EXCLUSIVE FREEBIE
Copyright © 2020 by Jeana E. Mann
Cover design by Jena Brignola
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Harder
ROMEO
The woman beneath me moans. I press deeper into her soft, wet heat. Her hips jerk upward, wanting more, needing more, and I aim to give it to her. With three thrusts, I take her to the edge and hold her there. She’s close, so close, and so am I. The bite of her fingernails stings down my back. I hiss as my balls tighten and fight the burning need to climax, because this isn’t about me. This is about her—her needs, her desires, her fantasies.
“Harder, Romeo.”
Her use of my professional name throws off my rhythm. My clients call me Romeo, but to everyone else, I’m Jamie. I’ve found it best to keep my real name private. Less messy, and absolutely necessary in case one of my clients forms an obsession. I had the misfortune of dealing with a stalker once, and ever since then, I’ve used an alias to protect my anonymity. “Any harder and your headboard is going to knock a hole in the wall.”
“I don’t care.” The raw edge to her voice tells me everything I need to know about her state of mind.
“Jesus, you’re tight today.” I double the pace, driving my pelvis into her like a jackhammer. Another fiery pulse of release licks up the back of my legs. I try to think about something other than shooting my load. The faulty starter on my car. The potential negative balance in my bank account. My pace begins to slow under the negative thoughts, so I shift the tone to more pleasant topics. Baseball. Always a winner. In my head, I run through the names and stats of the Cubs starting lineup. The fire in my groin fades to a mild simmer. My thoughts drift from baseball to cars, and now I’m hot again. She tightens her slender thighs around my waist. Damn. If she doesn’t get off soon, I’m going to bust a nut before she does, and that just can’t happen.
“I’m almost there,” she warns. Her tits bounce with every slam of my body against hers.
“I know you are, baby. So am I.” With a huge amount of effort, I withdraw. We both groan in frustration. I flip her over onto her knees, fist a hand in her hair, and shove into her hard enough to make her grunt. A shudder ripples through her body and clutches around my cock. I ride out her orgasm, waiting until her cries die down, then spill into the condom between us. The relief is immediate––thank God––because I’m not sure how much longer I could hold off.
After a few seconds, we break apart and roll onto our backs, chests heaving, covered in sweat. I remove the condom, tie it off, and drop it onto the floor next to my shoes to take care of later. Blood still thunders through my veins. I close my eyes and try to regulate my breathing. Beside me, I hear the flick of a lighter and the sizzle of flame against the tip of a cigarette. Ms. Denney inhales, holds it for a second, then exhales slowly.
“I’m getting married next week,” she says.
“Oh?” My eyes snap open. She’s been a regular for over a year. I’ll need to fill her spot with someone new.
“Yes.” She sits up, holding the sheet over her breasts. Her shoulder-length, silver hair stands out around her head, tangled by my clutching fingers. Intelligent blue eyes meet mine. She hands me her cigarette. I take a long drag and hand it back. “But nothing is going to change between you and me. He lives on the west coast. I’ll be here. We can continue like usual.”
“A long-distance marriage? Really?” A smile tugs my lips. “How’s that going to work? You’re in Chicago. He’s there. Sounds difficult.” As a flawed human being, I try not to judge, but I know one thing for damn sure. If I get married, I’ll take my vows seriously. I’ll never cheat, and I’ll move the stars above to make sure she’s satisfied inside and outside of the bedroom. When the guilt becomes too great, I justify sleeping with married women by telling myself that if they’re going to cheat, it might as well be with a single dad who needs to support his baby girl.
“It’s going to work great.” She smiles back, and I’m struck by her beauty. Even though she’s a good thirty years older than I am, she’s one hell of a woman. Long legs, nice rack. “He has a corporation in San Francisco and comes here on business a couple of times a month. This way, we enjoy the tax and social benefits of marriage, while maintaining our individual lives.”
“Nice.” I sit up, drop my legs over the edge of the bed, and let my toes curl into the sheepskin rug beneath my feet. The room is monochromatic, minimalist, with a few luxurious touches here and there. A wall of windows displays a panoramic view of Chicago from the sixtieth floor of the skyscraper. Someday, I’ll have a place like this instead of a shitty one-bedroom apartment. “I’m going to take a shower. Care to join me?”
“No. Go ahead. I’ve got a few things to take care of.” She stubs out the cigarette in an ashtray on the nightstand and grabs her laptop.
When I come out of the shower, she’s wearing a set of silver silk pajamas. The thin fabric outlines a figure taut from exercise, a body I know as well as my own. I walk across the room, naked, knowing she likes to watch me, and dress slowly in front of her.
“We’ll have to skip the next few weeks,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact. “But we can pick up our regular schedule after the honeymoon.”
“Okay. Works for me.” In truth, I can use a little time off. The last few months have been a shitshow of personal drama. However, I’d be lying if I said the loss of income won’t hurt my situation. I bend to drop a kiss on her cheek. One of her hands slips an envelope, my payment, into the back pocket of my jeans and something else, something bulky. I reach into my pocket and draw out a set of car keys dangling from a gold fob. “What’s this?”
“It’s a little something extra for you, for being so sweet.” The fingertips of her left hand trail over my ass, ending in a pat.
I narrow my eyes. She’s always been generous to a fault, but this—this is new. “You’re lending me your car?”
“No, I’m giving you a car.” An indulgent smile curves her lips.
“I can’t take this.” Payment for sex is one thing, a car is entirely different. It’s too permanent, too tangible. I hand the keys back to her.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She shoves my hand aside. “It’s yours, darling. Free and clear.” As the founder and president of an all-female law firm, she’s used to giving commands and being obeyed. “Take the damn car. Enjoy it. Life is too short.” Her voice softens, and so does the hardness in her eyes. “The last year would’ve been unbearable without you. You’ve earned it.”
I don’t mean to brag, but I’m good at what I do, and I take pride in my skills. I have a natural head for business, and I’m great in the sack. Combining the two assets only seems natural. Women crave a good fuck. Not awkward fumbling under the sheets or a quick grope and poke. They want ball-slapping, headboard-banging, finger-clutching sex. Turns out, they’re also happy to pay for it.
I squeeze the keys. Hell, I’m no fool. My pride smarts for an entire thirty seconds, but the sting disappears the minute I enter the parking garage. A cobalt blue, sleek and shiny, Lexus sits in a reserved space on the ground floor. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—next to a woman’s face when she comes. I trail my fingertips over the glossy paint and sink into the buttery leather seat with a moan of hedonistic pleasure. Once I’m behind the steering wheel, I take the envelope from my back pocket and thumb through the crisp hundred dollar bills. Not bad for two hours of work.
It’s hard to believe that two years ago, I was penniless, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and damn near suicidal. Today, at the tender age of twenty-four, it feels like I’ve got the world by the ass, and I’ve got to tell you—it doesn’t suck.
* * *
A few days later, I’m in the gym at my apartment building. The girl on the treadmill next to mine gives me an admiring sideways glance. I punch up the speed and ignore the slide of her gaze over my body. I run for thirty minutes. She matches my pace. I’m impressed. Not a bad looking girl, although she’s probably forty pounds overweight. To be clear, size doesn’t matter to me. In fact, I prefer a nice, round ass with some bounce to it, like hers. And don’t get me started on her tits. Their round tops jiggle inside a snug, pink athletic bra. Nice. If I hadn’t just finished up a night of fucking, I’d be all over that. But I’m tired, my refrigerator is empty, and I need to pick up my dry cleaning after the workout.
At the end of my run, I stop the machine and hop off, pausing to wipe down the surfaces. She heads to the water fountain for a drink of water. A few minutes later, we board the elevator together. She stands a little in front of me and gets off at the fourth floor. I continue up to the twentieth floor where I shower, change clothes, and drink a protein shake before heading to the street.
When I come out of the building, she’s waiting by the curb for a taxi. The short skirt of her dress flutters in the breeze. She shoots me a smile, and I smile back, because that’s the kind of guy I am—friendly.
“Heading to work?” she asks. Her voice is sweet, melodic, tainted with innocence.
I shake my head. “Running errands.”
“I’m Chloe.” She extends a hand, and I take it. Her grip is surprisingly firm and warm.
“Nice to meet you.” I don’t give her my name. Names only lead to trouble.
“Do you have time for a coffee? I’m not due at work for another hour.” Round, hopeful eyes lock on mine.
I stare back at her, feeling like a wolf in the presence of a sacrificial lamb. She has no idea who I am or what I do. The sinner inside me wants to accept her offer, but the saint draws rein. I’ve been down this street before, and it leads to heartbreak—for her. I glance at my watch. “I don’t—”
“There’s a place around the corner to the left, I think.” She tucks a strand of brown hair behind her small, pink ear.
“It’s that way.” I point in the opposite direction.
“Oh. Right.” Twin patches of red bloom in her cheeks. “I just moved here a few weeks ago. I still can’t find my way around.”
In spite of my reservations, I can’t help smiling at her wholesome appeal. She’s a refreshing change of pace. My clients are middle-aged women, often married, and always jaded by life. Work keeps me too busy for meeting people of my own age. Until now, I had no idea how much I’d missed my friends.
“I keep getting lost. The city—it’s so big. I’m from a small town in Indiana, you know? Chicago is on a completely different playing field than my hometown.” I lift an eyebrow, and her blush deepens. “That was way too much information, wasn’t it? I’m sorry.” She rolls her eyes, and I fight the urge to laugh at her cuteness.
“No worries. See ya around.” From my jeans pocket, my phone vibrates. I send the call to voicemail then give Chloe a farewell nod. I don’t want to be rude, but past experience has taught me to walk away before the conversation becomes too personal.
“See ya,” she calls after me. I can feel her gaze burning on my backside, and it causes a funny twinge in my gut. To curb the urge to glance at her over my shoulder, I focus on the parking garage. My heart beats a little faster at the sight of the glossy paint of my new ride. Once I’m behind the wheel, I listen to the voice message on the car’s handsfree system and exit the garage. It’s Miranda, my first Jane, the woman who started my career as a manwhore.
I hit redial, watching Chloe through the windshield. She tries without success to flag down two consecutive cabs. Her shoulders droop. I bump up the volume on the phone call, unable to tear my gaze away from her.
“Good morning, Romeo,” Miranda purrs. “How’s my boy this morning?”
“Great. How are you?” As I run a finger around the leather stitching of the steering wheel, Chloe hops up and down on the curb, waving at an approaching taxi like a mad woman. I chuckle at her enthusiasm.
“Honey, if I got any better, it would be illegal.” Miranda’s cultured voice washes over me. “But enough about me, I’m calling because I have a friend who’d like to meet you.”
“Cool. Appreciate it.” Good old Miranda. Not only did she save me from going to jail a few years ago, she’s responsible for half my clients. Without her, I’d still be selling weed from a bench in Garfield Park. “And you’ll vouch for her?” A guy in my line of work can’t be too careful.
“I’ve known her for years. Her husband’s a senator. Believe me, she’ll die before she tells a soul about you.”
For an instant, the world spins at the prospect of such a high-level client. I recover and find my voice. “She’s down with the terms?”
“Of course.”
“It might be a few weeks. My schedule is full.” I frown at the red appointment squares on my calendar app. Working as a personal trainer is becoming more of a hassle than a necessity. My earnings as a manwhore far exceed the paltry salary of training, but the lesser job provides a legitimate income for tax purposes. I don’t need the IRS asking questions about my business.
“I’d consider it a personal favor if you could work her in.” She hesitates before speaking again. “Her husband is out of town on business. If you do this, she’ll be very, very grateful.”
In other words, there will be a bonus for my inconvenience. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Oh dear, I’m late for court. I’ll see you Thursday.” She hangs up, and I punch in the new prospect’s number.
“Hello?” A woman answers on the second ring.
“Hi, I’m calling for Mrs. Smith.” Most women don’t give their real names in order to protect their privacy. I’ve got a dozen Mrs. Smiths on my client roster. “Miranda gave me your number.”
“Yes.” The voice is soft-spoken, has a Texas drawl, and shakes a little. Obviously, she’s nervous. She clears her throat and whispers, “Are you—the personal trainer?”
“Yep.” That’s me. Manwhore. Gigolo. Escort. I’m all those things and then some. “Is this a bad time to talk? Would you like me to call back?”
“No, no. Now is fine.” I hear the frown in her voice. From her tone and style of speaking, I’d peg her for an unhappily married woman in her forties. Probably got a few kids, husband works all the time, looking for a little male attention. “Are you available tonight?”
“Sure. Tonight’s fine.” I’ve been looking forward to a night off, but the loss of Ms. Denney’s income over the next few weeks has me rethinking my financial situation. “Do you have any questions about the process?”
“No. I understand. My friend explained everything.” The woman draws in a deep breath and exhales. “Can you come over, say around nine?”
“Sounds perfect. Is there anything specific you’re looking for?”
“No. I don’t think so.” Embarrassment is obvious in her tone. “I like—I like it a little rough. Not mean, just forceful. Is that okay?”
“Sure. No problem. I’ll give it to you any way you like.” Because customer service is number one in my book. I smirk, thinking of all the ways I’ve done women in the past. After two years of turning tricks, nothing surprises me anymore. Nothing.
“What do you look like?” Curiosity replaces her nervousness. “Miranda—she said you’re sexy. I just wondered…”
“I’m six-four, a hundred and eighty pounds, dark hair, brown eyes, a trimmed beard. I work out every day, and I’m in excellent shape.” These kinds of questions don’t bother me. I’m not cheap, and she has every right to make sure she’s getting her money’s worth. “And in case you’re wondering, I’ve got plenty of horsepower under the hood. Enough to keep you satisfied all night.”
The woman gives me her address. I enter the appointment into my phone. When I look up, raindrops splatter on the windshield. Chloe is still standing on the curb, her purse lifted over her head to fend off the rain. Oh, what the hell. I can’t leave the girl out in the elements, can I? I ease the car up to the curb in front of her and roll down the window. “Get in. I can drop you.”
“Um, are you sure?” She rolls her lips together then tugs the lower one between her teeth. “You’re not a serial killer or anything, are you?”
I open the passenger door and wait for her to hop inside. “Not even close.”
Thanks For The Ride
After Chloe gives me the address to her office, we drive in silence for the next block. She smells like citrus and honey, a lethal combination. Her scent fills the cockpit of the Lexus, mingling with the new car smell. While I drive, she lowers the visor and peers into the mirror to smooth her hair.
“This is a nice car,” she says. One of her hands caresses the soft leather covering the console. “What did you say you do?”
“I’m a personal trainer.”
Her sideways gaze cuts to the swell of my biceps, and a blush creeps into her cheeks. “You’re a walking billboard for fitness.”
“Thanks.” My body is the tool that keeps a roof over my head, food in my refrigerator, and clothes on my back. I treat it like a temple because it is.
“I wish I had your self-discipline.” She sighs. “No matter what I do, I can’t seem to lose any weight.”
“I think you look great just the way you are, but if you’re looking for guidance, you should come to one of my training sessions. I offer nutritional counseling and a realistic workout plan to maximize calorie burn.” The offer pops out of my mouth before I can stop it. So much for keeping my professional and personal lives separate. I press my lips together before I do something stupid like offer to fuck her for free.
“Really? That would be great. Maybe I’ll take you up on that.” She flips the visor up and shifts to face me. “Did you go to school for that?”
I try not to gawk at the smooth skin of her bare legs. She’s curvy in all the right places, and I have an inexplicable urge to put my hand on her thigh. Instead, I curl my fingers around the gear shift. “Indiana University at Bloomington.” I completed three years before I blew out my elbow, lost my baseball scholarship, and moved back home to Chicago. It seems like a lifetime ago—another life entirely. “I never finished my degree, though.”
“You must be doing really well to afford a car like this. I’m barely making enough for rent. This city is so expensive. Of course, my grandmother wants me to live with her, but I said no way.” She pauses for breath, and I have to laugh at her genuine enthusiasm. “My apartment is the size of a postage stamp. Is yours like that, too?”
I’m saved from answering because we’ve reached Chloe’s destination. I stop the car at the front doors and put it into park.
“Thanks for the ride. I owe you.” She puts a hand on my wrist, and it’s like a thousand jolts of adrenaline shoot up my arm. She jerks her hand away and flexes her fingers like she’s been stung. We stare at each other. She’s the first to break the link between us by glancing out the window to the people crowding the sidewalk. “Maybe I’ll see you around the building sometime.” She gathers her purse and climbs out of the car.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
I’m disappointed to see her go. Although we’ve just met, I’m drawn to her friendly manner and sunny smile. “Hey, can I give you some advice?”
“Sure. What?” She bends down to look inside the car, giving me a view all the way down her shirt to the lacy cups of her white bra.
“Don’t accept any more rides from strangers, okay?”
“Okay. Got it.” Her tits bob with her laughter. I glance away. I hate guys that ogle women. With a smile, she shuts the car door behind her.
I watch her walk around the front of the car and toward the building. Her ass is round and perfect. I adjust my cock behind the fly of my jeans. I’m full-on hard and ready to go. But not with her. Not with anyone inside my apartment building.
At the front door, she pauses to wave. The warmth of her smile chases away the chill of the rain. I smile and wave back. Maybe rules were made to be broken.
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