Page 17 of Tempting the King

“When you were growing up, were you a cartoon guy or a video game guy?”

“I was a hockey guy,” he says, but there’s an edge to his voice and I wonder if even my simple question has scraped a nerve. Then he continues. “But, yeah, I liked cartoons when I was younger. Never had Nintendo or anything like that until I was out on my own. I read a lot. I’ve been known to indulge in some Warcraft and Call of Duty nowadays, but that’s now, not then.”

It’s a simple line of questioning, but one that usually takes a client back to memories of childhood. I work to gain his trust by sharing something of my own. It goes against my usual protocol, but there’s nothing usual about this session. “I’m not a video game person at all. But cartoons, this is embarrassing, but my favorite was My Little Pony.”

King laughs. “The original or the X-rated version?”

“What?” I squint at the back of his head. “Original, I didn’t know there was another version.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ll show you someday. It’s not to be missed, but to answer your question, I was a Bugs Bunny, Tom and Jerry, Elmer Fudd kind of guy. Few others. I haven’t thought about it before, but, yeah, I did watch a lot when I was younger. A lot of my early memories are pretty fuzzy.”

I note the heaviness in his answer, and this crude, sexy hockey player is tugging on my heartstrings. I do my best to keep things moving forward. “Ah, the classics then?”

He laughs, and from the warm energy I feel, I keep things going.

“Who was your favorite character, if you had to pick one?”

I’m sure I can help him if I can get him to open up, especially about his childhood, even if it is cartoons.

He doesn’t respond right away. But then this enormous body fills with a long breath, delivering his answer, “Popeye, I guess.”

“Why Popeye?” I ask, shifting slightly behind him, then adding, “If you need to adjust position at any time, just do what feels right for you. I want you comfortable.”

I roll my hips, unable to ignore the little thrill it sends through my pelvis as his body moves with me, maintaining our contact.

“Life keeps throwing shit at ole Popeye. Bluto’s a fucking dick. But Popeye keeps his rage down low until he opens that can of whoop ass. The spinach is a metaphor. For finding your voice. Even if it is with your fists.” The gravely depth of his answer feels like it tickles my nipples as they draw tight. I open my mouth to say something when he adds, “And, he has Olive. She’s hot. A good woman makes all the difference.”

I roll my lips together, blinking away how that last part felt personal.

“You said you had an ‘interesting’ childhood. How so?”

“I was born on a freighter in the Pacific Ocean. My mom wasn’t married, she was from Russia and gave birth to me en route to the U.S. She died not long after on that ship. Her name was Nadia Hertzof, that’s all I know about her. When my foster parents adopted me, they made sure I kept my family name. To honor her.” His voice deepens as he lifts a hand to brush his fingertips on the back of the hand covering his heart. “There were lots of foster homes. Lots of interesting shit that went on… I never told that to anyone. You hypnotized me with those magic hands of yours.”

“No,” I say with a warm sense of pride swelling inside me. “Just the power of touch. Human connection without expectation. Did you know anything else about your mom?”

There’s a pause, and I concentrate on his breathing and the weight and warmth of his hand as it covers mine. I’m diving in deep and fast, and I wonder if it’s for his benefit or because I want to know everything about him.

“You are not required to answer anything. It’s just what I do, I ask things,” I say, a cloud of guilt hovering over me as he entwines his fingers with mine. “Let’s change the subject. You said you read a lot. What’s your favorite book?”

He takes a few breaths without answering, and I chastise myself for pushing. My radar is all off with this guy. My circuits are buzzing and my usual empathetic sixth sense is being replaced by my own selfish desires.

When he doesn’t answer, the silence gets to me and I blurt out, “Mine was Anne of Green Gables. I had this first edition. It changed my life, made me dream of something else. I loved it, read it so many times until… Well, until I didn’t have it anymore.”

TMI, Emee, I chastise myself as my energy shifts with thoughts of my own disordered childhood.

His body hardens, his heartbeat quickening under my palm. “What’s wrong?” he asks, turning his face back toward mine.

“Nothing,” I lie, angry at myself for losing control. “This is about you.”

“What happened to your book?” he asks as I grit my teeth.

“It doesn’t matter. Can you answer my question, please? What was your favorite book? Or, tell me more about your mom.”

I’ve lain like this with many other clients, but right now, it feels wildly intimate, inappropriate and erotic.

“I’ll answer…” he says, and I swallow the gathering saliva under my tongue. “But, I need to adjust my position first.” His words have a note of challenge, and it’s my turn to hesitate.

“Okay,” I agree after a pause, a new tension gathering in my chest. “How would you like to move?”

---