His Hunger

  Did it show that I was nervous?

  Crap. I hoped not.

  Determined to get back on track, I focused my brain and jotted down some questions that seemed legit. "How did you...get started? I assume this isn't something you planned on doing from the time you were a young boy of five or six," I added dryly, relying on humor to help cover my discomfort.

  His laugh was just as sexy now as it had been the first time I heard it. He shifted on the stool, and I caught another glimpse of his profile. It was definitely a nice profile. Nice enough that my heart fluttered a bit, and I wanted to turn and look him full in the face. But I stuck to the agreement.

  "It's a long story. Does the answer help you write your article?"

  "I...well, I don't know."

  He leaned in and whispered, "I don't think it does. How did you end up becoming a writer? Do you enjoy it?"

  "You do realize I'm supposed to be interviewing you, right?" Tapping my pen on the notepad, I scrawled something in the shorthand only I would understand. "You've got something of a reputation. A nickname to go with it too." Blood rushed to my cheeks, and I swallowed hard before I continued, "A very descriptive nickname."

  "And just what nickname is that?" he asked, clearly teasing me. But he didn't push for an answer, continuing to talk without waiting for me to reply. "It's true though that I take pride in my work. If you're going to do something, you might as well do it well."

  "I'm going to assume you're..." I stopped, nibbling on my lower lip as I wondered how in the world Gina did this. She'd interviewed dominatrixes and submissives before, swingers and others who led...interesting sex lives. A sex pro would probably be a piece of cake. And I was stumbling trying to think up a few questions.

  "Who came up with the nickname? You or a client?"

  "A client." He laughed, a rich, full laugh that made me wish I hadn't asked. "It would be a bit arrogant for me to use that, don't you think? It's not like I have it written on a business card. Word just...gets around, we'll say."

  "Do you have a business card?"

  "No. Do you?"

  "I..." Hesitating, I started to look at him, but stopped. "Of course. But this isn't about me."

  "But it might come in handy," he replied. "In case I think up something I should tell you later on."

  He put a hand out.

  It was the first direct contact we'd had, and I found myself staring at the long-fingered hand and wondering what it would feel like to have the King of Multiple Orgasms touching me.

  Immediately, I blushed. In order to hide it, I busied myself digging out a card from my small purse.

  "Here..." I thrust it in his direction. "Now, can we please focus and talk about you?"

  "We're trying to, but you keep getting distracted. How long have you lived in New York City?"

  "I'm..." Flabbergasted. I blew out a breath. "I'm not getting distracted. You're distracting me. And I've lived here a few years. What about you?" Maybe that was how I should play it. Answer his questions, then turn it around on him.

  "About the same. Where did you live before here?"

  This was like pulling teeth.

  Huffing out a breath, I replied, "Chicago. What about you? Where did you live before you came to New York? Did you come here for work?"

  "In a way," he replied. "I had a feeling you were from Chicago. It's in your voice."

  "You've got a good ear." Most people couldn't pick up on it after the years I'd spent going to college in Iowa, then the time here in the city. "I suppose you must enjoy the female persuasion, considering your line of work." I decided not to make it a question. He'd probably ask me if I enjoyed women in return.

  Instead of answering right away, he reached over, picking up my glass of wine. I heard him swallow and then he put it back down in front of me. He had just drank my wine. I couldn't decide if I was irritated by the fact that he hadn't asked or...inexplicably aroused.

  Why would I feel pleased by the fact that he was drinking from the same glass?

  What was the sense in that?

  Take a drink, a teasing voice inside my head whispered. Maybe you'll taste him on the glass.

  My mouth went dry at the thought, and the only thing I had to drink was the wine, and I reached for it, desperate to wet my throat. To my credit, I deliberately made sure to keep from turning the glass so my lips wouldn't touch where his had.

  "I didn't realize we were working up such a thirst," he murmured. His voice was so close.

  I gasped as he traced a finger down my arm.

  How in the hell did Gina do this?

  "I'm going to assume you're..." Great. I was babbling now. Feeling his watchful eyes on me, I kept mine focused on the glass. "I mean, I guess you're good at this. Otherwise you wouldn't very well have earned the name the King of..." My cheeks flamed, and I couldn't finish. "You know."

  "I assume I'm good, but I have to take my partner's word for it. Her word...her reaction. That's the key, you know. How she reacts. Paying attention to her." The finger that had trailed up my shoulder returned, this time skipping up my neck, then down. "Seeing if she likes having her neck touched, or she's too ticklish to enjoy it. I don't think that's the case with you."

  It sure as hell wasn't. I had to fight not to let my head fall to the side in open invitation.

  "You know, I think I'm glad Gina couldn't come. Pity about the wreck and all, but I think I like you."

  My skin flamed, going tight in response to those simple words.

  "There's not much to like."

  "Oh...we disagree there." He leaned in, his face so close I could feel the heat of his breath through my hair. Focusing straight ahead, I caught a glimpse of our reflections in the wine glass as I lifted it. He was practically nuzzling my hair. If I concentrated, I could hear him breathing in too. Like he was...

  Oh, hell.

  He was checking me out. It was like he was deciding if he liked the way I looked, the way I smelled. I'd already decided I liked the way he smelled and maybe I was crazy, but there was something decidedly erotic about what he was doing.

  How would his scent change if it was rubbed all over me?

  If it clung to me?

  I didn't know, but I was suddenly enamored with the idea of finding out.

  And that thought terrified me.

  "You..." Skin going cold, I grabbed my wine and tossed it back. "We really should get to work on this interview," I said, my voice shaking a little as the adrenaline that had filled me for the past few minutes started to crash, then wane. "I've hardly asked you a single question."

  "I'm all ears. Just what would you like to know?" As if he'd sensed the tenor of my questions had abruptly changed, he straightened in his seat, and I lost the reflection again. He flagged down the bartender. After he'd ordered some ice water, I felt the intensity of his stare settle back on me.

  I managed to force out all of two questions before a whole new sort of distraction dropped into my lap.

  The furor started up behind me, quiet at first, then spreading through the room until I couldn't hold back my curiosity anymore. I shifted around to toss a look back at the door, expecting another D+ list celebrity or one of the socialites who kept appearing in the papers.

  Instead, I was treated to the full glory of the current Hollywood heartthrob who'd just racked up three Golden Globes – and his date.

  She looked bored.

  But he had a smile on his face that made him look as open and endearing as he'd been when he'd accepted one award after another. Something that might have been excitement crashed inside me.

  "Son of a bitch," I whispered, wishing I'd brought one of the photographers with me. "That's...oh, man. Do you see who that is?"

  "Yes." He sounded bored.

  I started to shoot him a quick glance, but froze half way in place and he caught me with a hand between my shoulder blades. "Remember the rules, sugar."

  Instead of looking at him straight on, I focused on the ground in front of me – and the
cowboy boots he was wearing. Black, tooled leather, a pair of faded jeans, what looked like an incredible pair of thighs, muscled and lean and long...

  My heart was racing when I finally swung my head back around to look at the heartthrob of the month. "You think they are really a thing, the way the tabloids say they are?"

  "No," he said softly.

  "Why not?" Watching as the movie star leaned in to kiss his date in a way that was decidedly intimate, I studied them with more clinical interest than I liked.

  "Because she's bisexual and expects all her partners to share...male, female, doesn't matter. He doesn't play that game. He couldn't care less about her sexual preferences, but when he's all in, he expects the same from his partner. This is convenience, nothing more."

  My jaw fell open. "What...how do you know that?" I demanded.

  "Tricks of the trade. It would ruin her if anybody knew, considering how she sells herself." There was something cool and measuring in his words.

  A split second later, I understood.

  He was trying to determine if he could trust me or not. Waiting to see if I'd push for more details, or maybe even trying to decide if I'd go public with the information.

  Fat chance.

  She wasn't my story.

  He was.

  I said nothing though. Keeping my attention on the couple who had just walked inside, I said softly, "That has to be lonely, picking your dating choices based on who will notice you."

  A bright light flashed, and I flinched, lifting my hand to block it instinctively, not quite reacting in time.

  Brilliant lights flashed in front of me, alternating with little black dots, and I blinked, trying to clear my eyes. "Whoa," I muttered, trying to clear my head. "Paparazzi. Stage left."

  The noise level multiplied by the second, and the flashes became so common, they developed a strobe-like effect.

  "There goes the neighborhood," I muttered.

  I turned back, and my mouth dropped open. He'd left.

  Panic welled inside me, but I battled it down. I was panicking – I had to be. He hadn't given me anything. So...he wasn't gone. He'd gone to the restroom or something. Surely, he'd said something, and I just hadn't noticed over the chaos.

  He'd be back in a few minutes.

  But then I noticed the slip on the bar.

  The tab.

  Swallowing, I picked it up, ignoring the bills that fluttered off the side. He was a generous tipper, that was pretty clear. He'd paid for my wine and left a tip that cost as much as the single glass – and he'd scrawled a note at the bottom for me.

  I'll be in touch.

  "Yeah," I muttered, growing more disgusted by the minute. "Sure you will."

  Just over an hour later, clad in super soft pajamas and smelling of my custom blend of lavender and vanilla body lotion, I stood at the window, staring outside.

  I'd been had.

  Or conned.

  Something.

  Okay, so it wasn't like he ended up stiffing me with a bill for an expensive meal – or even a drink since he paid for my wine. But I hadn't gotten anything useful out of him.

  Sure, I was no Gina Goddard, but I knew how to interview people.

  I had dozens of interviews under my belt – close to a hundred by now, probably. But as I played that interview back through my mind, I knew there was nothing at all usable in the information I'd gotten from him. Or rather, the information I hadn't gotten from it.

  Getting more aggravated by the second, I went back to my purse and pulled out my phone, tapping on icons until the digital recording app opened. I hit play and listened as it started to play.

  "Shit!" Twenty minutes later, I threw the phone down on the couch, ready to rip my hair out.

  There was nothing worth putting in an interview unless I planned to write a piece about myself. And even that would be about as boring as could possibly be.

  There was nothing at all usable.

  Burying my face in my hands, I muttered, "My aunt is going to kill me." A split second later a worst thought occurred to me. No, Gina is going to kill me. She had turned over a prime source, and instead of getting anything from him, I had wasted the entire meeting, letting him distract me.

  "How could you be so stupid?" With a groan, I tried to figure out if there was any way I could sell this stuff, but there was nothing I could do except own up to the mistake.

  Forcing myself to accept that, I moved over to the computer and clicked on the icon to open my email. With my eyes closed, I sat there for a good five minutes, trying to think through the best way to approach the email I had to write.

  Aunt Blair wouldn't wash her hands of me, I knew that. But it would be awhile before she would trust me with a job like this again.

  And I would have disappointed her too. She had trusted me to do this, and I hated disappointing people, especially those who had put their faith in me.

  Finally, unable to figure out anything I could say except the honest truth – he had a sexy voice and he flustered me and I fucked up – I opened my eyes and focused on writing what I had to write.

  Then I just sat there, staring.

  I had an email.

  Actually, there were several.

  But the most recent one was from a J. King and the subject had my heart pounding.

  For your article

  Nervous as hell, I clicked on it and started to read.

  Then, once I was done, I sat there for a full minute, hardly able to believe what I'd read.

  My heart was racing.

  My head was spinning.

  I didn't know what part of me was more excited.

  The writer...or the man.

  Who in the world would have guessed that just reading an email could be so erotic? Everything I needed was in that email...including his name, which I'd forgotten to ask.

  He'd signed it simply.

  Jake.

  Three

  Jake

  She wasn't beautiful, but she was pretty and the blushes that kept coloring her cheeks were pretty damn cute.

  One thing was certain – she wasn't what I'd been expecting.

  But then again, I wasn't sure what I'd been expecting. When a woman contacted me out of the blue about an article she wanted to do with Jake King, the King of Multiple Orgasms – shit, what a name – I'd been tempted to say no.

  But I'd been tempted to say no to a lot of things in the past decade of my life, and I hadn't. All for one reason. If it could serve as a mean to an end, then I wasn't saying no.

  And while I wasn't sure if somebody who wrote for a woman's magazine like Coterie was considered a reporter or a writer – was there a difference? – one thing was certain. Anybody who worked for an outfit that big would have connections. I'd spent my entire adult life cultivating any and every connection I could get.

  Why stop now?

  I'd been right though.

  The woman who'd requested the interview was Gina Goddard, one of Coterie's top writers.

  The woman sitting next to me had nervously given me her name – Michelle.

  They were two different people. There was no doubt in my mind. Different styles, different approaches. I didn't even have to ask. Gina Goddard wasn't a woman who'd blush about asking a man how he'd gotten his start at fucking women for money.

  The woman next to me with her pretty blushes and her uncertain glances was a different matter entirely. And those blushes were proving to be far more enticing than I'd imagined possible, and I wanted to see just how far down they went.

  Finally figuring out the right way to approach all of that, I studied the interior of the tequila bar where we'd agreed to meet and decided that the ideal way to handle this – her – was to tell her we needed more privacy.

  That plan got dashed to all hell less than five seconds after I hatched it.

  The last thing I needed was to see a movie star come in.

  No, the last thing I needed was to get intrigued by the cute little redhead conducting th
e interview. But that was what happened. And it had been followed by the second to the last thing I needed to happen – the entrance of a movie star followed by paparazzi.

  Now I was stuck in this damn bar with a writer, paparazzi, and the problem of how to get out. I never should have agreed to this damn interview. Women didn't need to read articles on how to achieve multiple orgasms. They needed a really good vibrator, or better yet, a really good partner.

  That's where I came in.

  With the right dollar amount, I would give a woman as many orgasms as she wanted.

  Sometimes, I didn't even need the dollars thrown in there.

  I dated, had sex off the job. A busman's holiday, maybe. I didn't need to get paid to get off. It was just...what I did. It was what I was good at. And it was a means to an end.

  Michelle wasn't exactly the sort of woman I would have sought out on my own, but having her dropped into my life was...well, who turned down such a sweet surprise?

  Granted, there was nothing about sitting there with Michelle that was helping me accomplish that end I'd set for myself a long time ago, teasing and flirting with the sexy redhead who had actually come out in the freezing weather wearing a strapless dress under a coat that had almost convinced me she wasn't the woman I was looking for. Right up until she shrugged out of the coat to reveal that dress, and that body.

  All those curves had been perched on a pair of fuck-me heels, done in a shade of blistering red – the high heels sans pantyhose and a pink miniskirt. It was possible there could be a woman wearing that same get-up but nobody else but the woman I needed to meet would be likely to be alone as she approached the seat my bartender buddy always kept open for me on the nights I told him I had a meet.

  Now, here I was with a woman I wouldn't mind being alone with, but the one thing I didn't have time for was convincing her of that – not when the camera flashes were getting as consistent as lightning during a summer thunderstorm.

  Michelle crossed her legs, murmuring something under her breath, and I was acutely aware of the way one shoe dangled off the tip of her toes.