Stepbrother Gigolo (A Stepbrother Romance Book 1) (2 page)

Kara

Oh my god. It was him. In the flesh. I thought my knees were going to buckle and make my body give way to the polished concrete floor below me. What fun that would have been. The very man who I had booked to make love to me later that night, watching me sprawled out over a hotel lobby like some idiot.

Nice move
that
would have been, Kara.

Thankfully, it didn’t happen. I wobbled a little bit on my high heels for a moment, before willing every muscle in my legs to hold me up and resist the pull of gravity. It had worked – just. But he was there, moving in what seemed like slow motion before my very eyes; everything I had imagined him to be – tall, dark and stereotypically handsome. His face was perfectly sculpted, his skin lightly tanned with just a hint of dark stubble.

Swoon.

He knew how to dress, too. This was something new to me – after all, I’d only seen him virtually naked on a computer screen up until now. He had a dark, gunmetal grey suit on that clung to his body perfectly. I could see the outline of his ass slightly as he walked – tight, probably rock-hard with muscle. Yes, my nipples became erect in the hotel lobby. Yes, my panties were soaked with juices. And, yes, I had to head straight to the nearest restroom to do something about it. Thank God for private cubicles and bullet vibrators that fit in a handbag.

The only reason I was even in the hotel was because I had just closed a deal to supply them with two new huge pieces of artwork for a penthouse suite and their dining room. The lobby had already been displaying an amazing piece of formed glass that I created eight months previously and I swear that Nick stopped for a split second to check it out. I saw his pace slow as he passed it, his head turning slightly and lingering for just a moment.

He checked out my art
. Tonight he would be checking out my
ass
. See what I did there? I never was much of a comedian.

What blew me away is that he had
noticed
. It had made him look. Then, stupidly, I got jealous. Why hadn’t he looked at me? Wasn’t I more interesting than my stupid artwork? No, that was ridiculous – I was just exiting the elevator when he was already past. I wasn’t in his line of vision and he would have had to turn around completely in order to even see me. That was my excuse and I was sticking to it.

Seeing Nick was pretty surreal given what was going to happen – or potentially happen – later that evening. My meeting had gone well, although I hadn’t really been completely attentive throughout it. My client was a perfectly pleasant hotel manager with an exceptionally bad spray tan. He was reminiscent of an oompah-loompah in an ill-fitting suit and, just to be absolutely clear, he didn’t give a shit about art. He just liked “bright colors" and my previous work had already met his pretty narrow brief.

Oh well. Not everyone can love what you produce, I suppose. But if it was good enough for him and he was willing to dump a shed load of money into my bank account for something he wasn’t even particularly interested in, that was fine by me. I’m not proud. It would mean at least a year’s rent in Vegas fully paid for and plenty of nice new clothes and meals out. That was good enough in my book.

I can’t say I exactly bonded with the assistant manager who was with him. She was a tall, thin blonde with a face that looked like it hadn’t smiled in her lifetime. I’ve never seen someone remain so deathly serious through a meeting. She also repeated absolutely
everything
he said, without exception.

“We really love your art, Miss Reynolds."

“Yes, Miss Reynolds, we really love your art."

“Please," I had replied. “Just call me Kara."

“Of course, Kara. It’s…how can I put this? Very colorful."

“Very colorful, Kara."

And so this continued for roughly 45 minutes. How is that even possible? How can someone be so disinterested in a person that they simply repeat every single thing their boss says? Is there a medical condition for that? Is there a pill you can take? I mean,
come on
.

Anyway, back to Nick. Seeing him in that lobby suddenly made me realize the gravity of what was due to happen that evening. Emma’s “gift” was a pretty generous one, given the cost. The sentiment was wonderful, too – although I’m guessing most people wouldn’t give someone the present of another man’s cock for any occasion. It was certainly original, I guess, but what the hell would my parents have thought? Best not to mention it, probably.

"Emma, I don’t know if I can do this." My hands were shaking as I spoke, although I wasn’t sure if that was due to nerves as the hours began to draw closer and closer to my encounter with a gigolo or because I just been holding a vibrator at full power in a bathroom for several minutes.

“What did he look like? Was he as gorgeous as he looked on the website? Tell me, Kara, tell me! I’m beside myself here."

“Calm down, you’re at work. What are people going to think if you’re jumping up and down in your cubicle? Yes, he was gorgeous – from what I saw, anyway."

“Did he have a big package?"

“Hang on, he was clothed, remember? He was in the hotel lobby, Emma."

“So? I’m not asking for measurements to the nearest inch. There must have been a bulge there, surely. Don’t lie and say you didn’t look."

I grinned. “Okay, I saw him turn a little bit and…"

“And? He was hung like a donkey, right?"

“He appeared to have a sizeable bulge, yes.”

“You slut! I knew it. I knew you would have looked. Oh Kara, don’t be nervous. You can’t back out now. This is just totally exciting, and I’m not even there. Just go for it, have the time of your life. This is probably the one time you will be able to ask a man to do absolutely anything you want and he’ll do it, no questions asked. And if that’s not enough, he’s a complete and utter studmuffin."

“I guess so," I sighed. “I am a little bit excited I guess. I’m still nervous though."

“Good. Nerves are good. Just enjoy it. I want a complete play-by-play breakdown of what happened though, okay? And if that’s not possible, just take a video of events with your smartphone and post it to Facebook. Got it?"

“Very funny.”

“Who said I was joking?”

I made my way out of the hotel and looked around for Nick Carlisle. No sign. In a strange way, I was relieved. Part of me didn’t want to see him on the street, in my normal life. Part of me didn’t want to know if a man like that would even
notice
me, let alone look at me and desire me. This was part of why he was a gigolo, I guess. He asked no questions, made no judgments and simply gave women what they wanted in exchange for money.

He was the sexual equivalent of a commercial artist. I didn’t ask for validation or appreciation from my clients, simply that they tell me what they want and I would provide it. The transaction, in many ways, was no different. It was honest. Straightforward.

Maybe Nick and I weren’t so different, after all. I’d find out soon enough – or so I thought.

Ethan

Every time I knock on a door, I still get nervous.

Beauty is subjective, of course, in the eye of the beholder and all that stuff. But when those doors open, every night is different. I genuinely adore women, so I’m never disappointed. Everyone has a story and it’s the
person
that intrigues me most, although looks are never a bad thing. I’m not going to lie. Hot is hot, you know?

For a while, people like me didn’t exist. I’m speaking figuratively, of course; straight male escorts have always been around but everyone believed we were some kind of myth or urban legend. Why would any woman have to pay for sex?

Well, things are never that clear-cut. Women do indeed pay - very well, I might add - and the reasons they use an escort are complicated. For the most part, I cut out all the bullshit. Our transaction is simple and honest.

I love what I do. How many people can genuinely say that? I get up every morning and look forward to the day - and night - ahead. I live in a kind of twilight world, on the fringes of what pretty much everybody would deem acceptable. I work mainly when the sun goes down - my days are my own, for the most part - and that can be surprisingly challenging. Vegas is a party town; if you’re not here to drink or gamble, there’s actually very little for you to do.

Sure, I could drink in the day - but even saying that makes me sound like I have a problem. I could also go to the casinos, but I’d be hanging out on the slot machines with the old-age pensioners. Not my idea of thrill-a-minute stuff. Plus, why earn all this money and then throw it all away on booze and rigged games?

Instead, I enjoy the good things in life - fine wines, fast cars, expensive clothes and gadgets. My life is absurd in many ways, the polar opposite of how I grew up. Don’t worry, I’m not going to bore you with a sob story, but I’ll tell you this much - seeing my parents always short of money made me damn sure I was never going to be poor. My parents are spectacular underachievers, never willing to try something new or take a risk. That meant they never had money - always complaining about the fact, but never doing anything about it. They say some people are scared of failure but they were always scared of success.

Not me. Screw the DNA, I was determined to have a better life.
Mission accomplished
.

“Are you going to show me what a lousy lover my husband is again soon?”

“Don’t know,” I smiled, buttoning up a light gray Armani shirt. “Depends how much you’re paying.”

The tall, skinny blonde threw a pillow at me. “Pig!” she laughed. “All men are pigs.”

“Hey, don’t blame the player, blame the game. Besides, Mrs Stone, you know the saying, right? Familiarity breeds contempt. Too much of a good thing…”

“Stop it,” she whispered, rising to kiss me. “I can’t get enough of you, you know that.” She ran her fingers over her chest and I stopped her from unbuttoning me. “I love it when you call me Mrs Stone, it feels so naughty. I want your young, hard body again, Ethan. God, I need that cock of yours…”

“Sorry, time’s up. Hate to be a party pooper, but I have another client.” Her face dropped.

“God, I hate that part of your job.”

I kissed her forehead. “You know the score. Muscles for hire, cock for sale. You should try out a few other gigolos, have some variety.”

“But I want you and only you,” she pouted.

“I’m flattered. Seriously, mix it up. Don’t go getting attached now.”

“I’m already attached.”

“Well, Mrs Stone,” I sighed, “maybe I shouldn’t see you for a while. I don’t want you to think…”

“No! I can deal with it, I can cope. I just like you a little more than I should. I’d leave my fat-ass slob of a husband if he wasn’t so rich and run away with you.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” I grinned. “He pays for me, remember? Besides, I’d only disappoint you.”

She shook her head, a sly smile creeping across her face. “You never disappoint, baby.”

“Trust me,” I said as I headed out of the hotel room. “I’m not the relationship type.”

I breathed a sigh of relief as I headed down the hallway. I had lied about having another client; you have to do that sometimes. I don't want to purposefully hurt anyone, but the reality is that emotional attachments and escorting just don't go hand-in-hand. Shit like that gets messy as hell. If married women want to have sex with guys like me, I'm not going to judge them. But there's no way on God's green earth that I'm going to break up a marriage – at least not intentionally or directly, anyway. That's not my style, so to speak.

Even worse, I'm too selfish for a relationship with anyone. I value my freedom too much. The danger is that I represent a fantasy, an ideal for so many women. Something that they don't think is achievable or attainable suddenly becomes just that – even if it does cost them $1000 an hour. The perfect gentleman comes at a price. I'll be polite, be attentive, tell them how beautiful they are. I listen to their woes and pay attention to their life in a way that their husbands don't. Hell, that's just the married ones – there are plenty of single women who also think they have a chance of dating me.

But that's just not how it works. I don't want to take out the garbage and feed the dog. When my car gets washed, someone washes it for me. I don't do domestication and I don't want to. The perfect gentleman, this fantasy gigolo, is also a selfish bastard. Besides, why destroy the fantasy?

I had several hours to kill before my next client that evening. I would head home, go through my usual routine – my third shower of the day, pick out some clothes and make sure they were pressed properly, have a quick drink to settle my nerves. Yes, I said it. Even a gigolo gets nervous.

Now, what was my next client called again? Oh yeah, a cute sounding redhead called Kara. I didn’t know her surname but she shared the same first name as my stepsister, an arty type who spent years in an overpriced college while I was living a life of quiet debauchery. She was a last-minute booking. If Nick hadn’t bench-pressed that ridiculous weight this afternoon, he’d have been with her instead of in hospital with a dislocated shoulder. Still…there’s always the cute nurses to look at.

More money for me. His loss was my gain.