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Her hand dips lower, cupping my balls and rolling them gently. I have to stifle the groan she’s pulling from me. Getting too close to the point of no return, I jerk away from her and take a deep, jagged breath to steady myself.
“Can’t I want both?”
“You’re learning,” she tells me, the light in her big brown eyes bright and excited. “How about this? I’m busy tonight, but tomorrow, you can pick me up at eight. On one condition.” Her lips quirk, and I know I’m going to hate her condition.
“What’s that?”
“Keep that for me,” she says, pointing between us at my raging cock. “No jacking off, no coming, nothing... until tomorrow night with me.”
I do groan at that, low and gruff in my throat, before admitting, “Tomorrow? I don’t know if I can.”
That truly sounds so far away.
“Then no date. Your call. If you don’t show up, I’ll know you were too weak to wait.” She licks her lips like she wouldn’t be too disappointed to know I was so aroused by her that I couldn’t handle a twenty-four-hour delay.
But I’ve written and read enough contracts to know a loophole when I see one. “How will you know? I could jack off the second I walk into my office, still show up for our date, and you’d be none the wiser.”
She tilts her head, pressing her lips together thoughtfully. “But you’d know. And that’s not the kind of man you are. Plus, do you really think I wouldn’t be able to tell?”
Logic tells me that she wouldn’t know if I’d come once, twice, ten times, or not at all. There’d be no way of being sure unless I was wearing cum in my hair like gel in some sort ofSomething About Maryscene. But the clever look in her eyes makes me pause. Though it makes no sense, I truly believe she’d know on sight if I jacked off before seeing her.
“Deal,” I agree, glancing at my watch and doing some quick math. “Twenty-nine hours, twelve minutes, and thirty-five seconds. I can do that.”
She laughs. “Not that you’re counting.”
I shake my head. “Of course not. On another note that’s perhaps a bit distracting.” I jokingly look at my watch, bouncing my head with every passing second before looking back at her with a devil’s grin. “Evan agreed that we should host you for a whole series of classes if you’re up for it. What do you think?”
Her eyes nearly bug out of their sockets, and her smile flashes big and happy. “Are you serious? That’d be awesome!” A heartbeat later, she confirms, “At the same pay rate for each, right?”
I agreed to pay Samantha an appropriate appearance rate for doing the one class today. We’ve done that before for guests of various specialties that we’ve hosted. But if she’s going to be on-staff for an entire series, technically, it should be a slightly lower rate per class and one lump-sum payment for the series.
But she brings something no one else does.
“Yes, same fee for each class,” I say, knowing Evan won’t exactly be happy, but he’ll understand after what he witnessed today. “We’ll also need to discuss an hourly rate if you decide to do the counseling sessions Evan mentioned, beyond the quick after-class talks.”
“Dolla bills, dolla bills, watch it falling for me, love the way it feels...” she sings, doing some sort of arm-swinging, hand-flapping dance.
I chuckle in surprise at the impromptu performance. “What wasthat?”
“Money dance, Lisa from Blackpink,” she explains without explaining anything. I shrug, still confused, and she laughs. “Just make sure the checks clear and we’re good.”
“That I can do,” I promise. My phone dings in my pocket with a calendar reminder. “Sorry, I have a counseling session soon. With Stephen, the guy you were talking to last.”
She looks thoughtful. “He seemed sweet. A little unsure, inexperienced, and jumpier around women than a cat in a dog pound, but sweet. Help him with his confidence and he’ll be a force for good.”
It’s not a professional recommendation, but it’s pretty spot-on for what I’ve learned about Stephen. And she got that in a five-minute chat, whereas I’ve barely gotten more than that in weeks of private sessions. He’s eager to please, and talkative in our sessions, but I don’t feel like he’s really opened up yet. To me or the club.
“Did he say anything useful to you?”
She wags her finger at me. “Uh-uh, private conversations. Your guys need to know they can talk to me about things, you about other things, and Evan about others. Or all of us about the same thing to poll for advice if they want. But confidentiality is important.”
She’s right, though Evan and I do share insights about the guys, strictly as a way to best help them. But Samantha has a professional confidentiality viewpoint, and I can understand that, given her degree work.
“Okay, fair point,” I concede. Regretfully, I add, “I have to go. Want me to walk you to the front?”
“Nah, I know my way. And it’ll do the guys good to see me here. If anyone starts something, I’ll handle it or call Jim to bring his belt,” she jokes, acting like she’s whipping an invisible target with her hand.
Though the idea of her needing backup makes my blood run hot, I know that’s not likely and reluctantly let her go.
