The Sex Surrogate(3)

“Okay.”

“Do you have sexual fantasies, Ava?”

Holy hell.

That question, with my name like a secret on his lips, sent an unexpected ping of desire between my thighs. My eyes focused on the watch on his wrist. “Yes.”

“Do you get turned on?”

You mean like how I was right that second? Nooo. Not at allll. “Yes.”

“Good,” he said. “Ava, can you look at me?”

Um. No. Don't think so. But my eyes moved slowly up anyway.

“There you are,” he said, a smile slightly lifting his lips. “It's good that you get turned on. This process will be much easier. Now, I'm sure you did some looking around on my website, but would you like a bit more in-depth information on how this works.”

“Sure.”

“Today, we talk,” he started automatically. “If all goes well and you are comfortable enough with the situation, we will set up the dates for the next ten sessions. Each session will gradually lead up in intimacy. Provided things go par for the course, sex will likely happen around the sixth session.”

Six. I had six sessions of non-sex. Well, that was good. I swallowed hard. “Okay. What... what will the first five sessions be then?”

He gave me a small, encouraging (I think) smile. “The first session is just getting comfortable with contact. At most, it would be kissing. From there, the next session would include undressing. Learning to get comfortable with your own nudity as well as... someone else's...”

His. His nudity. Oh, geez. Him naked... looking at me... naked.

“Ava,” he broke in, his voice firm. “Don't go there,” he said, reading my mind. His hand moved out, landing on top of my knee, solid, strong. Completely disconcerting, but somehow reassuring at the same time. “Anxiety doesn't exist in the moment. It is only in the past and the future. So, let's not think about those things, alright? Just be in this moment.”

The moment. With his hand on my knee. It still hadn't moved. He was just sitting there, arm all stretched out, no doubt less than comfortable, with his hand on my knee.

“This moment makes you uncomfortable, doesn't it?” he asked, his hand squeezing my knee.

“Yes,” I admitted, looking away from his hand and back up toward his face.

“But not enough to push me away,” he observed.

“Not yet,” I said, and he chuckled, taking his hand away, my knee feeling almost strange without the contact.

“The purpose of this is to push you out of your comfort zone. It's important that you don't push me away with the first twinge of anxiety. As I'm sure you learned in your previous therapy sessions, anxiety can really only be treated with exposure to that which makes you anxious.”

“Right.”

“So, if kissing makes you anxious...”

“I have to let you kiss me.”

His eyes darkened for a second, just a quick flash that was just as quickly gone. “Exactly.” He agreed, sitting back in the chair. “Only pull away or push me away if you can't talk yourself down. If you can't take it any more. That being said, I am going to be communicating with you the entire time, trying to work to dispel the fears before they become overwhelming. The point is for you to get to the point where you can enjoy being touched.”

By him.

I was going to be touched by his six foot three, dark haired, blue eyed, ridiculously sexy self. All the while he talked to me in that low, deep, confident way he spoke that was making my skin feel tingly. Which... was good. That was good. But the initial arousal had always been easy for me. As long as he was... arousing me outside of my personal space.

“You're a very beautiful woman,” he said, shocking through my internal stream of thought.

“I'm sorry?” I asked, sure I misheard him.

“I said you are a very beautiful woman.”

Oh, for Christ's sake.

I felt the flutter in my belly, followed immediately by a strange rolling, my eyes dropping to my lap as my cheeks started to blush. I was shit at taking compliments. For as long as I remembered.

“Compliments make you uncomfortable?” he asked and I knew he was watching me. Always freaking watching me.

“Yes.”

“Why?” Now, that was a loaded question. “Because you don't believe them?” he asked, hitting the nail on the head.

“Yes.”

“Ava,” he said, that same firm, yet pleading sound that I was learning to take for look at me. I sighed, looking up. “I don't feed women compliments for fun. If I tell you something, I mean it. It is an observation. You are a beautiful woman. Case closed.”

“Right,” I said, hoping it sounded like agreement.

His lips quirked up, turning into what I could only call a smirk. “Ava, what do you think the main reason men compliment women is?” He paused, like he was going to let me answer, but I didn't. “To get women into bed,” he finished for me. He leaned forward, that smirk etching wider, almost devilish. “You are here to go to bed with me. Eventually. Do you really think I need to give you compliments?”

He had a point. “I guess not.”

“Exactly. So, you're beautiful. It's a biological fact.” Right. So it didn't really mean anything. Everyone finds different people attractive. For all I knew, he hated blondes. And brown eyes and lack of seen-from-the-front-buttage. “And,” he cut into my little insecure tirade, “I find you incredibly attractive.”

Oh, lord.

Feeling like I needed to find something to say, I mumbled, “Thanks.”

To which, he chuckled.

“Do you find me attractive?”

“I think the entire continental US would find you attractive,” I said, hedging the question. It was a skill I had learned early on, to answer, but not to include myself in the answer.

“That's wonderful,” he said, leaning toward me, “but I wasn't asking the entire continental US, I was asking you.”

Mother fucker.

I averted my eyes slightly, looking at the edge of his ear, “Yes.”

“Good,” he said, getting up from his chair suddenly, moving away from the alcove and making the air feel a lot thinner, easier to breathe. “So, I will see you... Tuesday for your first session.”

It was a question, but also a statement. Like there was no doubt in his mind I would agree.

And, hell, I was in this deep. I might as well keep going.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he said, opening the door to the waiting room and standing there, waiting for me to pass through. “Seven at night work for you?”

Odd hours. But I guess it wasn't easy to get in the mood to pay a stranger to touch you at eight-forty in the morning.

“Yes,” I agreed, moving into the doorway.

His hand pressed hard into my lower back, guiding me through, then dropping as he walked to stand next to the reception desk.

“See you then, Ava.”

He needed to stop saying my name.

I couldn't freaking think straight.

“Okay,” I said, walking numbly toward the door.





After the Session





Okay. So, maybe I ran to my car. Literally. Ran. In heels. Then threw myself into the seat and turned it over and started my way home. Because, well, I could use something to focus on.

That wasn't what I had expected.

Well, I mean it was. It was sufficiently embarrassing and awkward. But there was also that weird 'I find you attractive, do you find me attractive?' thing. What was that about? If he didn't find me attractive, would that make a difference? I couldn't imagine all of his clients were good looking. Which must make for a lot of time rolling around the highlight reel in his head to get the, ah, juices flowing.

And was he attractive? Seriously? Would any woman answer that with an 'eh, seen better' ? Because I was pretty sure I hadn't. He was like a walking model for a suit catalog. And those eyes...

Alright. Enough of that.

If I concentrated on how good looking he was, it would only make me more nervous. Because, apparently, I only had one more session before I had to get naked with him.

I sighed, unlocking my apartment door and stepping inside.

“Still frigid?”

“What?” I asked, my heart flying up into my throat.

“You left your computer up,” Jake, my pain in the ass roommate said, walking into the living room with an enormous bowl of cereal, wearing nothing but a pair of thick gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. Jake was extremely good looking. And completely aware of it.

He was slightly over six feet with sandy blonde hair, longer on top and pushed back from his forehead, bright green eyes, and tan skin over the body he spent endless hours in the gym working on.

He was also a jerk.

“So, you thought that meant you could just... go through my fucking browser history?” I asked, slamming the door and dropping my keys on the table.

“That wasn't the plan,” he said, dropping down onto the couch and staring at the TV.

“What was the plan then?” I asked, kicking his gym shoes out of the middle of the floor.

“You have that huge screen,” he said, turning to me with a smirk I didn't trust. “I'm tired of watching porn on my phone.”

“Oh, gross.”

“Well, some of us have sexual urges.”

“You're such a fucking asshole,” I growled, grabbing the box of cereal off the kitchen counter and putting it back in the cabinet.

I don't know why I put up with him. He was a slob. Insensitive. He had wild parties in the middle of the week. He brought an endless barrage of women home, leaving early in the morning to hit the gym, and making me to deal with them. God, I can't count how many of those awkward morning talks I've had. The 'he's an asshole, you can do so much better' talks.