I’m facing the entrance to her suite by the time I realize I’ve abandoned her, leaving her mouth agape and her question unanswered. I imagine those blue-green eyes narrowed in confusion at my erratic behavior, but force myself not to look. There’s nothing to see there that I haven’t seen already. Just another poor, little, rich girl.

“Class is in session at 10 am. Don’t be late.” My gaze stays fixed on the dark, cherry wood door, dying to break free. The walls are closing in, suffocating me, demanding I turn around and face my cowardice. That I confront my weakness, currently bubbling up like bile as I pass the threshold of her suite—away from those enigmatic eyes and the temptation to play connect-the-dots with those freckles, in hopes of uncovering more of her beautifully blemished skin.

Day-fucking-One. I’m so screwed.

“UNLESS HE’S COMPLETELY desperate or under the influence, a man can’t—and won’t—fuck what doesn’t get him hard.”

Less gasps this time, but every perfectly powdered face is beet red with embarrassment, causing my mouth to slide into a sardonic smirk.

Truth be told, I love this shit. I love ruffling their meticulously groomed feathers. Their obvious discomfort entertains me. Seeing the rosy hue of coyness bleed through their blush is like a balm to my little, sadistic soul.

“And in that case,” I continue, “you don’t want him anyway. What you do want is for him to be salivating at the soles of your Jimmy Choos. And let’s face it, ladies… that’s not happening. Why do you think that is?”

Crickets. Fucking crickets.

“Anyone? Come on, ladies. I can’t help you unless you want to be helped. So unless you all have picture-perfect marriages, and husbands that blow your backs out on a regular, I should see some hands.”

This time I’m rewarded with the almost simultaneous intake of eleven breaths. They’re all still here. All willing to bare their souls and dirty laundry, in an attempt to rekindle the doused flame between their thighs.

You see, women are liars.

Yeah, I said it. L-I-A-R-S.

They want intimacy just as badly as men do. But to them, intimacy is more than just the physical act of sex. They want to be cherished, yet want a man that will get down and dirty. They want tenderness, but crave to be banged like a $2 hooker. They want a man that’ll go all night but still have the energy to kiss and cuddle and talk about their feelings afterward.

Listen up, ladies. We’re fucking tired! You try going jackrabbit-style, throw in some Cirque du Soleil moves and see if you can keep your eyelids peeled. Us passing out after sex is a compliment—a testament to how good it was. And quite frankly, if your dude can hop out of the sack and go to work or run a marathon, then he still has energy left for sex. He’s just done having sex with you.

Much to my surprise, a hand goes up, pulling my attention. Of course, fate would have a sick sense of humor.

“You’re saying our husbands aren’t attracted to us anymore,” Allison states flatly.

As much as I want to dispute her answer and curse that pathetic excuse for a man known as Evan Carr, my game face is fastened tightly in place. Still, I look down at my notes, not trusting it wholeheartedly. Business, Drake,I tell myself. Business before bullshit.

“Correct, Mrs. Carr.”

“Ally,” she retorts, causing me to nearly choke on my words.

“Excuse me?”

“Call me Ally. Just call me Ally. No one’s called me Allison since St. Mary’s prep. And if you call me Mrs. Carr again, I may have to sue for defamation. Mrs.Carr is my lovely, graciousmother-in-law,” she replies with a hint of snark.

Finally, someone who speaks my language.

It’s no secret that Mrs. Elaine Carr is a raging bitch in designer heels. Since her stint on The Real Housewives of NYC a few years back, she’s been known as the Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side. When the show caught backlash after one of her Pinot-fueled tirades involving a gay server and derogatory slurs, she wasn’t invited for the following season. She was furious, of course, and threatened to sue the network. Not that she needed the money. It was the humiliation of being thrown out on her little, augmented ass.

Lucky for her sake, Allison refused to be filmed, yet Evan was as much of a camera whore as his mother. As much as he enjoys screwing housewives, beinga housewife seemed even more enticing to him.

“Well,” I say, clearing my throat. “Where were we? Attraction, ladies. It’s a powerful thing. It’s what nabs them, captivates them and keeps them coming back for more. And it goes far beyond physical attributes. Point blank, you have to be what they want. You have to offer what they desire. You see, men are simple creatures. We want what we want. And if you aren’t what we want, we find something– or someone– we do.”

“That’s disgusting,” says a murmur toward the back of the room. I look up, immediately recognizing the platinum blonde hair and disgruntled face of Lacey Rose, wife of legendary rocker Skylar Rose, who is also forty years her senior. They met and married when Lacey was only 16, which quickly sparked a media storm surrounding the child bride’s intentions, and the musician’s penchant for adolescent poon. That was ten years ago, and now that Lacey has blossomed into a woman and birthed two children, Skylar’s been trolling Forever 21 and mall food courts for another young flower to pollinate.

Does this shit sound wrong to anybody else?

“Disgusting, but true, Mrs. Rose,” I reply with a nod.

“So what…we’re getting makeovers? We’re supposed to change who we are just so they’ll be attracted to us?”

“Not necessarily. Think of yourselves as perfectly wrapped presents. All of you spend thousands on your appearance, so there’s not much we need to work on there. We just want to present the package in a different way. Not change what you have, just exploit it. Let me show you. Mrs. Rose?”

I leave my place behind the lectern and go to stand in front of her with an outstretched hand. Reluctantly, she places hers in mine and stands, letting me lead her to the front of the room.

“What are you going to do to me?” she asks, her eyes darting around the room nervously, as I move behind her.

“Relax, Mrs. Rose. As you all have read in the documents you’ve signed, I will never physically harm nor violate you. In some instances, though, I will have to touch you. Guide you. If at any time you feel uncomfortable, simply say stop. That’s all. Now…may I touch you, Mrs. Rose?”

Her shoulders rise and fall with her labored breaths, anticipating the feel of my hands on her. This is the tricky part. I know what I do to these women. I know what they see, what they feel from me. They’re used to powerful men– they’re attracted to them– and that fact alone draws them to me. Add in the denim-blue eyes and 6 foot 2 inch dominating physique, and I’m reduced to high-priced man candy for the next six weeks. That’s why I keep things very professional. My tone is always clipped and straight to the point. While I try to be cordial, I’m never overly friendly. So, while they may be attracted to the physical, I’m too much of an asshole to warrant unwelcomed advances from lonely housewives.

“Yes,” she breathes. I can almost visualize her eyelids fluttering closed.

Towering over her from behind, the calloused pads of my fingertips lightly graze the sides of her arms, raking over her skin in a harsh whisper. She shivers under my touch, her breath coming out in quick pants while the rest of the women stop breathing altogether, their mouths agape in enviable lust.

I move in closer, letting my front mold into her back. She shudders for just a second before melting into the hard contours of my chest with a sigh. “You have amazing arms, Lacey,” I say just above a whisper, my lips only a breath away from her ear. “Toned, tan, smooth. Your shoulders are sexy. Has anyone ever told you that? Imagine hands massaging them– gently at first– kneading away the day’s tension. Then a little more pressure. Harder. Then harder still. Feels good, doesn’t it? Imagine lips trailing kisses across them before moving up to your neck. A tongue snakes out to taste you…so sweet…so soft…”