I’m not ashamed of the work I do, but the world is full of people who look down on sex workers. People who equate sexual health—sexual empowerment—with depravity. People who would never allow a sex worker, or even a former sex worker, to teach their children in the classroom.
I don’t know if Brady is one of those people, but he definitely gives sweet and naïve.
I’ll bet just the word sex makes him blush.
Who knew guys like that still existed?
More importantly, why do I care? It’s not like I’m ever going to see him again.
Not outside of my fantasies, anyway.
Inside them…. I can savor every sexy inch of the bearded giant.
Arousal slams into me like a tsunami and my nipples pucker at the thought of Brady’s full lips on my skin, his thick cock buried between my soft thighs. My pussy clenches, aching to be filled, and a whimper bursts from my lips.
This need—my desire for Brady—is a ravenous creature that won’t be denied.
I grab my favorite vibrator from the nightstand and power up my camera, a sultry smile fixed firmly in place.
It’s playtime.
4
BRADY
“Same time next week?”
Marty nods and I squeeze his shoulder before rising to my feet. He tears into the care package I delivered, my presence all but forgotten as he unwraps a sandwich.
Who’s going to look out for him when you’re gone?
Guilt tears at my conscience and my scalp begins to tingle, but I can’t afford to let it weigh me down. There’s still plenty of time to figure it out. To convince Marty the local shelter is worth another go. To help him get back on his feet.
Just because he’s down on his luck now, doesn’t mean he can’t turn things around.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my gym shorts and make my way down College Ave, scanning every passing face for Piper’s gorgeous smile. I come up empty.
Again.
It’s been two weeks—two weeks of pulse-pounding anticipation—and all I have to show for my efforts is disappointment.
It’s frustrating as hell, but I haven’t given up hope.
Our paths crossed once. There’s nothing to stop them from crossing again.
The sweet cinnamon scent of grill stickies invades my nostrils and my stomach growls, but one look at the line snaking out of the Diner and down the block is all it takes to kill my appetite.
So much for breakfast.
I duck my head and cross the street, praying I haven’t been spotted.
It’s a statistical improbability for someone my size, but a guy can hope.
Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the fans and all the support the team gets, but I’d rather not spend my day off breaking down plays and fielding questions about next week’s matchup against Iowa.
My cell vibrates and I pull the device from my pocket, swiping accept as I bring it to my ear. “Hey, Gran.”
“Have you found my future granddaughter-in-law yet?” she demands, getting right to the point.
