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)
And yet, the thought terrifies me because I feel like I’m on the edge of losing control. I’ll do anything to feel this again and again. Anything.
CHAPTER 19
SAMANTHA
The last two weeks have flown by in a wild whirlwind of sex—classes at the club, selling dildos, and actual sex.
Jaxx and I have been peddling toys hand over fist. We’re basically like the toy store with the last Tickle My Elmo on Christmas Eve and people are nearly cat-fighting to get one for themselves. I swear it’s like they don’t realize they have ten fingers that can do all sorts of things.
But it’s working out for me. With our last party, I netted more than an entire paycheck from the coffee shop I used to work at, and the breathing room in my budget is a major relief.
Sex with Chance has been all over the place—literally. My place, his place, at the club, and in his car. But also, all over metaphorically. We’ve had long, slow hours of luxuriating in each other’s bodies, quickies with our clothes haphazardly shoved out of the way, and some fun sessions with every toy I’ve got. Those seem to start silly and playful and turn delightfully torturous, so maybe my customers have it right.
But it hasn’t all been sex with Chance. We’ve talked and laughed a lot too.
Like Chance suggested, we did make it to the grocery store, which was a hilarious date. Accustomed to his delivery service, Chance had no idea where anything was or what it cost. Meanwhile, I went straight for the croutons made with day-old bread and generic brands. But together, we got enough ingredients to make a delicious candlelight dinner that did admittedly end up with a tapered candle in places I’ve never put a candle before.
Another day, he showed up with Peanut Butter on a leash and nearly begged me to go on a walk with them, saying the dog kept headbutting him ‘in a rather sensitive area.’ But the sweet animal sat and shook hands with me, happy to trot along around the park at my side, and Chance deemed me a dog whisperer in addition to my man whisperer title.
Last but not least, I’ve had two more successful classes at the club, and hopefully, today’s goes equally well. The guys are mostly attentive, willing to learn, and only give me shit off and on, not constantly. I’m calling that a win, especially when my mentor sessions have been tougher. A couple of the guys came in to chat, but they mostly seemed to want me to talk dirty to them or shock me with their own crudeness. But I’ve had more good than bad, so that added success on top of the classes makes me feel ten-foot-tall and bulletproof at the club.
“Good morning, Jim,” I tell him with a smile as I walk through the double doors. My heels click on the floor, but his are completely silent as he rises to greet me. I’d love to think he’s happy to see me, but he’s not reaching for my hand. He wants what’s in it. I snatch the bag back out of his reach. “Ah, uh-uh! You know the deal.”
This has become our routine on days I come to the club, and I enjoy the banter with him. I think he does too, though if I’m not careful, he’ll talk my ear off with an unfiltered stream of consciousness and I’ll still be standing here at the front desk when my class is supposed to finish.
“You’re as bad as these shit-for-brains boys.” He gestures behind him where there’s a group of five guys who, in opposition to Jim’s declaration, seem to be studying. “They been noses down in that book for at least two hours. You know what can be accomplished in that time? Hell, I’ve solved whole cases in less time than they take to write some paper about shit that don’t matter a lick.”
Jim is a retired police officer, I’ve learned, and he’s lived a history book’s worth of experiences.
I tilt my head to add a lil’ sumpthin-sumpthin to my mock glare. He huffs, annoyed. “Fine, but you’re not nearly the sweet thang I thought you was.” He levels his gaze at me, but I don’t shrink. Acting like some small talk is hard as hell, he says, “Fine, g’morning, Miss Redding. Lovely day, ain’t it? Now can I have my dadgum cinnamon roll?”
His thieving fingers steal the bag from my hand, and I tease, “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“Pain in my ass is whatchu are,” Jim grumbles, but it’s a hollow gesture. “And when my wife figures out that I’m packing on the pounds because you’re feeding me cinnamon rolls, I’mma give her your name and let you handle the row you sowed.”
It’s an empty threat. Jim’s wife is sweet, kind, and hung the moon with strands of her silver hair according to him, so my bet is she wouldn’t hurt a fly, much less me, over some sugary bread.