I took the order in stride, since this wasn’t my first client who preferred to sleep during a cuddling session.
I looked around the huge open space, not spotting any doors. Just a few arched doorways that branched off the living room. “Is there somewhere I can change?”
He pointed toward the nearest archway. “Second door on the right. I’ll be in the office down this way if you need something.”
When he pointed in the opposite direction, I nodded. “Thanks, Mac.”
The door he’d directed me to turned out to be a guest room decorated in muted blues and greys. A queen bed in the center of the room was topped by a grey comforter without a single crease.
This place was the polar opposite of my tiny attic apartment. Everything was so perfectly put together, while I couldn’t recall the last time I’d even made my bed.
Not wanting to risk wrinkling the bedding, I set my duffle on the hardwood floor and pulled out my phone to refresh my memory on the client’s requests for the appointment.
Cade Westbrook’s profile on the Sunshine Cuddle Services app was nothing like his penthouse’s vibe. It listed Cade as shy, cuddly, and obsessed with all things unicorn. His preferred nickname wasCuddle Muffin, and he’d even personally requested I wear unicorn onesie pajamas during our appointment.
Considering my closet was filled with different animal options, I was more than happy to oblige.
Nothing about the penthouse’s interior design screamedshy unicorn-lover, but that wasn’t unusual for people of Mr. Westbrook’s standing. Several of my clients hid a secret lovefor whimsy under stereotypically masculine personas. Cuddle sessions were an escape for them. A safe haven.
After slipping out of my dress, I stepped into the fluffy unicorn onesie and zipped it all the way up. It was impossible not to give the rainbow tail a little test shake before lifting my hood and shuffling out of the room.
Peeking into each room in the hallway, it took me a couple minutes to find Mr. Westbrook’s bedroom. How many rooms could a penthouse even fit? I passed a state-of-the-art gym, a small art gallery, another room dedicated entirely to one of those fancy Endless Pools, and a bathroom.
But when I reached the primary bedroom, it didn’t disappoint. I carefully cracked the door open before slipping inside, grateful he’d left the blinds open so I could see.
The room used the same greyscale as the one I’d changed in, but it was six times the size. All the furniture in the bedroom matched—cool, neutral modern pieces—which I didn’t even know was possible. All my furniture had come from flea markets and street curbs.
An impossibly wide bed dominated his space, all sharp edges and crisp white linens.
Sprawled out on top of the covers, a toned arm slung over his eyes, was my client.
I swallowed before padding closer to the bed and peering down at the sleeping beauty.
His broad chest rose and fell with deep, even breaths. He was totally out.
Mr. Westbrook’s head of thick dark hair looked like he’d run his fingers through it a dozen times before he’d crashed, and the sharp lines of his jaw hadn’t relaxed even in sleep. The tiny dimple in his chin could run for president, but the hint of scruff, like he’d missed a shave, made my fingers itch to rub his jaw like I did Whiskey’s chin.
It really wasn’t fair that someone so absurdly rich could also be this handsome.
He didn’t look like a guy who’d have trouble finding a nap buddy on his own, but our service streamlined the process and provided the extra benefit of NDAs. With the tap of a button, he could order me for a few hours of cuddling. No questions asked.
I’d met all different kinds of men—and a few women—in my line of work. Some just wanted to talk. Others needed to feel appreciated. Naturally, most clients loved cuddling—in bed, on couches, sometimes in a hammock or on the floaties in their pool.
It really was the best job I could ask for. I brought smiles to people’s faces, provided companionship, and infused just a little more happiness into the world.
Remembering I was on the clock, I carefully climbed onto the giant bed and crawled closer to where my client lay.
The foam mattress dipped underneath my knees, and Mr. Westbrook stirred as I settled in next to him.
“Hey, cuddle muffin,” I whispered, sliding my hand onto his chest to calm him back down.
My fingers had barely touched the firm muscle there when his arm flung out faster than I could react—jabbing his elbow straight into my eyeball.
“Ow!” I jerked back, clapping a hand over my throbbing eye. “Oh my god, you blinded me!”
A grunt escaped him before a strong grip wrapped around my wrist and flipped my world upside down. I went airborne—heart lodging in my throat—and then he slammed me face-first into the mattress, knocking all the air out of my lungs.
My client made quick work of yanking both arms behind my back and squeezing my wrists together.
