The Sex Surrogate (11 page)

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.

“What's
the matter?” he asked, moving like he was going to put his hand
on my thigh.

I
scooted away, noticing his severe frown and completely disregarding
it. I needed to get my shit together. I was acting like some middle
school girl with a crush on the boy a grade higher because he smiled
at her once. I wasn't that girl. I needed to get some space between
us to remember that.

“Nothing,”
I said, feeling my guards slip back up. My back straightened, my
nerves surfaced, not strong, just powerful enough to keep reminding
me that I needed to keep my wits about me. At least if I was ever
with him outside of his office.

“Don't
lie, Ava,” he scolded, but it was soft, almost sad. “If
you don't want to tell me, that's fine. But don't lie.”

“Fine,”
I said, snapping my menu, and turning my head to him. “I don't
want to talk about it.” But my sharp tone and glare didn't have
the effect it usually did, and he was chuckling slightly, shaking his
head. “What?” I asked, unable to stop myself.

“Kitty
has claws,” he murmured as the waiter came back to take our
order.

Where
I had originally had my eyes on the huge heaping platter of baked
ziti that sounded like heaven on Earth, my little realization stole
away the better part of my hunger and I just ordered a Caesar salad,
knowing I was only going to pick at that too. Chase ordered my ziti
and I felt unreasonably annoyed by that.

“Alright,”
he said, taking a sip of his wine, then turning his attention back
toward me. “What happened?”

“What
do you mean?” I asked, feeling on edge. Because when he got
that tone, that
'I'm a licensed psychologist and you can't
bullshit me'
tone, I knew I was in for it.

“Well,
each step you took from the car to the booth, you got more and more
tense. And then, sitting here, staring at that menu but not actually
reading it, you got positively ramrod straight. Something was going
on in that head of yours.”

“Are
we on my time right now?” I blurted out, my tone still cold.

“Your
time?”

“Yes,
my time. Like... is this part of the whole... experience?”

His
eyes got darker, imperceptible if I hadn't been watching him so
closely. “What? No.”

“Then
maybe you shouldn't be trying to analyze me.”

One
of his brows lifted. “I'm not trying to analyze you, Ava. I am
trying to understand why you are looking at me like I am suddenly a
different person,” I opened my mouth to object, but he cut me
off. “A person you hate.”

“I
don't hate you,” I said immediately, and meaning it. I meant
it. I didn't hate him. If anything, I liked him way too much for
someone who I was paying to be nice to me. And that was the problem.
I hated myself for liking him when I knew nothing he said was
personal. He wasn't courting me. He was coaching me. There was such a
huge difference that it made me sick that I had been confusing them
for each other.

“There.
Right there,” he said, watching me. “What are you
thinking to make you look at me like that?”