The Sex Surrogate (2 page)

“Great,”
I said, forcing a wobbly smile. “Thank you.”

I
walked over to a chair, sitting down and trying to power through the
pages before I got myself too wrapped up in the awkwardness of the
situation. It was good to have something to focus on.

That
was, until I got to the sex questionnaire.

It
started off tame enough, asking about my upbringing. What (if
anything) I was taught about sex. If I had ever caught adults engaged
in sexual activities. If so, what? Then how many sexual partners I
have had. What acts I had engaged in. What my comfort level was with
each act on a scale of one to ten.

I
figured I would put myself at a four for each, though I was pretty
sure it was more like a one or two. A little fibbing never hurt
anyone.

I
took a deep breath, signing the end of the last page, putting all the
pages into the folder, sealing it, then handing it to the
receptionist.

I
went back to my chair with my heart slamming in my chest, my hands
getting clammy.

I
was saved from my misery a short five minutes later.

“Miss.
Davis,” the receptionist called, making me jump, then spring to
my feet. She smiled sweetly, moving toward me with an extended arm,
but kept her distance. “Dr. Hunter would like you to wait in
his office, get comfortable for a moment, while he looks over your
paperwork,” she explained, leading my toward a door down at the
far end of the large waiting room, “then he will be in to see
you.”

She
opened the door, standing outside of it, making it obvious she was
not going to go in. “Thank you,” I said, stepping past
the threshold a few steps.

The
door clicked quietly behind me, the sound slamming somewhere in my
mind, screaming out:

This
is it. There's no going back now.

Introductory
Session

His
office was in complete contrast to the waiting room. Whereas the
waiting room was crisp and clean, almost feminine, his office was all
man. The wall straight across from the door had windows covered in
heavy drapery, a brown leather couch situated in front of it. To the
left was a floor to ceiling bookshelf with a dark wood executive desk
in front of it. Books spilled from the shelves, heavy tombs of, I
imagined, psychological origins. Or sexual origins, I thought with a
strange hysterical little laugh. To the left was a small, intimate
seating area. There was another brown couch, this time in a soft
suede material, with two end tables with lamps, and an arm chair
across from it, on an angle. Dr. Hudson's four degrees and
certificates were displayed above the couch.

The
walls were a deep green color, the floors the same dark wood as the
waiting room. There were a few framed pictures, one on either side of
the door. One, a black and white of a man and woman, half in shadow,
with the edges of their heads turning into birds. The other, another
black and white, the same man and woman, still half in shadow,
embracing.

I
turned away from them, walking into the room which was nothing what I
had been expecting. I guess, maybe, a part of me had been expecting,
well, a bed. I shook my head, making my way over to the suede couch,
situated slightly into a small alcove. I sat, placing my hands out on
the cushions beside me. To ground myself, to stop my hands from being
clammy.

There
was a clock above the door and I sat there watching it, time tick
tick ticking away. Still no sign of the good doctor. Music started to
come through some hidden speakers, the song slow and bluesy. Calming.
The heat clicked on, warm and comforting.

I
was almost, just barely at the point where I didn't think I was about
to vomit all over his perfect office, when the door slowly opened.

And
in he came.

And...

Oh,

my

God.

So,
yeah, he wasn't middle aged. No hangover of a waistline. No moobs. No
meat hands or elephant ears. No. This was, in a way, almost worse.

He
was a freaking monument to male perfection.

His
hair was black, longish but pushed back from his face. Strong dark
brows over startling blue eyes. A sharp jaw with the slightest trace
of a dark beard. His body was large. Tall, wide of shoulder, solid in
the center. Looking impossibly fit underneath his open black suit
jacket and white button up, the first two buttons undone, casual yet
professional.

He
was gorgeous.

And
I was going to be having sex with him.

Jesus
Christ.

“Miss.
Davis,” he said, looking up from the paperwork in his hands,
almost like an afterthought.

His
eyes on me felt like an invasion. Like he saw it all. Because, I
reminded myself, he knew it all. Scribbled carefully on those pages
in his hands.

His
brows were drawn together in confusion, like he was trying to figure
something out.

“Dr.
Hudson,” I said, swallowing hard, moving to stand.

“Chase,”
he corrected, shaking his head once. “Don't get up,” he
said, holding up a hand and moving toward me.

His
massiveness seemed to completely overtake the intimate little seating
area, making me push into the back cushions to give myself the
breathing space I felt like he was taking from me. His head quirked
to the side slightly, watching me, as he put the paperwork down on
the closest end table, and took the chair across from me. “Can
I call you Ava?” he asked, sitting back in the chair, looking
completely at ease. Like he had done it a thousand times before.
Which, well, maybe he had. Oh, god. Had he slept with that many
clients? Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all... maybe...

“Ava,”
he said, a little firmly, making my eyes snap up to his face.

“Sorry,”
I rushed, shaking my head. “I just...”

“You're
nervous,” he said, shrugging a shoulder.

“Yeah.”
You have no fucking idea.

“We're
just talking,” he said, his voice too deep to sound comforting,
but it somehow did anyway. “Think of this as any normal therapy
session, okay?”

“Okay,”
I said, taking a breath and letting it out slowly. I could do that. I
had plenty of practice with that.

“Your
chart says you started therapy when you were fifteen for anxiety
issues.”

“Yes.”

“And
now you are...”

“Twenty-seven,”
I supplied automatically.

“Any
success with the treatment?”

A
small half laugh, half snort, escaped me, reaching up to run a hand
through my hair. “Yes and no. Every time I get over one thing
that makes me anxious...”

“A
new anxiety develops,” he answered.

“Yup.”

“That
must be incredibly frustrating.”

“You
have no idea.”

He
hadn't stopped looking at me. Literally. His eyes were just... on me.
Since the second he walked through the door. Why couldn't he just...
look away?

“What
are your current anxieties?”

I
was going to sleep with this man, what did it matter if he knew all
the weird little things that gave me massive panic attacks?

I
tried to keep his gaze and failed, looking down at his hands instead.
Strong, wide. Capable. Of what, I wasn't sure. “I have issues
feeling trapped. So, work can be a problem. Someone else driving me,
especially public transportation. Public speaking. And...”

I
couldn't even say it. How the hell was this going to even work if I
couldn't...

“And
sex,” he finished, making my head snap up, eyes a little wide.

I
felt a blush creep up into my cheeks. “Yeah.”

“Okay,”
he said, casual. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I
read in your chart that you don't ever remember not having a phobia
about sex.”

“Right.”

“But
you have tried to get more comfortable with it.”

I
laughed nervously, shrugging. “Exposure therapy,” I
suggested and he surprised me by laughing, a low, rumbling sound that
reverberated somewhere deep in my chest and belly.

“With
no success though.”

“No.”

“Yet
you kept trying.”

I
looked down at my hands, pale and thin fingered. “Yeah.”
Four times. More than enough to start hating myself a little bit. And
not be able to even kiss anyone anymore.

“So,
why are you here?”

My
head shot up, my brows drawing together. Was he serious? Wasn't it
obvious why I was there? I mean, seriously. “I'm... frigid.”

“Are
you?” he asked, leaning forward and resting elbows on his
knees, way too close. Taking up all my space. “Being frigid
implies an absence of interest in sex and a lack of sexual
fantasies.”

“Oh,”
I breathed the word out.

“Seeing
as you are here,” he went on, his lips twitching slightly, but
not breaking into a smile. Seemingly always set in a firm line. Which
I think I preferred. I wasn't sure I could take him smiling, “I
wouldn't call you frigid.”

“Okay.”

“Do
you have sexual fantasies, Ava?”

Holy
hell.

That
question, with my name like a secret on his lips, sent an unexpected
ping of desire between my thighs. My eyes focused on the watch on his
wrist. “Yes.”

“Do
you get turned on?”

You
mean like how I was right that second? Nooo. Not at allll. “Yes.”

“Good,”
he said. “Ava, can you look at me?”

Um.
No. Don't think so. But my eyes moved slowly up anyway.

“There
you are,” he said, a smile slightly lifting his lips. “It's
good that you get turned on. This process will be much easier. Now,
I'm sure you did some looking around on my website, but would you
like a bit more in-depth information on how this works.”

“Sure.”

“Today,
we talk,” he started automatically. “If all goes well and
you are comfortable enough with the situation, we will set up the
dates for the next ten sessions. Each session will gradually lead up
in intimacy. Provided things go par for the course, sex will likely
happen around the sixth session.”

Six.
I had six sessions of non-sex. Well, that was good. I swallowed hard.
“Okay. What... what will the first five sessions be then?”

He
gave me a small, encouraging (I think) smile. “The first
session is just getting comfortable with contact. At most, it would
be kissing. From there, the next session would include undressing.
Learning to get comfortable with your own nudity as well as...
someone else's...”

His.
His nudity. Oh, geez. Him naked... looking at me... naked.

“Ava,”
he broke in, his voice firm. “Don't go there,” he said,
reading my mind. His hand moved out, landing on top of my knee,
solid, strong. Completely disconcerting, but somehow
reassuring
at the same time. “Anxiety doesn't exist in the moment. It is
only in the past and the future. So, let's not think about those
things, alright? Just be in this moment.”

The
moment. With his hand on my knee. It still hadn't moved. He was just
sitting there, arm all stretched out, no doubt less than comfortable,
with his hand on my knee.

“This
moment makes you uncomfortable, doesn't it?” he asked, his hand
squeezing my knee.

“Yes,”
I admitted, looking away from his hand and back up toward his face.

“But
not enough to push me away,” he observed.

“Not
yet,” I said, and he chuckled, taking his hand away, my knee
feeling almost strange without the contact.

“The
purpose of this is to push you out of your comfort zone. It's
important that you don't push me away with the first twinge of
anxiety. As I'm sure you learned in your previous therapy sessions,
anxiety can really only be treated with exposure to that which makes
you anxious.”