on my knees to get closer to him. My hands went out, grabbing the sides of his shirt and, from the bottom, starting to carefully close him up. Damn if it didn't feel like the most natural thing in the world. Once my hands were at the top button (which I decided to leave open), my eyes rose to meet his, watching me, yet again, so intensely it was hard to witness.

He took a slow breath then bounced off the back of the bed. “Alright, shoes,” he instructed me, tucking his shirt and slipping on his belt. I was all shoe-d up and ready when he put his jacket on and started toward the door. “Any preference on food?” he asked, going through his office into the waiting room.

“I'll eat anything,” I admitted and he nodded, leading me outside.

Once on the street, his hand went to my lower back. And, for once, it almost seemed possessive. But that was ridiculous. That was just my mind spinning it's usual tall tales. He was not, in any way, feeling possessive of me.

“Where are we going?” I asked as he just kept pushing me down the street.

As an answer, he reached into his pocket, pulling out his key and making the car a few feet from us beep and light up. “My car,” he said, bringing me up to the passenger side and opening the door for me.

His car looked like it cost more than my childhood home. Sleek, a deep charcoal color, soft curves. The inside was black, pristine, still smelling new as I lowered myself in and he closed the door.

He got into the driver's side, turning the car over with a barely audible hum, then started driving.

We ended up out front of a small Italian restaurant, the deep brown walls and private black booths visible from the street. He was out and around the car before I could even reach for the door handle. “Come on,” he said as I paused, looking at his extended hand, “get your pretty little ass out here.”

“Well, if you're going to put it that way,” I said, laughing, taking his hand and stepping out. He didn't let go of my hand, instead, interlocking our fingers as he led me to the door.

What was that? I mean, seriously. I had absolutely no idea what was going on. He was supposed to be my doctor, my surrogate. That was it, right? That was what I remembered from my research. No where had I read that a surrogate takes you out to eat after a session. That seemed to blur the lines of professionalism. So what was going on?

“Ava,” Chase's voice cut in, and I realized we were standing next to the table, the hostess already having placed down the menus and left. “Where are you?”

I shook my head to clear it. “No where important,” I said, sliding into the booth behind the table, the walls of it coming up high and closing in on the sides by several inches, like each booth was its own private little room. There were no chairs on the outside of the table, so Chase scooted in beside me.

Uncomfortable with the whole same-side sitting concept, I pivoted my hips away so I could look him in the face. He noticed, a brow raising slightly, but he didn't say anything, handing me my menu. “Doesn't matter what you order, I guarantee it will be the best Italian you've ever had.”

“Oh, I don't know,” I said, looking down at the options, “I have a strong preference to this little rinky dink place around the corner from my apartment. The owner came over from Italy just four years ago. His accent is too thick to understand and the only English word he knows is 'eat'. So when you go there, he just makes you whatever the hell he wants. And it is always exactly what you needed.”

“That's a tall order. I'll have to try it out sometime.”

The waiter came over, black slacks, white shirt, neat, already with a bottle in his hands, “The usual,” he said, showing the label to Chase who nodded.

When he walked away, I took my glass, smiling over the rim at him.

“What?” he asked, a matching smile creeping up on his face.

I shook my head. “Not the adventurous type, huh?”

“Why would you say that?”

“You're a regular at the bar, you're a regular here...”

He put down his glass, leaning in slightly. “Maybe I am just very particular about my... pleasures.”

So, he said that.

Who says stuff like that?

Apparently, Dr. Chase Hudson did.

“Oh,” I said, taking a sip of the red wine, feeling the taste explode in my mouth.

“Good?” he asked, watching me.

I nodded, averting my eyes from his because we were getting way too intimate in a private place.

Besides, he was a regular. To a restaurant that was obviously meant for couples and lovers. Private. Upscale. Which meant he visited often... with women. With dates. Or clients. Or lovers.

The thought settled like lead in my belly, making the constant, gnawing hunger suddenly vanish.

I wasn't special. Where the hell had I gotten the vanity to think I was? That was what men like Chase Hudson did – rich men, powerful men, flirtatious men... they wined and dined and bedded women.