CHAPTER TWO

  Pacing in front of my brown leather sofa, fingers fumbling over fingers, I attempt to control my breathing. In and out. In and out. I can do this. I’m ready.

  I put on the kettle and made tea for me and my guest. I threw together a spread of finger foods that I’ve artistically arranged on my coffee table, like someone who’s had a guest before would. There’s a tiny sugar bowl and teacups with dainty saucers. I had all these ridiculous items hidden in the top cupboard in my kitchen forever, for emergencies like this. I got them because my editor said she wanted to see my place sometime. I didn’t want her to feel out of place if I ever allowed her to make the trip. So I bought them, lying in bed, breaking out in a cold sweat one night, on the mere prospect of having another human in my space.

  Obviously, she’s never visited.

  Obviously, I’m freaking the hell out.

  A cold sweat trickles down the back of my neck as I wait for The Helper to arrive. A man I’ve never seen before, nor heard his voice, or know anything about other than his profession. When he asked if I wanted to exchange pictures before the meeting, I was firm in my no. Knowing how he looks gives me time to chicken out. It puts a face to a person and subsequent reality. I much prefer to conjure my own characters. For three days now, he’s been a kind, balding, middle-aged man. His smile friendly, his voice patient, and soothing. Not exactly the kind of person I’d want fucking my asshole with a dildo, but I haven’t allowed myself to fully admit that’s happening yet. One step at a time, folks. One step at a time.

  Knowing it’s best to dress nicely when you meet new people, at least that’s what my mama always said, I’ve opted for charcoal, slim-fit linen trousers, a white quarter sleeve, button-up shirt, left untucked, and my only pair of casual loafers in black. No socks or accessories. My thick, shoulder-length, dirty-blond hair is tied up in its usual messy bun, save for a few stray pieces that keep falling out. Thanks to Lasik, I no longer wear glasses unless they’re readers, due to my advancing age. I spent the better half of an hour this morning trimming my unkempt facial hair that’s become grayer in the last six months. I’ve now settled on a short goatee. Correction, it’s more scruff than a goatee. A little blond, a little gray, a little white. It is what it is. Passable.

  The sound of an engine approaching puts my teeth on edge. The gravel lot outside snap, crackles, and pops as tires advance. Subtle music, something with an upbeat tune, plays from inside the vehicle. Closing my eyes, I count to ten and listen as a car door closes. Heavy heels walk up my wooden stairs and across the span of my porch to the door, where the bell rings once, followed by two firm knocks.

  Not wanting him to wait, I steel my shoulders, take the world’s deepest breath, and let it out before I paste on a smile and stride to the door. Two locks disengage, and with shaky fingers, I turn the knob to let my first guest inside, heart pounding my sternum a billion miles an hour.

  What I encounter next is nothing my brain could summon on its own. Just beyond the threshold is a man. Not an average middle-aged, balding man. Not a man with a dad bod and a kind smile. Not even close. I stare and blink because I can’t stop myself. What does my new helper do? He extends a hand—large and thick-fingered. What do I do? I retreat four steps, sputter an unintelligible hello, and begin to hyperventilate like an idiot.

  Afraid I’ll say something stupid because I will, I smash my lips together to keep from speaking as I wave my hands like a frantic bird for him to come in. He chuckles and does just that. Like a gentleman, he shuts the door behind him and waits on my entrance rug to be invited in further, as if he’s encountered strange creatures like me before.

  I flick my gaze over to the left, where I’ve set everything up for our meeting. But I don’t move. That requires functioning body parts, and I’m too busy staring. Too busy sweating. Too busy wishing I wasn’t this much of a socially awkward loser. I knew this would be difficult. To put myself out there. To do what normal people do. Well, not exactly normal. Normal people don’t hire sex professionals to fuck their assholes with toys, but you catch my drift. I think. I hope. Hell, I don’t know anymore.

  My toes flex and unflex in my loafers as I wait for my visitor to do something. Anything. He adjusts the small duffle on his shoulder but remains rooted on the rug. We don’t speak. He doesn’t try to extend his hand a second time, and for that, I’m grateful. I haven’t touched another person’s skin, not even in a handshake, in half a decade.

  After an embarrassing amount of time has passed, my visitor breaks the silence. “Hello, Finn. It’s nice to finally meet you in person.” His words are smooth, his voice a deep timbre.

  I’d given him my name last night when we finalized our meeting but never asked for his.

  When I nod in acknowledgment, he continues to speak. “I’m Beckett, but everyone calls me Beck.”

  Beck.

  Interesting.

  If I wrote him into one of my books, that name would suit him well. Beck’s a strong, masculine name, and he looks like a strong, virile male. From where I’m standing, I’d say we’re close in height, but that’s where our similarities end. He’s big, and I don’t mean fat. His tight black t-shirt highlights a broad chest and well-formed biceps that stretch the cotton sleeves past their manufactured size. His jeans cling like a second skin to a pair of muscular thighs. This is the body of a man who spends a lot of time in the gym or doing hard manual labor.

  Beck’s hair is mahogany brown, shaven on the sides, and messy on top. What’s most striking are his eyes. Not only are they soft around the edges and kind in nature, but they’re also moss green with golden sunbursts around the pupils. Otherworldly. Those of a woodland elf. In my mind, at least.

  I open my mouth to comment as such, but stop short when I realize I’m openly appraising him. Noting everything about him, from his black-and-white Nike shoes all the way to his muscular shoulders and tattoos. Both forearms are encased in intricate black-and-gray designs. There’s a faded scar above his lip, hidden in a day’s worth of stubble.

  Swallowing thickly, I swipe the back of my hand over my brow to clear any sweat that might have sprouted there. Then I do what I should have done when he arrived and act like a normal functioning adult. Or fake it, in my case, because there is nothing normal about me.

  “Pleased to meet you, Beck. Thank you for coming.” I sweep my hand toward the couch, hoping he’ll join me.

  Not waiting for him to follow, I take the far side and busy myself with making tea. The couch dips on the opposite end, and his bag is deposited by his feet.

  “Would you like some tea?” I drop two sugar cubes into mine with a pair of golden tongs, careful not to splash.

  “That would be nice. Two sugars.” Following his request, I pour tea into his floral cup, deposit the sugar, and slide the cup and matching saucer closer to him on the coffee table to enjoy. He accepts it with a polite smile and a nod of gratitude.

  Endeavoring to be a dutiful host, I set a small floral plate beside his saucer for him to partake in the finger foods I’ve prepared. Fresh bruschetta on toasted French bread. Thick cuts of cucumber topped with a dollop of dill sauce and a thin slice of salmon. And my personal favorite—mini spinach and mushroom quiches.

  Together, we sip tea and nibble on food in companionable silence. Once I’ve finished my third quiche and emptied my cup, I finally relax into the corner of my sofa and prop a foot onto my knee.

  Beck takes his time indulging far more than I expect. I happily sit back and watch. I’ve never cooked for anyone before, and it’s nice to have another person enjoy a quasi-meal I’ve prepared from scratch. Even the bread I baked myself, as I do most weeks. Cooking is relaxing and a human necessity that passes time in a productive manner when I’m not busy frolicking in my fantasy worlds. I’m not one to toot my own horn, but I’d like to think I’ve gotten pretty good at it over the years. Cooking, that is. Not frolicking.

  “This dill sauce is amazing,” he praises, licking a dab of sauce from his finger. Knowing from experience what it feels like to blush, I do, turning bright, fire engine red from the tips of my ears down to my nipples. Everything heats, and I squirm in my seat, hating how a few innocuous words make my stomach clench.

  This seems to please him as his soft, kind smile morphs into a brighter one. I find myself mesmerized by it. He’s like an animal in a zoo. Fascinating. Unique. Only there’s no cage, and it’s mildly creepy to stare at a human guest. Thankfully, Beck doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, his air of patience fills the space in a calm, soothing manner.

  Finished with his food, Beck mimics my pose on the couch. Tucking himself into the corner, he faces me and stretches a long, tattooed arm along the back.

  “You live up here alone, Finn?” he asks, clearly trying to make small talk.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a beautiful place.” His mossy gaze sweeps the vaulted ceiling of the great room with interest.

  Another blush consumes me, less fiery this time. “Thank you. I think so, too.” Following his inspection, I, too, observe the space in a way I haven’t in a long while, with fresh eyes.

  A large stone, floor-to-ceiling fireplace is the focal point, as it was designed to be. Windows flank its enormity to bring light into the darker wood space, ensconced by white linen curtains. Rustic exposed beams run overhead. On the far side of the room is my nook. A space to read on an oversized chair littered with soft blankets. Beside it, a picture window overlooks the great outdoors. It wouldn’t be complete without floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a sliding ladder to reach the books way up to the tippy top. It was inspired by Beauty and the Beast. As was the insane amount of supports bracing the floor beneath the area so the books don’t fall through the subfloor. Not that anyone would know they were there except me and the talented architect who built my home.

  Overall, the space is cozy by design and minimal in furnishings. I’m not one for knickknacks. They create clutter and, by default, anxiety. I can’t say I’m a neat freak because I have gone an entire week without washing my clothes, but I don’t like mess. I despise disorder. That’s one of the many reasons I don’t want kids or anyone in my space. They’re chaos among order. A variable I can’t control.

  Fortunately, Beck’s presence is like a spring shower, both calm and growth-inducing but also muddy. I’m choosing to focus on the former for my own peace of mind, as mud indoors makes me uneasy.

  We lapse into quiet conversation. He asks simple questions, and I answer. Out of curiosity, I toss out a few questions of my own.

  “How did you become a helper?” I query, genuinely curious how he came about the job, considering it’s uncommon.

  “I was a cuddler first.”

  This further piques my curiosity. “A cuddler? As in a professional who is hired to cuddle clients?” I’ve heard of those. Even came upon a thread or two on the site I frequent.

  “Yes, that very job. It paid for college. That was before it became popular. Now everyone’s doing it.” He snickers, running a thick finger back and forth along the top of the couch.

  I nod so he knows I’m listening intently and wait for him to continue. He doesn’t disappoint. “You should know I’m a therapist by day. Helping people has always been a passion of mine. This is a side job I started after a regular cuddle client talked me into it. He knew I was gay and asked if I was interested in helping clients in a different fashion. I agreed to try it to see if it was something I’d be comfortable doing. Turns out, I love it.” Beck sweeps a piece of fallen hair off his forehead.

  Fascinating. Utterly fascinating.

  “And why do you love it?” I ask next, hoping to peel back another layer or two of this man to understand him further before I let him do something to me nobody ever has.

  “It helps men,” he states matter-of-factly.

  “Even if we’re straight, that doesn’t bother you?”

  A small line forms between Beck’s brows as if he doesn’t like the idea that it could bother him somehow. “Why should it?”

  Chewing my inner cheek, I shrug because I don’t have a conclusive answer. I’ve always known, much like gender, sexuality is fluid. There are few things in this world strictly black or white. Everything else is painted in all the colors of the rainbow. Even I, a recluse, comprehend that.

  Leaning forward, Beck unzips his black duffle and extracts a blindfold. He tosses it into my lap. “Put this on whenever you’re comfortable.”

  Shivering, I finger the silky fabric. “Why am I going to wear this?” I croak.

  “It removes one of your senses so you can focus on the pleasure. A lot of my clients are nervous their first time. Especially the straight ones.”

  Right.

  That makes sense.

  “Okay. What else would you like me to do?” I ask timidly, willing to follow his lead, as I am a fish clearly out of water.

  Beck’s eyes flick to the basket of goodies I tucked under the coffee table for tonight. “I see you already have your toys and lube ready, so we can do everything right here. I have a towel in my bag I’ll lay beneath you to protect the couch. I prefer you on your hands and knees for the first time. It’s easier access and less intimate since you don’t know what you like. I assume you want to walk through every step?”

  Swallowing hard, I nod once. “For now. Yes.”

  “Perfect.” He clasps his big mitts together, wearing the kindest smile. “I’m gonna go into your kitchen, wash my hands, and get ready.” He thumbs by way of my kitchen and moves to stand. “While I do that, why don’t you remove your clothes and get comfortable. If you feel the need to stay mostly dressed for the first time, I understand. That’s completely normal. We’re going at your pace, Finn.” Beck leaves me to my own devices. I watch his broad shoulders disappear into my kitchen, wondering, not for the first time, if this was a bad idea. Maybe I won’t be able to perform.

  The cursory twitch of my cock tells me I’m full of it. He knows what he needs, as does my ass. The rest of me is merely along for the ride.

  Doing as instructed, I stand beside the couch and fumble with every button of my shirt before slipping it off my shoulders. I fold it nicely and rest it on my sofa table to put away later. Noticing my hard nipples and goosebumps, I scrub a hand down my smooth abs. A light trail of hair travels from my trimmed pubes up the middle of my stomach, where it stops. I’ve never been a hairy man. The sparse hairs I do grow on my chest, I pluck, lying in bed at night—a nervous habit.

  Knowing I paid for this man’s company, I unbutton my pants, carefully tug the zipper down so I don’t accidentally snag my junk, and slide them down my legs. I remove them along with my loafers. They, too, join the neat pile on the side table. There. Now, I’m naked, standing in the middle of my living room. Not a first by a long shot. I never wear underwear. I find them too confining. Most days, I live in the buff. Even when I sit outside on my patio in the mornings, I do so naked. It’s not like anyone can see.

  A low whistle sounds from the entrance of the kitchen, where Beck stands, resting his shoulder against the wall, watching me as he dries his hands on a towel.

  For the third time today, I redden to the color of a tomato, thanks to my Irish heritage, and cover my erection because I’ve never been this exposed to anyone in my life. Not even the women I dated. It was dark outside when we coupled. No lights were left on. Today, it’s midday. The sun is still very much in the sky, shining beautifully through my cabin windows.

  “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you’re gorgeous.” Beck eyes me appreciatively as he slowly steps closer, like he’s approaching a scared bird. When he reaches the end of the sofa, I take a tentative step backward, needing to keep the distance between us.

  A patient smile curves at the side of his sumptuous mouth, not quite reaching his eyes. “Did that make you uncomfortable?” Careful not to come too close, he leans just far enough over to pick up his bag and set it on the end table. Beck removes an oversized black towel, shakes it out, and drapes it across the couch cushions.

  “The…” Tucking an errant strand of blond hair behind my ear with shaky fingers, I clear my throat. “The compliment?”

  “Yes. The compliment,” he clarifies, in the same calm, confident way he communicates. Voice deep and gruff, knocking you straight in the chest like an ultrasonic wave. You might not see it, but you can feel it under the breastbone, skating across your skin, on your tongue, behind your balls. It tingles everywhere.

  “I…” I trail off because I try not to think too much about compliments. Right now, I’m trying not to think too much about anything. Unfortunately, I wasn’t built that way. I’m an anxious, hyper-aware overthinker. Not the best of combinations.

  Amid another mild freakout, Beck gestures to the mask I left on the couch arm. Placing it around my forehead with one hand proves to be difficult when I’m too much of a chicken to let go of my hard, oversized dick to slide it on correctly.

  The man in question chuckles, watching me struggle. “Do you need help?”

  I ignore him, knowing I can and will win this battle.

  “Let go of your dick,” he orders on a chuckle.

  Again, I ignore him. Almost there. If only I could get the strap out of my stupid bun.

  “Finn.” He laughs, far too entertained with my plight. “Finn.” His tone grows stern, and I stop what I’m doing to take notice. He cocks his head to the side, an eyebrow raised. “Release your dick. Now.”

  I do as I’m told and release my dripping cock. It bobs there, out in the open, and flicks a string of precum onto the floor. Not a first. I precum like a sieve.

  “Thank you. Now fix your mask and get on your hands and knees.” Goosebumps ripple across my flesh as I do as I’m told in a quick and efficient manner. The couch dips as my hands and knees come to a comfortable rest, my ass perched high in the air.