Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Her eyes nearly bug out of their sockets, and her smile flashes big and happy. “Are you serious? That’d be awesome!” A heartbeat later, she confirms, “At the same pay rate for each, right?”
I agreed to pay Samantha an appropriate appearance rate for doing the one class today. We’ve done that before for guests of various specialties that we’ve hosted. But if she’s going to be on-staff for an entire series, technically, it should be a slightly lower rate per class and one lump-sum payment for the series.
But she brings something no one else does.
“Yes, same fee for each class,” I say, knowing Evan won’t exactly be happy, but he’ll understand after what he witnessed today. “We’ll also need to discuss an hourly rate if you decide to do the counseling sessions Evan mentioned, beyond the quick after-class talks.”
“Dolla bills, dolla bills, watch it falling for me, love the way it feels . . .” she sings, doing some sort of arm-swinging, hand-flapping dance.
I chuckle in surprise at the impromptu performance. “What was that?”
“Money dance, Lisa from Blackpink,” she explains without explaining anything. I shrug, still confused, and she laughs. “Just make sure the checks clear and we’re good.”
“That I can do,” I promise. My phone dings in my pocket with a calendar reminder. “Sorry, I have a counseling session soon. With Stephen, the guy you were talking to last.”
She looks thoughtful. “He seemed sweet. A little unsure, inexperienced, and jumpier around women than a cat in a dog pound, but sweet. Help him with his confidence and he’ll be a force for good.”
It’s not a professional recommendation, but it’s pretty spot-on for what I’ve learned about Stephen. And she got that in a five-minute chat, whereas I’ve barely gotten more than that in weeks of private sessions. He’s eager to please, and talkative in our sessions, but I don’t feel like he’s really opened up yet. To me or the club.
“Did he say anything useful to you?”
She wags her finger at me. “Uh-uh, private conversations. Your guys need to know they can talk to me about things, you about other things, and Evan about others. Or all of us about the same thing to poll for advice if they want. But confidentiality is important.”
She’s right, though Evan and I do share insights about the guys, strictly as a way to best help them. But Samantha has a professional confidentiality viewpoint, and I can understand that, given her degree work.
“Okay, fair point,” I concede. Regretfully, I add, “I have to go. Want me to walk you to the front?”
“Nah, I know my way. And it’ll do the guys good to see me here. If anyone starts something, I’ll handle it or call Jim to bring his belt,” she jokes, acting like she’s whipping an invisible target with her hand.
Though the idea of her needing backup makes my blood run hot, I know that’s not likely and reluctantly let her go.
“Thanks, Mr. Harrington,” she says, stepping toward the door. It’s perfectly polite and her smile is nothing more than friendly, but her eyes? Those dark orbs are full of mischief, and that mixed with the ‘Mr. Harrington’ does something to me.
I groan, my hips bucking involuntarily. It suddenly occurs to me that our deal is completely one-sided.
“Uhm, Miss Redding? Our agreement? Perhaps we need to make a few amendments,” I suggest, my eyes boring into hers.
She grins devilishly, knowing exactly what I’m talking about. And it’s not the class arrangement. “Nope, a deal’s a deal.”
And with that, she waggles her fingers at me in a triumphant wave and struts off down the hall.
That minx. She knew what she was doing. But I’m not angry. I’m impressed.
I won’t let her know that tomorrow night, though. No, I’ll punish her appropriately for crafting such a one-sided arrangement when she knew all the blood was in my dick and not my brain.
Though I wonder if that means she’ll be touching herself tonight? Thinking of me as her fingers brush over her clit? Or crying out my name as she fucks herself with a vibrating dildo from her collection?
“Shiiit,” I hiss to the empty room. I glance at my watch again. “Twenty-nine hours, one minute, and three seconds. You can do this, Harrington.”
On my way to Stephen’s counseling session, I pull up my email app on my phone to do a quick scan. There are the usual spam ones, a few fan letters that Evan will handle, but the last one’s subject line stops me short.
ROAR!
I click on the email and scan it, my eyes rolling harder with every word.
An army of sheep won’t stop the lion from taking what he wants.
They’ve taken creative liberty with the whole wolf/sheep idiom, replacing it with lion in recognition of the Gentlemen’s Club mascot, and I’m not exactly sure what they’re trying to say. Are we the sheep? Am I the lion? Are they?