The Sex Surrogate(2)

I knew she was just being professionally kind, but I felt a bit of the flurries in my stomach subside. “Only in the way that I am ready to turn and bolt out the door at any moment,” I admitted.

She smiled, producing a pile of papers on a white clipboard. “Then you picked the wrong shoes,” she said, her eyes bright. I felt a giggle rise up, shaking my head and looking at my feet, wrapped in beige boots with a three inch stiletto heel. “Don't worry,” she said, putting a hand on the paperwork, “everyone is always nervous. It's completely normal.”

I nodded. “So, I just... fill all these out?”

“Yep,” she said, pulling back, away from me. Back into professional mode. “Some are just basic medical questions. Mental health questions. And then the last few pages are an in-depth sexual questionnaire. You seal all of it into that manila folder in the back,” she said, flipping the pages. “No one but Dr. Hudson will be privy to that information.”

Thank god.

“Great,” I said, forcing a wobbly smile. “Thank you.”

I walked over to a chair, sitting down and trying to power through the pages before I got myself too wrapped up in the awkwardness of the situation. It was good to have something to focus on.

That was, until I got to the sex questionnaire.

It started off tame enough, asking about my upbringing. What (if anything) I was taught about sex. If I had ever caught adults engaged in sexual activities. If so, what? Then how many sexual partners I have had. What acts I had engaged in. What my comfort level was with each act on a scale of one to ten.

I figured I would put myself at a four for each, though I was pretty sure it was more like a one or two. A little fibbing never hurt anyone.

I took a deep breath, signing the end of the last page, putting all the pages into the folder, sealing it, then handing it to the receptionist.

I went back to my chair with my heart slamming in my chest, my hands getting clammy.

I was saved from my misery a short five minutes later.

“Miss. Davis,” the receptionist called, making me jump, then spring to my feet. She smiled sweetly, moving toward me with an extended arm, but kept her distance. “Dr. Hunter would like you to wait in his office, get comfortable for a moment, while he looks over your paperwork,” she explained, leading my toward a door down at the far end of the large waiting room, “then he will be in to see you.”

She opened the door, standing outside of it, making it obvious she was not going to go in. “Thank you,” I said, stepping past the threshold a few steps.

The door clicked quietly behind me, the sound slamming somewhere in my mind, screaming out:

This is it. There's no going back now.





Introductory Session





His office was in complete contrast to the waiting room. Whereas the waiting room was crisp and clean, almost feminine, his office was all man. The wall straight across from the door had windows covered in heavy drapery, a brown leather couch situated in front of it. To the left was a floor to ceiling bookshelf with a dark wood executive desk in front of it. Books spilled from the shelves, heavy tombs of, I imagined, psychological origins. Or sexual origins, I thought with a strange hysterical little laugh. To the left was a small, intimate seating area. There was another brown couch, this time in a soft suede material, with two end tables with lamps, and an arm chair across from it, on an angle. Dr. Hudson's four degrees and certificates were displayed above the couch.

The walls were a deep green color, the floors the same dark wood as the waiting room. There were a few framed pictures, one on either side of the door. One, a black and white of a man and woman, half in shadow, with the edges of their heads turning into birds. The other, another black and white, the same man and woman, still half in shadow, embracing.

I turned away from them, walking into the room which was nothing what I had been expecting. I guess, maybe, a part of me had been expecting, well, a bed. I shook my head, making my way over to the suede couch, situated slightly into a small alcove. I sat, placing my hands out on the cushions beside me. To ground myself, to stop my hands from being clammy.

There was a clock above the door and I sat there watching it, time tick tick ticking away. Still no sign of the good doctor. Music started to come through some hidden speakers, the song slow and bluesy. Calming. The heat clicked on, warm and comforting.

I was almost, just barely at the point where I didn't think I was about to vomit all over his perfect office, when the door slowly opened.

And in he came.

And...

Oh,

my

God.





So, yeah, he wasn't middle aged. No hangover of a waistline. No moobs. No meat hands or elephant ears. No. This was, in a way, almost worse.

He was a freaking monument to male perfection.

His hair was black, longish but pushed back from his face. Strong dark brows over startling blue eyes. A sharp jaw with the slightest trace of a dark beard. His body was large. Tall, wide of shoulder, solid in the center. Looking impossibly fit underneath his open black suit jacket and white button up, the first two buttons undone, casual yet professional.

He was gorgeous.

And I was going to be having sex with him.

Jesus Christ.

“Miss. Davis,” he said, looking up from the paperwork in his hands, almost like an afterthought.

His eyes on me felt like an invasion. Like he saw it all. Because, I reminded myself, he knew it all. Scribbled carefully on those pages in his hands.

His brows were drawn together in confusion, like he was trying to figure something out.

“Dr. Hudson,” I said, swallowing hard, moving to stand.

“Chase,” he corrected, shaking his head once. “Don't get up,” he said, holding up a hand and moving toward me.

His massiveness seemed to completely overtake the intimate little seating area, making me push into the back cushions to give myself the breathing space I felt like he was taking from me. His head quirked to the side slightly, watching me, as he put the paperwork down on the closest end table, and took the chair across from me. “Can I call you Ava?” he asked, sitting back in the chair, looking completely at ease. Like he had done it a thousand times before. Which, well, maybe he had. Oh, god. Had he slept with that many clients? Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all... maybe...

“Ava,” he said, a little firmly, making my eyes snap up to his face.

“Sorry,” I rushed, shaking my head. “I just...”

“You're nervous,” he said, shrugging a shoulder.

“Yeah.” You have no fucking idea.

“We're just talking,” he said, his voice too deep to sound comforting, but it somehow did anyway. “Think of this as any normal therapy session, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, taking a breath and letting it out slowly. I could do that. I had plenty of practice with that.

“Your chart says you started therapy when you were fifteen for anxiety issues.”

“Yes.”

“And now you are...”

“Twenty-seven,” I supplied automatically.

“Any success with the treatment?”

A small half laugh, half snort, escaped me, reaching up to run a hand through my hair. “Yes and no. Every time I get over one thing that makes me anxious...”

“A new anxiety develops,” he answered.

“Yup.”

“That must be incredibly frustrating.”

“You have no idea.”

He hadn't stopped looking at me. Literally. His eyes were just... on me. Since the second he walked through the door. Why couldn't he just... look away?

“What are your current anxieties?”

I was going to sleep with this man, what did it matter if he knew all the weird little things that gave me massive panic attacks?

I tried to keep his gaze and failed, looking down at his hands instead. Strong, wide. Capable. Of what, I wasn't sure. “I have issues feeling trapped. So, work can be a problem. Someone else driving me, especially public transportation. Public speaking. And...”

I couldn't even say it. How the hell was this going to even work if I couldn't...

“And sex,” he finished, making my head snap up, eyes a little wide.

I felt a blush creep up into my cheeks. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” he said, casual. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I read in your chart that you don't ever remember not having a phobia about sex.”

“Right.”

“But you have tried to get more comfortable with it.”

I laughed nervously, shrugging. “Exposure therapy,” I suggested and he surprised me by laughing, a low, rumbling sound that reverberated somewhere deep in my chest and belly.

“With no success though.”

“No.”

“Yet you kept trying.”

I looked down at my hands, pale and thin fingered. “Yeah.” Four times. More than enough to start hating myself a little bit. And not be able to even kiss anyone anymore.

“So, why are you here?”

My head shot up, my brows drawing together. Was he serious? Wasn't it obvious why I was there? I mean, seriously. “I'm... frigid.”

“Are you?” he asked, leaning forward and resting elbows on his knees, way too close. Taking up all my space. “Being frigid implies an absence of interest in sex and a lack of sexual fantasies.”

“Oh,” I breathed the word out.

“Seeing as you are here,” he went on, his lips twitching slightly, but not breaking into a smile. Seemingly always set in a firm line. Which I think I preferred. I wasn't sure I could take him smiling, “I wouldn't call you frigid.”