Learning to Soar Read online

  Chloe felt slickness grow between her legs as she watched the threesome. Surely they weren’t going to… Not right there on the dance floor… Isn’t that illegal or something? Her nipples tightened beneath the shiny fabric of her top.

  The blond man dipped his pelvis, squeezed the woman’s hips, and gave an unmistakable thrust. She pulled away from his kiss and bucked against him, held up by the dark-haired man behind her. The woman threw her head back against the dark-haired man’s chest and pulled his groin against her ass with one hand. With the other, she reached up to fondle one of her breasts through the silky pink fabric of her dress. She glanced towards Chloe with hooded eyes as she rolled her nipple between her fingertips.

  She smiled when she caught Chloe’s eye. Chloe felt her cheeks flame with a heady cocktail of embarrassment and excitement. She found it impossible to tear her eyes away, but then the tangled trio in front of her seemed to welcome her attention. Chloe watched the woman bite her lip in salacious pleasure. Through the fluttering pink hem of the woman’s dress and beneath the curve of her rear, she caught glimpses of the man’s slick cock as it moved in and out of her body.

  This sure beats the hell out of Cinemax, Chloe decided. Her panties had become noticeably damp as she observed the three lovers dancing—or was it three dancers fucking—before her eyes.

  It was both a relief and a disappointment when Monica appeared at Chloe’s side with two shot glasses and two glasses of white wine. “It’s Patrón,” she said in Chloe’s ear. “Bottom’s up!”

  Chloe tossed back the tequila and felt warmth spread through her stomach. She felt veins of heat shoot down to her crotch and up to each of her hardened nipples. The woman on the dance floor gave a slight nod of approval, and pulled the blond man’s mouth to hers so she could plunge her tongue between his lips.

  Chloe shook her head in disbelief. She cupped one hand around Monica’s ear. “Monica, I think those people are doing it,” she whispered. Monica shook her head to indicate that she didn’t understand. Chloe took a breath and spoke louder, “I think those people right there are having sex.” Monica pointed to her ear and shrugged.

  “Those people are fucking on the dance floor!” Chloe yelled in frustration.

  Chloe’s shouted observation happened just as one song ended. Accompanied only by the thumping bass beat, her words were loud enough for all the nearby patrons to hear. Instead of shock or disgust, however, the drinkers at the bar catcalled and lifted their glasses to the three entwined dancers. The woman winked lasciviously and pulled the blond man’s cock deeper inside her. “Yes, indeed, we are!” she shouted back as the next infectious song filled the air.

  Humiliation stung Chloe’s eyes. “I’ve got to get out of here,” she insisted to Monica. “This place is crazy.” She wheeled about on her high-heeled boots and headed towards the door.

  Monica grabbed her by one shoulder and held her back. “Relax, Chloe,” she spoke loudly into her ear. “Those two are married, and they both know that other guy. Besides, it’s kinda hot, don’t you think? Got my nips all hard, anyway.” She lifted one of Chloe’s hands to her heavy breast and rubbed it over the light green fabric that covered it. Chloe yanked her hand away in annoyance, but not before she had felt Monica’s stiff nipple. It was undeniably hard, as was her own, if she were going to be entirely honest about the situation. “It’s time to meet Damien anyway, so don’t be a chicken. We’re all grown-ups here. And don’t forget your wine,” Monica ordered.

  Chloe sheepishly followed Monica towards the rear of the club. “Damien’s office is back here,” Monica explained. The music grew softer as they moved farther from the dance floor.

  “So those people were married? The Asian woman and the blond guy?” Chloe asked as they made their way past the bathrooms. She heard a shriek and a round of raucous laughter from the women’s room.

  “Yep,” Monica affirmed. “Bruce and Melanie have been married for ten years. They weren’t feeling the old spark anymore, so Damien helped them out. The brown-haired guy is just a friend. Paul doesn’t actually fuck Melanie. He just offers his support, if you know what I mean.”

  “It looked like they got the old spark back, all right,” Chloe muttered. “Damien doesn’t care if people, you know, get it on in his club?”

  “Does Damien care if people fuck here, you mean?” Monica laughed. “No, not at all. Arnaud and the other bouncers only allow people in to Volare who are on Damien’s guest list. They’re all previous clients, or friends of clients. Nobody’s going to object to some innocent fucking in this crowd. Don’t worry.”

  She paused in front of a nondescript door near the rear exit. Here the music had dwindled to a mellow hum and it was possible to speak normally. Monica crooked a thumb at the door. “That’s Damien’s office,” she said. “It’s time for your session with the scary sex doctor,” she crooned in a made-for-Halloween spooky voice. “There’s no turning back now. Mwah-ha-ha…”

  “All right, all right,” said Chloe. “Do I look okay for an appointment? I want to make a good impression. Maybe I should go to the bathroom first and check my makeup.”

  “You look fabulous,” Monica assured her. “Just a little nervous. Drink your wine.”

  “So your psychiatrist said he’s the real deal, right, Monica?” Chloe asked before taking a swig of her drink.

  “Um, that would be my massage therapist, Chloe, not my shrink,” Monica mumbled.

  Chloe sputtered. Her mouthful of wine spewed from her lips in a fine spray. “Your masseuse suggested him?”

  “Yes, Chloe, my masseuse referred him,” retorted Monica. “Donna said Damien was terrific, and you know he made a world of difference to me. Besides, masseuses are professionals too, you know. Don’t be such a snob, for Pete’s sake.” She knocked on the door four times.

  The door opened just a crack. Chloe couldn’t see inside from where she was standing, but it was clear from Monica’s face that she saw someone or something she liked. The door parted just enough to admit her before closing firmly.

  Chloe found herself abandoned by her best friend in a club full of sex-crazed exhibitionists.

  Great

  She glanced longingly at the fire escape door at the end of the hall. The red ‘Exit’ light gleamed. I could just go, she thought. I could walk out of here and call a cab on my cell phone. It would set off the alarm and the police would come, but whatever. Somebody needs to throw some cold water on those people out there anyway.

  She sipped her wine thoughtfully. Monica’d be totally pissed off, but she deserves it after dragging me to this crazy place. And she was totally deceptive about the therapist referral. Massage therapist, my ass. Chloe narrowed her eyes and glared at the door.

  Chloe recognised Monica’s throaty laughter from behind the door, then her deep purr of delight. Oh, lovely, I can wait out here next to the fire escape door while Monica and this Damien guy get it on. Oh, sorry, excuse me. While they fuck.

  She took another gulp of her drink and scowled. She heard a low male voice rumbling incoherently, then heard a gasp of pain—or pleasure?—from Monica.

  That’s it. I’m out of here.

  Chloe downed the rest of her Chardonnay in three deep swallows and placed the empty glass and used cocktail napkin on the floor outside Damien’s office door. Yes, I’m a litterbug, she thought rebelliously, but at least I’m not some kind of tramp. Besides, I don’t think it could possibly get any trashier around here. She squared her shoulders, tugged down her miniskirt until it was as long as it was possibly going to get, and took one furious step towards the noisy dance floor.

  The office door flew open and Monica emerged, giggling like a little girl. She fingered a sparkling crystal necklace that she hadn’t been wearing when she had entered the office. “Look, Chloe, Damien gave me a thank-you present for bringing you here! Isn’t that nice?” Chloe caught a glimpse of a deep red oriental carpet and muted gold walls in the office before she focused her eyebeams of fury on Monica.
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br />   “So glad you got a reward for tricking me into coming here,” she steamed, “but I’m sorry to say that I’m leaving. I hope you don’t have to return it since you worked so hard to earn it.”

  Monica rolled her eyes. “Lighten up, Chloe,” she said, “and trust me. You’ll like what Damien can do for you.”

  Before Chloe could protest further, Monica shoved her into the office and slammed the door shut.

  Chapter Three

  “Aaaarghh!” Chloe shouted with her eyes squeezed shut. “Damn it, Monica!” She turned and slapped her hands on the closed door in desperation.

  A calm male voice spoke up behind her. “You’re not locked in, you know. You can go. I’d never dream of forcing anyone to meet with me.”

  Chloe turned and saw an entirely normal-looking man rise from an armchair and approach her. I don’t know what I was expecting, she thought, but it sure wasn’t this.

  Damien appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He had wavy, brown hair with a few flecks of grey, and wide, solid shoulders. As he walked to Chloe she noted that she was a little taller than he in her stiletto boots, which probably put him at about five-foot-ten. He wore a collared, light-blue shirt with a subtle diamond pattern, a striped wine-and-navy tie, and casual flat-front chinos that skimmed over his slim waist and hips. His glossy nut-brown loafers matched his belt—they looked both understated and expensive. Hardly a pimp outfit, she admitted to herself. Also, nice shoes, dude.

  Damien placed his hand on the doorknob and opened it. Chloe caught a whiff of Obsession for Men coming from him. Yum, she thought reflexively. Pulsing dance music wafted into the room. “There you go”—Damien gestured out into the hallway—“you can leave if you’d like. But since you came all this way, maybe you’d like to hear what I can do for you.”

  Chloe studied his face. He looked sincere. His denim-blue eyes were frank and warm, and his face was classically handsome without being pretty-boy soft. He looked, she decided, an awful lot like Russell Crowe mixed with a touch of Hugh Jackman—minus the metal claws. In short, he was an awfully attractive man.

  She looked out into the deserted hallway. The red ‘Exit’ sign still beckoned, but nowhere near as compellingly as it had before. The throbbing music and laughter still echoed from the dance floor and bar, reassuring her that humanity was only a short hallway away.

  Plus, as wild as Monica was, she had been Chloe’s closest friend for years, through college and grad school and all sorts of emotional mayhem. In her heart, Chloe knew that Monica wanted the best for her. If Monica trusted Damien to help her, and Monica’s therapist—okay, fine, her masseuse—had recommended this guy’s services, surely he had something to offer.

  Chloe pulled the door shut and held her hand out to Damien for a handshake. “I’m sorry for the rude entrance. I guess I’m a little nervous. I’m Chloe Davis, Monica’s friend.” His hand felt warm and strong around hers. Little crinkles appeared in the corners of his eyes when he smiled. Chloe wondered what it would feel like to trace her fingertip down the side of his temple, over his chiselled cheekbone, to that firmly set jawline.

  “I’m Damien Walters,” he said. “I’m also a friend of Monica’s, so at least we have that much in common. Please have a seat.” He gestured to a sleek, black leather sofa and chairs set. Monica eased onto the Eames sofa carefully and crossed her legs. It was incredibly difficult to be ladylike in the glorified stretch belt that Monica had passed off as a skirt, but Chloe was determined to give it her best shot.

  “Would you like a drink?” Damien asked. “I have pinot grigio, chardonnay, and cabernet sauvignon. I also have some nice scotch and tequila, as well as soft drinks and bottled water.” He waited for her response in front of a sculptural glass and chrome bar.

  “Um, I suppose I’ll have some water,” Chloe answered. “Sparkling, if you have it.”

  Damien nodded and opened the refrigerator door.

  “On second thought,” Chloe stopped him. “I’ll have some white wine. My stomach’s a little fluttery, and maybe the wine will help.”

  “No need to explain,” Damien said as he withdrew a bottle from an under-counter wine chiller. “This is a bar, after all, and I think alcohol certainly has its place. All in moderation, of course,” he added. Damien poured two servings of wine into stemless glasses and handed one to Chloe. He sat in the chair closest to her and took a sip.

  “Mmm, this is an Italian pinot grigio from 2005. Excellent.” Damien smiled and placed his glass on the gleaming boomerang coffee table.

  “So”—he clasped his hands together—“let me describe what I do. I am a freelance sex therapist. I am not certified by any school or government branch. I have not undergone any professional training. I am not licensed in any way. I base my individualised courses of treatment on my own life experiences, nothing more. You are never required to partake of any action during your treatment session, and I promise that I will not touch you during your session.”

  “Wow. Impressive,” Chloe quipped.

  “I usually see one client on each night that Volare is open. The charge for each session is two hundred dollars,” Damien continued, “although I ask that clients wait to pay until their sessions are completed. I don’t want you to pay a cent if you are not fully satisfied that I’ve resolved your problem.”

  “Interesting. And you make a living doing this?” Chloe mused.

  “Well, I can’t complain,” Damien answered. “I am pleased to report that I’ve never had an unsatisfied client. Most of my revenue comes from the club, however. Volare is thriving and provides me with a very steady income.”

  Chloe sipped her wine and asked, “How many patients have you seen?”

  “I refer to them as clients, actually,” he replied, “since I am not a doctor or licensed therapist. You will be the three-hundredth. It’s an anniversary of sorts. I’ve been at this for a little over three years now.”

  Chloe studied his face. He seemed so genuine and kind. And nice. “How in the world did you get into freelance sex therapy? Why do you do it?”

  Damien shrugged, but Chloe thought she detected the first hint of reticence in him. “It’s a long story,” he said with a practised air. “I think there’s a lot of unnecessary loneliness and sadness in the world. By helping people enjoy their sexuality, I’m making the world a better, happier place.”

  “You’re a do-gooder.” Chloe nodded in understanding. “You genuinely want to help people. I believe you. And I think that’s really nice.”

  “I try to help people, at least. I find my occupation very rewarding.” He returned his attention to her and rubbed his hands together softly. “Let’s talk about you, though, Chloe. Monica told me something about what’s been going on in your life, but why don’t you give me your own version?”

  Chloe finished her wine and held the glass out for Damien to refill. “I never had any sort of, you know, sexual problems at all until about three years ago. I started having sex in college and it was great. I had three different steady boyfriends—each relationship lasted several months—and, while none of them were my soul mates, they were all great guys. Apparently lots of women don’t reach orgasm, at least according to the World Wide Web, but I never failed to. I often came two or three times each time I had sex. I guess I totally took it for granted. And then…” She looked down at her lap and paused.

  “Go on,” Damien urged. “This is all entirely confidential.”

  “And then I started dating Mark,” Chloe sighed. “He was really out of my league. I don’t know what I was thinking. It would never have worked in the long run.” Chloe began to speak in clipped, forced words. “He was from this wealthy, old Boston family. You know, the kind with yachts and garden parties and family vacations in Europe? They meant for him to go to Harvard, but some teacher screwed him over in high school and he couldn’t get in. So he ended up at Salem State, where I was.”

  “Salem State is a good college,” Damien noted.

  “It’s no Harvard.
It wasn’t good enough for Mark’s family,” Chloe stated with cold certainty, “and neither was I. He took me to meet them a few times, and they were polite enough to my face, but I could tell that they were just letting him have his stupid college fling. There was no way he’d ever end up with a girl like me.”

  “It’s astonishing to hear you say that,” Damien countered. “You’re a very beautiful woman. Aside from your looks, Monica told me that you have a master’s degree in accounting from the University of Massachusetts, that you worked your own way through college and grad school, and that you work for one of the largest accounting firms in Atlanta now.”

  Chloe laughed mirthlessly. “You mean worked for one of the largest accounting firms in Atlanta. I got canned today. Nothing personal. Cutbacks, you know. Stupid economy.” She grimaced and took a deep swallow of wine.

  “Anyway, as I was saying, Mark and I dated my senior year of college and while I was getting my master’s degree. I was busy with classes and work, and Mark was still going to school part-time and didn’t have a job. He had a very active social life. I started to bore him, I know. All work and no play made Chloe a dull girl. He made that very clear.

  “He yelled at me a few times when he was drunk. I know I should have left him after the first time. I do see that now. He just apologised so sweetly—he’d send enormous bouquets of flowers to my apartment and then pick me up in his Ferrari for dinner at the best restaurant in town. He’d take me shopping, too, and pick out my clothes. He said my figure was too skinny and my boobs were too small, and that I had to learn how to dress to make up for that.”

  Chloe saw the muscles of Damien’s jaw tense before he spoke. “Go on, Chloe. I’m listening.”

  “The sex was good, although we started having it less and less. I found some panties at his apartment that weren’t mine, and I once found a used condom in the trash. I answered his phone when a girl called and he about tore my head off. He always had excuses, though—a friend had stayed over with a girl, or a female cousin was going through a crisis. I bought it, each and every time.