Page 5 of Pleasure Lessons

I want to say no and turn in my resignation. That’s the safest bet for me. But I need this paycheck. And even more, I needher.

“Yes,” I say, my voice low. Her face lights up, so adorable, so sexy. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Even if it ruins me.

3

CASSANDRA

The pulsingbetween my thighs just won’t go away.

It’s been there since my lesson yesterday with Rhett, along with a tingling sensation like I’ve been transformed into a bubbling can of lemon seltzer.

I press my legs together as I lounge on the green velvet chaise in my room. I’m reading a book Clarisse brought me from the outside world. It’s a romance novel entitledBuilt from Stoneabout a girl who goes hiking and gets caught in a storm, only to be rescued by a rough mountain man who takes her home to his cabin where…thingshappen.

Clarisse gets me books like this occasionally. I think she knows they’re more educational than enjoyable to me. Having never had a boyfriend, I’m completely ignorant of how to please a man. These books at least give me somewhat of an idea.

I used to be able to picture the heroes in my mind, but ever since I met Rhett, all I see is his face.

His jaw, his hands–so rough and so big, gripping the handle of his racket as he showed me how to swing. The way he looked like he was holding back as he placed a hand on my hip while correcting my stance. The way his thick chest rose and fell when I asked him what men want from a wife. Something about thatquestion rattled him, and he doesn’t look like a man who’s easily rattled.

He didn’t even answer me. Not really. But I remember his eyes when I said the wordwant. It was like my question was dangerous. LikeIwas dangerous.

My whole body still tingles, but especially the places he touched me: my hips, my hands, his chest against my back. If I inhale now, I can still smell his scent in my nostrils, despite the fact that he cancelled our lesson today and I haven’t seen him in over twenty-four hours.

The deep rumble of his voice and the way he spoke to me echoes over and over in my head–a naughty lullaby, beckoning me to do something I know I shouldn’t do.

I didn’t sleep at all last night. I just lay in bed, my body on fire, wearing nothing but a loose T-shirt and a pair of panties, trying to cool off and calm down. But I couldn’t stop thinking about his eyes, his hands, his touch…and what would have happened if I knew how to do those things that other girls know how to do. How to show a man they’re interested in him.

A loud knock at my door nearly jolts me off the chaise. The door opens, and Clarisse pokes her head in. “Mr. Fredrickson is here.”

I freeze instantly. “What?”

“He just arrived…just now.”

My mind goes blank. This doesn’t make any sense. Arthur and I haven’t seen each other in weeks. His room is in the opposite wing of the house from mine. He goes to work and comes home, and I don’t even notice. The only reason I’m even living here now is because my father and he decided it would be good for me to get used to the house, the grounds, the whole estate, and prepare for being a wife.

Arthur calls me “darling girl” in public, like some kind of old-fashioned British aristocrat. Which makes sense consideringhow obscenely wealthy he is. Oh, and did I mention he’s also fifty-five? Yeah, my dad didn’t see an issue there.

I rush to my mirror as Clarisse shuts the door. My cheeks are flushed, my lips are chapped from biting them anxiously all day, and my hair is an absolute mess. I rush to the bathroom and quickly do my best to put myself together.

Arthur is waiting, as he always is, in the drawing room. Surrounded by walls of books, he’s sitting by the fire, wearing an old-fashioned white suit with a whiskey in one hand and a lit cigar in the other.

He turns and glances at me like he owns me–like we’ve already been married for decades. “Cassandra.”

I don’t know why, but I curtsy. Maybe it’s in response to the suit he’s wearing. I instantly regret it. “Arthur.”

He motions for me to come over to him, which I know I must do. He gestures with his cigar, and I lean down. He then brushes his cold lips against my forehead, and it’s all I can do not to vomit.

“Thought I’d surprise you,” he whispers. “You look delicious this evening.”

Yeah, I actually might puke.

“Thank you,” I reply automatically. He frowns, takes a sip of his whiskey, and scans my body with his eyes, pausing–oddly enough–on my throat. “You’ve been working out.”

“Playing tennis,” I stammer.

“Ah, yes.” He smirks, taking a puff from his cigar. “The tennis coach. There’s nothing going on between you two, is there?”

---