Page 6 of Filthy Hot Escort

She sighed. “It’s fine, Rex. Please don’t.”

He ignored her plea and waved down a waiter. After ordering two more gin martinis, he turned to her. “Sit, Skylar.”

When had she stopped wanting to sit next to him? When the consultant offered this as a next step? Or the hundredth time Rex had stormed out of the bedroom, frustrated with her? Why was she here? Why had she thought this night would be good for them? “In a moment.”

He frowned up at her. “I take it you still haven’t found anyone to um . . . well, to, you know, to—”

“To fuck.”

Skylar gasped at the voice that came from behind her. She twisted around to find the man with the green eyes and lovely voice grinning devilishly with his hands casually in his pockets.

Jay.

He’d followed her; despite her best efforts at suppression, a thrill jolted through her at that undeniable fact. She realized, too, that his piercing gaze was locked with hers. It was as if Rex had ceased to exist.

That simply would not do.

She firmed her lips and then turned to face Rex before answering loudly and resolutely, “No. I looked about briefly but found no one I was interested in.”

“Sweetheart, you said you would do this,” Rex said. A frown wrinkled his forehead, despite the Botox. “And this man here seems willing.” The contents of Rex’s martini sloshed to the floor as he gestured to Jay, whom she presumed still stood behind her.

“He doesn’t do it for me,” she snapped, and she heard Jay chuckle behind her. He probably still had that infuriating grin on his face. Arrogant bastard.

Someone brushed past them, and with the motion, Skylar smelled Jay’s lovely scent, the one she’d inhaled when he’d stood to talk with her. She almost moaned.

“You promised.” Rex stood, coming into her space.

“Rex, I—”

“No names,” Rex snapped.

She’d forgotten the rule—don’t use real names in front of the gold maskers. “I’ll . . . I’ll just go find someone else.” She snatched the martini with the lime rind on the lip from Rex’s hand and marched past him. The gin sloshed against the edges of the glass as her fingers quivered, her legs growing shaky underneath her with each step.

Finally, Skylar found a quiet corner and leaned against a tall, carved wood column, focusing on her breath . . . and trying not to cry.

A memory charged into her mind, dominating her thoughts. That moment when the consultant had suggested this. How eager Rex had been. How hopeful he’d seemed, as though Skylar achieving this one thing would make the difference in their faltering relationship. It had all seemed so ludicrous at the time. And yet, here she was.

“You want me to get fucked by some other guy?” she’d asked, gaping first at an eager and grinning Rex and then back to the consultant. Thesexconsultant. The woman Rex had paid to help Skylar with her . . .problem. Her inability. “Go to a sex club and fuck some random stranger? You really think that’s the solution to my problem? Some sort ofEyes Wide Shutparty?”

Rex was one of the most successful, high-profile criminal lawyers in the city, and Skylar was close to becoming the youngest Vice Chairman at Embrette Investments, the largest financial investment firm along the Eastern seaboard second only to Platinum Finance, which was run by Wallstreet mogul Branden Duke. She and Rex had both heard rumors about these types of parties, attended by the rich and the famous and the kinky. Skylar didn’t judge others or their proclivities, but she couldn’t believe Rex was willing to go there when she’d never communicated a desire to be with anyone else but him.

Rex had leaned forward on the couch where they sat, side by side, in the sex therapist’s office. He’d smoothed his hand along her leg; the touch, she presumed, meant to be reassuring, although it was anything but.

“If it helps, dear,” he said. “I’ll do anything if it helps you.”

Skylar was unable to look the consultant or Rex in the eye. Instead, she stared at the low coffee table in front of them, noticing for the first time the fall decorations there. A pumpkin, multi-hued corn, and a long gourd in the shape of a— She bit her lip. A metaphor for Rex’s wounded masculinity at his inability to make her come.

When they first got together, Skylar had informed Rex she had never been able to orgasm with a man. She’d also told him that while she’d orgasmed a few times while masturbating when she was younger— the release she’d achieved had been nice but nothing earth-shattering— eventually, that had stopped, too. At first, Rex had tried to give her what no other man had before, but it hadn’t eaten away at him. After he’d proposed to her and she’d accepted, however, it was like everything had changed. Chasing her elusive orgasm became his obsession. And it became hers, too, if she were being honest with herself. Because the more focused Rex became, the more she realized that, yes, she would like to know what everyone made such a big deal about. Yes, she would like to experience a true climax if it was possible. And mostly, yes, she wanted to know if something in her was broken. Why could other women climax but not her?

They’d started with a full physical, one that indicated all her bits and parts were there and in the right place and that her hormones were appropriate for someone her age. Once any physical issues had been ruled out, they went on to explore ways in which to arouse Skylar enough for her to reach her peak. They tried role play, baths, massages with oils, candles, and even some vanilla BDSM. They watched porn together— men on women, women on women, threesomes, gay-sex, light kink, you name it. They used vibrators, every make and model imaginable, to the point that Skylar had almost considered starting a blog.

Nothing worked.

And each attempt left Rex more embarrassed and Skylar more frustrated. The fun had gone out of trying, and instead, sex became a pressure. A source of tension. She had finally worked up the nerve to ask that they stop trying when Rex proposed they go to a sex therapist.

Three months and twelve sessions in, and still, no orgasm on Skylar’s part. That’s when the consultant suggested using an escort.

Rex had tried to hide his eagerness, but he was a bit like a puppy, brimming with anticipation. He said he wanted to try one more thing.Thisthing. He knew about it from one of his former clients, this house on the hill, filled with masked men and women. “The infamous Masquerade Party,” he’d said, the consultant nodding in recognition. Those in black masks were looking, and those in gold masks were there to provide. All were anonymous, and all the gold mask wearers were well-vetted and tested weekly.

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