Page 75 of Sex Coach

The same sources report that Ms. McCrane was the victim of a sexual assault while in high school but authorities questioned whether that assault ever happened. Our source has also provided a number of details ...

Source. What fucking ...

I froze, then threaded all ten fingers through my hair. "Michelle," I whispered .

It was the only thing that made sense. I'd just fucking told her everything that had happened to Whitley. And now here it was barely forty-eight hours later and the whole story was live for all the world to see .

Was that why she'd been in such a hurry to leave yesterday ?

She said she didn't want to overstay her welcome, blushing as she kissed me before asking about the subway system – so guileless. Asking about the subway . What New Yorker didn't know about the subway ?

But I'd fallen for it, charmed by her .

She'd probably done her groundwork on that fucking subway ride back to her sweet little apartment up near Manhattan. It wasn't like it would be that hard, since I'd given her Whitley's name and mentioned that her parents were in politics. That was all somebody needed to know anymore to fill in the dots – or let Google do it .

"Son of a bitch!" I fumed, hurling my glass into the sink with enough force that it shattered .

A shard flew out and hit my hand, but I barely noticed .

I had to talk to Michelle .

I didn't know what I was going to do or say when I saw her, but I had to talk to her .

* * *

M ichelle openedthe door on the first knock .

The sight of her had the questions – calm, rational questions – dying on my lips. She was barefoot, her rich red curls spilling down around her shoulders. Those shoulders were covered in a rich shade of rose, a t-shirt that clung to her excellent tits before skimming down her sides to end a few inches below the waistband of her jeans .

Jeans.

Had I ever seen her wearing jeans ?

If not...shit. Her not wearing blue jeans was a crime against nature. They gloved those amazing hips and clung to long, lush thighs. I wanted to cup her hips, pull her up against me and –

"Jake!"

She smiled in delight at me while my brain shut down, and the one part that remained functioning was the part dedicated to sex and fun. It began to thoroughly undress her, while the rest of me fought to regain control .

She started to reach for me .

Some select fragment of my brain took note of that, memorized it, catalogued it. But the rest of me was already reacting – and not well .

"How in the fucking hell could you do it, Michelle?" I demanded .

Her eyes went wide. "What –?"

"Did you even think about how many people you'd hurt with that bullshit ?"

"I...I..." She started and stopped a couple of times before finally managing to say my name. "Jake, I'm not sure what you're talking about ."

If it wasn't for the fact that I knew it was her, I might have bought that confused act. But who else could it be? Whitley had told me, point blank, she'd never told anybody else. I was careful to the point of obsession about protecting the privacy of my clients. The only answer that made sense was that somebody I trusted had broken that trust .

"Don't bother with excuses or lies," I bit off, shaking my head. "I know what you did, Michelle. Anonymous source? Seriously? Who else was going to spill that information? The rest of the world might not figure it out, but I sure as hell did. I just told you. Who else would have said anything ?

"Jake, I don't know what you're talking about," she said shaking her head. Her loose, soft red curls bounced around her face and she continued to watch me with confusion, but it was an act. All an act. It had to be .

"You don't know what I'm talking about?" I narrowed my eyes, my teeth grinding together painfully. Pissed off and frustrated and hurt , I shoved the paper I'd bought into her face. "I trusted you. I never should have said a fucking thing about Whitley, but I trusted you. You were hurting, and I wanted you to know that I hadn't doubted you...that ..."

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