Find more from this author on:
Here is a short sample from the book:
By the time I read all about J. Daniels, I’d finished the last of the wine coolers and my eyes were blurry, my brain fuzzy. All in all, his bio and credentials were pretty impressive. The website made his services sound pretty hot but far less tawdry than the women had. Of course, he couldn’t exactly advertise that he charged for sex. The site played it like he did a more in-depth talking-it-out sex therapy, with clinical demonstrations. It wasn’t hard to read between the lines, though.
I wondered if he could help me with my problem—mainly a lack of available men willing to have a relationship that lasted from 8:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. One that pretty much consisted of the man having a hot meal for me when I got home, then listening to me bitch about my stressful day while he massaged my tense shoulders and aching feet until I fell asleep.
So, in reality, I was looking for a wife.
Not that I didn’t want the sex part. Boy did I. Good sex was worth its weight in premium micro-twill sheets. Unfortunately, it was also harder to find than that elusive man-wife.
The guy must be good, and trustworthy, because Jana McAllister didn’t skimp on anything. From her designer purses that cost more than most of my shoes put together to her fully-loaded Jaguar, Jana only bought the best. And if it turned out to be less than what she expected, it was out of there. So far I hadn’t seen any dead hot guys in her office.
Maybe she had the right idea all around. Paying someone who had to do whatever I wanted had merit. And if Mr. Daniels’ abilities matched his handsome headshot, maybe I wouldn’t want to fall asleep after the massage.
There was only one way to find out. On a strawberry-induced impulse, I grabbed the phone from the nightstand and scanned the website for a number. There was only a blank email form, so I found the card and dialed the number from that.
At that lonely, pathetic point in my existence, I had nothing to lose.