That’s why it doesn’t surprise me when I find myself saying, “There was a lot of stuff I didn’t get to have growing up. And as I got older, I just learned to go without.”

Ally drops the spoon and looks at me through those too-large eyes, compassion pouring from turquoise pools. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

I wave her off and shake my head. “Don’t be.”

“Really. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed that you were…you know…”

And it all comes back to me.

The very reason why I keep everyone at a safe distance. The assumptions, the sympathy. This shit right here. Right now, Ally thinks she knows me. Hell, she probably thinks she’s better than me. And as much as her bleeding heart may not want to, she pities me.

How stupid of me to think that I could be seen as more than just a charity case. I’m just the hired help, available to be bought and sold like a glorified indentured servant.

“Are you done?” I ask tersely, nodding at the half empty bowl.

“Wha-? Um, I didn’t mean it if I-”

I snatch the bowl from in front of her and throw it into the sink. The jarring sounds of clattering porcelain and metal echo throughout the room. I look up at Allison just as she flinches, her ruby lips fixed into a grimace.

“It’s late, Mrs. Carr. I think you should retire to your room for the evening.”

Without argument, she turns and quickly makes her way toward the door, fire trailing behind her like a sad, shooting star. She pauses marginally at the doorframe, but doesn’t look back, her flame becoming just a distant blur of red, as her whispered “I’m sorry,” carries in the balmy summer breeze.

“OVER THE PAST week, I’ve taught you how to exploit your best assets. Showed you how to make your man crave you emotionally, just as much as he does physically. I’ve even taught you how to stroke his fragile ego. That was the first phase of our program, and if you feel that was teetering on the threshold of your sexual tolerance, I suggest you leave now. Now, it’s time to kick it up a notch.”

I walk up to one of the housewives on the first row, not really seeing her at all, and help her to her feet. I don’t even look at her face as my hands find the pins in her tightly wound updo, quickly releasing a cascade of golden blonde, wavy locks. Next, my fingers trace the shell of her ears, down her jaw until they rest on the string of pearls kissing her collarbone.

“Does this make you uncomfortable?” I say, close enough that my lips graze her ear.

“No,” she squeaks. She’s lying. Fucking lying is all they’ve seemed to master. Fine. Time to call her bluff. A devious smirk on my lips, my fingers find the top buttons of her blouse. Her green eyes widen as I pop the top one, revealing more of her smooth skin.

“How about now? Does this make you uncomfortable?”

“No,” she replies, matching my raspy tone. Her eyes slide shut, and she releases a whine from her slender throat.

“What’s your name?” I ask, undoing the second button. She gasps as it falls open, revealing the top of her cleavage.

“Shayla. Shayla Adkins,” she relays, panting. Of course, I already knew that. Shayla Dawn Adkins, married to George Adkins, Jr., heir of a popular weight loss program that most of these women swear by. Her husband, affectionately known as Georgie, is also gay. And he sent her to me with the intent of going away for an extended vacation with his best friend/personal trainer, Arturo. Needless to say, there is nothing I can teach Shayla that will make her what her husband desires unless she makes a trip to Thailand and starts calling herself Sherman. And the sad part is, she’s completely clueless. She believes the bullshit he feeds her about being too stressed out at work to make love to her. She’s even proud of his dedication for spending countless hours “training” at the gym. Poor girl is as naïve as a baby lamb in a den of wolves.

“Shayla.” I step in so close that our bodies meet, her heat melding with mine. She sucks in a breath. “Shayla, do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Silence falls around us, and not even the sounds of heated breaths or the distant clattering of dishes from the kitchen can be heard. Just the muted rustling of fabric slipping over another ivory button fills the space, coupled with Shayla’s shallow panting.

My index finger falls on the front clasp of Shayla’s white lace bra, and she stops breathing altogether. I rake my fingers over the delicate fabric, toying with her, making her ache for what comes next. She lifts her head and gazes at me through long lashes, begging with those blue eyes. How long has it been since a man touched her? How long has it been since she felt desired?

“Seduction,” I breathe, and I feel her shiver under my touch. I pull open her blouse just a bit more, exposing her chaste lingerie. A hiss slips through her teeth as I splay a hand on her bare chest. “It lies in the sway of your hips when you walk. The light, breathy tone of your voice. The way your hair whispers across smooth skin. The way you’re looking up at me through your eyelashes right now, eyes hooded and smoldering.” I barely caress the shell of her bra and she quivers, drawing her bottom lip into her mouth. “Seduction, Shayla. I’m going to teach you how to seduce me, just as I have seduced you.”

In the next breath, I’m a foot away from her, yet my eyes are still locked on her angelic white lace bra. “Your bra is…cute. Practical. But it’s not seductive.”

I look around the room, addressing all of the ladies. “And I can bet money that each of you are wearing similar undergarments. Which is why you all have an assignment. In order to be seductive, you need to be confident. And that’s something that can’t be taught. It needs to come from within. So for today’s exercise, we’re going to do something a little different. You’ll all go back to your rooms and change into something a bit more…seductive. You’ll find that your suite has been stocked with lingerie from Agent Provocateur, and not a stitch considered sensible or practical. I want sexy, ladies. I want suburban slut. Housewife meets whore. Sell it. Make me believe it. Own it.”

“You want us to strut around in lingerie?” asks the matronly Maryanne Carrington, pulling her cardigan closed.

“Not right away. But today, you will strut around in front of me. By the end of the course, you’ll be comfortable enough to walk around practically naked on Rodeo Drive while drinking a latte.”

Horrified murmurs resound around the room, yet only one voice has the nerve to speak up. “Don’t you think that’s a little uncalled for? We came here to improve our marriages and our sex lives. Not abandon our morals and become your personal strippers.”

Numbly, I turn my gaze on Allison’s rigid expression, the light in her eyes dimmed by her annoyance. It’s the first time I’ve let myself look at her since last week. Since the day I kicked her out of my home with fallen stars drowning in her eyes.

“Like I said before, Mrs. Carr, if you find my teachings too risqué for you—if you think you don’t need this course—you can leave.”

Ally narrows her eyes into slits yet doesn’t say a word, resolving to wring her hands instead. I lift a brow, challenging her to storm out of this house and my life for good, restoring the carefree, I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude that has placated me for almost 30 years. My indifference has always been my safety net. And now…now I’m fighting just to hold onto it.

You reject people before they have a chance to reject you.

My head snaps to Allison as if she had just murmured the words herself. I know it’s just my conscience messing with me. My Jiminy Cricket has a sick, twisted sense of humor.

“So…how is this supposed to work?” Shayla asks, her face still flush and top buttons undone.