“Please,” I whisper. “I’m a virgin. I can’t sell my body.”

He claps his hands together. “Now, that’s what I thought. Best news I’ve heard all day.”

I can’t allow my brain to process what that might mean.

Anthony narrows his eyes at me. “You don’t have to have sex tonight, sweetheart. We’ll give him a taste, but no intercourse, you hear me?” He tucks my hair behind my ear, and a shudder rocks through me. “We’re going to save that for now. It’s too valuable.”

They drop me at one of those fancy high rises where the man at the front gets permission from the tenant before letting you up. The high security does nothing for my peace of mind, and as I am led to the elevator, I feel like everyone is staring at me, like everyone knows exactly why I’m here. My stomach knots.

When the elevator doors slide open, a servant greets me and ushers me into the condo. It’s beautiful with sleek contemporary furnishings and a marble floor. And the moment I step inside, I want to turn around and leave.

He takes me to a room at the back of the condo where the ceilings are vaulted and the walls are covered with bookshelves. The man sits behind a polished desk and motions for his servant to leave. He’s attractive, probably in his mid-thirties with dark hair and striking hazel eyes, and he’s obviously wealthy. The kind of man my mother throws herself at. What could he want with me?

“Close the door,” he says softly.

I force myself to do as he asks. This isn’t real. This can’t be happening.

Moving from behind his desk, he settles into a winged back chair. “Come here.” He crooks a finger at me.

My feet move slowly. One step. Two.

“Take off your shirt.”

My hands shake as I obey, sliding the black plastic buttons free from their holes, telling myself it doesn’t count if he doesn’t touch me. This isn’t real. No worse than a peeping tom looking in my window. I let the shirt slide from my shoulders and fall to the floor.

“Your bra.”

Goosebumps break out on my arms, making my hair stand on end. I close my eyes as I reach behind my back. I think of my sisters.

“Now look at me,” he says.

I force my eyes open and look at him. As I watch him run his greedy eyes over me, revulsion rises like bile in my throat. But not even my revulsion is as strong as my determination.

Shifting his h*ps forward in his chair, he pops the button on his slacks and pulls out his dick.

I back up a step. “He said no sex,” I mumble stupidly.

My phone rings in my purse. William’s ringtone.

“Not tonight,” he says. “But soon. I can tell I’m going to like you. So you. What are you? Sixteen?”

“Yes.”

“That’s just perfect. You’re going to do great.”

The bright happiness of the ringtone is so sharp against the misery of this moment. My life with William feels so far away now. I was too much of a “good girl” to give myself to Will. And I’m supposed to suck a strange man’s dick for money that’s already gone. I ignore the call and drop my purse to the floor.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” He stands up and crosses to me, his dick protruding between us.

I hate him for making me stoop to this. I hate myself for making the decisions that brought me here. I’ve spent so many years trying not to be my mom, and I’ve never felt so low as I do right now. Never so pathetic.

“You do a nice job and I’ll bring you back.” He tucks my hair behind my ear and smoothes it down. “You’re beautiful, and I’ll take care of you.”

I’m trembling as I drop to my knees in front of him. My stomach heaves.

“That a’girl.”

My phone rings again. William. As if he knows and wants to save me from this.

My chest shakes and my cheeks are damp with tears. I said I’d never stoop to my mom’s level. I said I would never allow myself to be sold. I’ve spent years being proud about that. So f**king self-righteous.

I snatch my purse off the ground and grab my shirt and bra, running from the room. I thought I was better than Mom, but as I run to the elevator, I feel lower than ever because she did what she had to do. And I can’t.

Present Day

“I just scheduled a massage for tonight,” Max says, taking a sip of his beer. “I’m really looking forward to it.”

I retrieve my cell from my pocket and pass it to him. “Would you like to call and cancel it or do you want me to do it for you?”

Cally’s been working out of the apartment above my gallery for over three weeks now. She’s been a consummate professional where I’m concerned, greeting me when we pass in the apartment kitchen, asking all the appropriate small talk questions while still managing to avoid having any meaningful contact with me.

Max eyes my phone, his lips twitching. “It’s just a massage. Has she given you one?”

“Not since she was sixteen. Cancel it.”

“Man, you’ve got it bad.”

“Fuck yeah, I do.” The smell of stale beer and onion rings is enough to turn my stomach off my lunch. Even so, I prefer this scene to the bars closer to the university, where I’m all too likely to run into my students.

“So, do something about it.”

I set my jaw. “Hell, why didn’t I think of that?”

“You’re not on your A-game, man. She has you frazzled. You’re not even seeing the obvious here.”

I sit back in the booth and stare at my friend. Because he’s right. Cally’s been avoiding me and I’ve been waiting on her, rather than making my own move. “You know, I could use a massage.”

“That’s my boy,” Max says. “You can take my spot. Tonight. Six p.m.”

I have a fifteen-minute break before my next client arrives, and I collapse onto the couch in the apartment’s living-room-turned-waiting-room. We’ve started leaving the door between the gallery’s loft reception area and the apartment open to encourage gallery visitors to check out my specials and encourage my clients to exit through the gallery.

Through the door, I can see Will sitting on the couch in the reception area, peering into his laptop. He does that a lot, I’ve noticed, choosing to work in the common space instead of his office, but he leaves me alone.

For three weeks, I’ve been taking clients in my little studio and avoiding him as best I can. But between giving massages and the horrible couch I’m crashing on at Dad’s, I’m too exhausted to worry about limiting our exposure to each other tonight. The man might be a magic panty disintegrator, but the way I feel right now, he could make my panties dance the merengue against my girly bits and I still wouldn’t be interested.

“Busy day,” he says. He closes his laptop and heads toward me. He taught today and he’s still wearing the button-up Oxford, the top unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled to his elbows.

“Lizzy and Hanna had their mom tell all the women at the country club about me and my introductory prices. And I’m doing this refer-three-get-one-free deal.” I shrug. “It’s working. People are finding me.”

He rocks back on his heels. “I’m just impressed that you’ve had repeat business already. How many massages do people need in less than a month?”

I roll my head to the side so I can look at him while we talk. I’m not about to waste the energy to lift it. “‘I’m good at what I do.”

He tucks his fingers into the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders looking impossibly wide. “I remember.”

My cheeks flame to life. My mother had taught me massage when I was young, and I liked to practice on Will when we were dating. Of course, what started as my hands on his body usually ended as both of our hands and mouths everywhere. “Please don’t use my techniques at sixteen to judge my talents now,” I say. “I swear, I’ve grown remarkably more skilled over the last seven years.”

He grins and runs those hot eyes all the way from the roots of my hair to the tips of my tennis shoes. “So have I.”

Panties disintegrated.

I push off the couch, mentally preparing myself to find the energy for my last client of the day. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” I say as sweetly as possible. “I have a client in a few minutes.”

Will unbuttons his dress shirt and slings it over the side of the couch. Before I can ask what he’s doing, he grabs the hem of his undershirt and tugs it over his head, leaving me staring at his gorgeous, solid chest.

What was I saying? “I have a client,” I repeat, more for myself than for him.

“I know.” He shuts the door between the apartment and the gallery. He turns back to me before unsnapping the button on his jeans and exposing another half inch of that soft, golden trail that travels down his belly. “You want me to take it all off, or should I leave on my boxers?”

William. Naked. Sexy stomach. My hands on William’s stomach. My mouth. My tongue. I can’t even…. “What?”

He pushes his jeans from his h*ps and steps out of them. “I’m your six o’clock.”

“You’re my—” He’s wearing dark blue boxer briefs that hug his muscular thighs, and my panties might as well be dancing for as much as my girly bits are standing at attention.

“Cally, you keep looking at me like that and I’m going to find a new use for that massage table.”

My eyes snap up to his. He’s grinning that boyish grin, and I am swamped with the desire to shock him. To slide my hands down the flat of his stomach and lower until that smile falls away.

I roll my shoulders back. I am a professional. Pride myself on it and demand my clients treat me as such. That’s not going to change tonight. I clear my throat. “I’m going to step out for a minute. You may undress to your comfort level and lie on the table under the sheets.” Then I pretty much run from the apartment. Right. A professional.

Maggie is washing coffee mugs in the kitchenette, and she bites her lip when she sees me.

“You knew about this?” I hiss, crossing to her and scooping up my appointment book. “I thought my appointment was with….”

“Will’s buddy Max?” she asks with a raised brow. “I don’t think Will was going to let that happen. Guy code or something.”

Dammit. “I’ve massaged many beautiful men. William’s no different.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I’ve massaged William before,” I say stubbornly.

She tries to stop her grin. “How’d that turn out for you?”

I spin on my heel and stomp back into the apartment and to my massage room, where I knock on the door twice before cracking it. “Are you ready?”

He’s lying between the sheets face down. I usually start face up, but this will be easier. “I don’t know. I thought I was getting a massage, but you look like you’re ready to beat me.”

“Sorry. You’re not that lucky,” I mutter. The sound of his chuckle brings a reluctant smile to my lips.

I prepare in my typical way, lowering the lights, adjusting the volume on the music, rubbing oil on my hands. When my hands touch his back, I expect instinct to take over. I have no problem separating my touch as a professional massage therapist from my sensual touch. There are people who struggle with that—that’s why some don’t enjoy massage and others think it implies something sexual. They believe that every touch between adults is sexual. Add in the na**d or nearly na**d factor and they totally squick out.

For me, it doesn’t matter if my client is male or female, attractive or unattractive. The minute I begin a massage, my touch is therapeutic and all the other stuff falls away while I think about muscles and connective tissue and healing.

I know this isn’t going to be the case with William the second I touch my hands to his lats. First of all, he’s a moaner. Again, not something that normally affects me in the slightest. But with every touch, I am hyper aware of who I’m touching. This isn’t just a massage. It’s part of this long, drawn-out game of mental foreplay he’s brought me into.

His body is amazing. I’ve seen a lot of bodies, and I appreciate them all as beautiful in their own right, but if I had to pick out a male body that was most beautiful to me, it would be William’s. He works it hard. Not many adult men can say they’re in better shape than they were in their high school football days, but Will definitely is.

“You’re tight in your lower back.” I apply pressure to the point and close my eyes against the sound of his moan. I wonder if he moans during sex? Did he moan when we made out as teens? How could I forget something like that? “You should come to my yoga class at the gym. It’ll get this loosened up for you.”

“Is that where you go when you leave here on Thursday nights in those tight little black pants and tank tops?”

“Yeah.” I move up his back to the muscles over his shoulder blade. “This job is pretty hard on my body. I need yoga to keep my muscles from cramping up.”

“And yoga involves a lot of watching you bend yourself in pretzels and stick your ass in the air?”

“Watching the instructor would probably be more appropriate.”

“I can promise you, my eyes would be on you. Appropriate or not. And I don’t think I should be in public while I witness that,” he says, and I press a little too hard into the ridge under his shoulder blade. “Ouch!”

“Behave,” I mutter. I soothe the area with gentle strokes and resume my massage.

I GROAN at the sound of my alarm and roll over to turn off my phone. Waking up is equal parts painful and welcome. The first night on the couch wasn’t so bad. But after a few weeks on this Salvation-Army-find, I’m greeted every morning with an aching back and a sore neck, and now I hate it so much that sleep deprivation is less torturous than lying on the damn thing.