“Cela m’a vraiment manqué” (I have missed this so much), Jean whispered against my lips when he broke off the kiss. “I have missed watching you come apart in my arms.”
His gaze was intent as he stared at me with desire and a silent plea for me to believe how much he wanted me. I had said yes, but I was still dazed that he was here. I wanted so much to allow myself to bring down all my barriers and enjoy what he was offering, but I wasn’t completely convinced that he was even here. Would I wake up tomorrow to discover that it was all a dream?
He took my lips again and drowned my doubts in another kiss that had me panting and eager to feel his skin against mine.
“I want to take this slow, to savour the moment and worship your body, but I have missed you too much and I am afraid I cannot be patient. J’ai besoin de te sentir près de moi.” (I need to feel you around me.)
He said that as his hands roamed over my body, cupping my breasts and squeezing. He knew just the amount of pressure that I needed, and a moan escaped me. I was already wet in anticipation, memories of how it felt to have him exploring my body arousing me before he touched me where I was craving to be touched.
“This time can be quick. We have all weekend,” I reminded him.
He grinned. “You’re right.”
In a swift move, he pushed the top part of my sleeveless beach dress down, taking the top part of my swimsuit with it and exposing my breasts with their hardened nubs. I shivered a little as the cool air in the room hit my chest. The sensation didn’t last as warm hands covered and fondled my mounds.
“They fit just right into my palms,” he said, hands caressing me. He paused to undress me, gazing at my body with reverence. “Tu es tellement belle.” (You’re so beautiful.)
I had a healthy self-image, but he made me feel even more beautiful. There was a way he said the words that allowed no arguments.
Pulling me closer, he kissed me again, pushing his tongue into my mouth.
Damn, Jean really knew how to French kiss, and by the time he released me again, I was ready for him to get on with the fucking.
“Get this off,” I grumbled, going for his belt buckle. With a chuckle, he helped me to get rid of the belt. When he proceeded to pull his trouser zipper down, my eager hands were already there, pushing it down to release my prize from its confinement. I released him just enough for him to take both his trousers and underwear off.
“Someone is really happy to see me,” I teased when I saw his already-hardened member.
“You have no idea,” he told me, laying his clothes with mine across the nearest chair.
I felt a moment of panic when I remembered that I hadn’t packed any condoms. I certainly hadn’t expected this turn of events.
“What’s wrong?” he asked when he noticed my sudden hesitation.
“I don’t have any condoms,” I lamented. I suppose we could pleasure each other in other ways.
“I do,” he reassured me, reaching into his trousers for his wallet.
I watched him sheathe himself, my fingers working my clit in anticipation.
When he was done, he turned me around and braced my hands on the sofa.
My body was thrumming with desire, eager for that first touch of his tip against my entrance. When it came, I whimpered in pure pleasure.
That first time was quick and furious, and as he thrust into me, I thought blissfully that indeed, if I was going to quit my job as a sex worker and stick to one dick, I definitely chose the right one. The fact that I genuinely enjoyed him as a person was a bonus.
I don’t know what informed his decision, but he moved us to the bedroom before we could climax and continued with the quick, hard thrusts from behind. As always, he made sure I came first, flying high on pleasure before he chased his own groaning bliss.
“Nice to see you again,” I told him as soon as I caught my breath, filled with post-coital bliss.
He chuckled. “Very nice to see you too, chérie.”
When he tucked me against his side, I told myself not to be too pleased, but telling myself was kind of futile. I was too happy.
“So, my Beauty, do you believe me now if I say only you will do?”
I didn’t understand what difference it made. Granted, the sex had been phenomenal and a little different from what we had before, but it was still just sex.
“I know you want me in bed,” I answered.
“I want more than that. I thought I already mentioned that, and you agreed.”
He had, but I hadn’t really believed it — or that he would still feel that way after his lust had been sated.
“When you say you want to date me, what exactly does that mean?” I asked just to be sure.
“I want you to be my girlfriend,” he clarified, rendering me speechless.
My heart tripped, but I didn’t betray any emotion as I stared at him.
“You want me to be your girlfriend,” I repeated slowly.
I had thought earlier that he was talking about a talking-stage kind of dating.
“Yes, I do.”
He sounded so certain.
“I am a sex worker,” I reminded him again.
I still hadn’t informed him of my plans to quit. I wanted to check one last time to be sure of where his head was at.
So I continued to stare at him, unconvinced by his acquiescence.
“Cherie, we have already discussed this, and you said yes. Have you changed your mind already?” he asked, sounding a little put out.
“I know I agreed before, but I thought you meant casual dating. I’m sorry that I have to do this again, but are you certain you want to jump right into a relationship? This is a commitment you are asking for.”
He nodded. “Well, I already knew what you did before I took a plane here to see you. Of course, I wouldn’t mind if you no longer did it, but I will not ask you to quit your job because I am asking you to be my girlfriend.”
I continued to stare at him, feeling unconvinced, while he gazed back at me with a gentle expression that seemed to urge me to believe him.
“Although… you wouldn’t mind if I booked your time for the next year, would you?” he finally asked, making me snort.
“Is that your plan?”
He grinned at me and took the hand closest to him on the bed, kissing the back of my hand. “When I was just your client before, it didn’t bother me so much. I just focused on making your time with me memorable.”
“You achieved that in spades,” I assured him, and his grin got wider.
“Good to know. The truth is that, like I said, I don’t know how I will feel about it now after we start dating.”
Satisfied with his honesty, I told him, “I’m quitting sex work.”
He sat up in surprise. “You’re quitting?”
“Yes, I am.”
He looked conflicted. “Are you quitting because of me? Because of our relationship?”
I also sat up and faced him, grateful for the longer velvet-covered headboard to rest my head against. “Yes, and no. I had already decided to quit before you came here, but it is also partly your fault because I could no longer concentrate on my work.”
“I’m sorry?” He tried to look contrite, but the smug look won.
“You don’t have to look so pleased with yourself,” I chided playfully.
“I do, chérie, I really do,” he claimed as he pulled me in for a kiss.
“So, what’s your plan now? I know that you enjoyed your job.”
“I enjoyed my job because I love sex and I’m good at it. I enjoyed sex with you best, so I’ll be fine.”
“I can attest to your skills,” he teased. Then, “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I assure him, wondering what kind of alternate universe I had ventured into where my potential boyfriend was asking if I was sure I wanted to quit sex work.
“I’ve registered to train to be a sex therapist, though, so that is another way to bless others with my talents,” I added jokingly.
“Oh, that’s marvellous!” he exclaimed, kissing me again. “You would be an amazing therapist.”
Laughing after he released me, I looked at him in mild surprise. “Why are you so excited about that?”
He took my hand again — something I had noticed he does often. “I guess I feel better about the fact that you would be using your talents in another way. It means you won’t get bored with just me.”
I moved closer, sighing when he tucked me into his side. Running my fingers through his locs, I confess, “I’m not a sex addict, and I don’t need to be with multiple people.”
“Only your favourite client?” he asks.
“Only my favourite client,” I confirm breathlessly. His hand had been moving up my leg while we were talking, and I gasped when his fingers found my rapidly interested nub.
“I think I need to remind you why I was your favourite,” he suggested as he increased the pressure.
“Yes, yes. That’s a wonderful idea,” I agreed, opening my legs wider to give him better access when he moved his head downward.
I moaned at the first touch of his tongue, light but effective and teasing.
“What?” I cried when he stopped abruptly to look up at me.
“I just remembered that you never gave me an answer. Am I about to make my girlfriend’s legs shake with pleasure again?”
Girlfriend. My heart skipped a beat at the term, and more liquid coated my core. Obviously, the idea had both the approval of my heart and libido.
“Yes, Jean. Make your girlfriend moan and shake with pleasure.”
“Ton souhait est un ordre, chérie.” (Your wish is my command.)
The last thought I had before I fell asleep from sex-induced exhaustion was that I needed a new diary to document my experiences as a former sex worker who has become a sex therapist and is now dating a former client. I couldn’t wait.
