Just as an anxious noise escapes her throat, I take a step back, causing Lacey to fall backwards into my arms, channeling her inner Scarlett O’Hara. Before she gets too comfortable, I set her on her feet, making it known that I’m nobody’s Rhett Butler.

Her face flushed with embarrassment and arousal, Lacey quickly staggers to her seat, as ten women pelt her with questioning stares.

“Now,” I bellow with a loud clap of my hands, capturing their attention. “That was the art of attraction—working with what you’ve got. Playing up your strengths, and being confident in your sexuality. Any more volunteers?”

Eleven hands shoot to the sky. No, wait…make that 14. A few ladies are double fisting.

AFTER A DAY of stroking fragile egos and another awkward dinner, painfully watching most of the diners push food around their plates pretending to eat, I nearly sprint to the main kitchen for a cold beer and to check in with my staff.

“What’s up, J.D.? How’re the Erotic Eleven treating ya?” greets the Oasis sous chef, Riku. The kid is an anomaly. Half Japanese and half Brazilian, he’s used to getting mauled by horny housewives enamored with his jet black hair, broad build, copper-colored skin, and fine, Asian features. When I asked him how his parents managed to merge their cultures, he replied, “Everyone’s fluent in the language of love.”

Yeah right.

Still, he’s a good guy, if not slightly green when it comes to matters of the heart. If someone like me had friends, Riku would be it. But, alas, I amsomeone like me.

I grab two cold ones out of the fridge and pop them open before handing Riku his, which he gladly accepts.

Everyone here knows that, while I may sign their paychecks, I am as far from a boss as possible. There is no Mr. Drake here. No formal reprimands or hoops to jump through. The rules are simple: If you want to work with me, great. Do your job. If not, fine by me—everyone is replaceable. With the pay, benefits and mutual respect amongst all employees, whether you’re a dishwasher or head chef, I am rarely dealt the task of hiring or firing.

“Erotic Eleven? Hmmm…not much different than the last group. What’d you call them? The Sizzling Seven?”

Riku laughs before tipping back his beer, then looks down at the label. “ Krombacher, eh? Where’d you get this one?”

“Germany.”

“That where you spend your summer? Corrupting a bevy of beauties in Berlin?”

“One of the places,” I shrug. “Kinda just wandered through Europe. Stopped in Amsterdam, Brussels, Prague—even made it out to Spain.”

Riku shakes his head, his mouth curled into a smirk. “You make it sound like you were backpacking and sleeping in hostels or some shit. Be real, man. You did it up playboy style like you always do. Probably found your very own Heidi Klum out there.”

“Nah. Never that.”

Riku is half right. I did roam Europe in style, driving up the coast of Monaco, staying at luxurious resorts and indulging in the most amazing cuisine. I also indulged in my fair share of hot, European pussy. But, hey, I was on vacation.

“Sure, sure,” he remarks, not the least bit phased by my aloofness. He already knows that privacy is a big deal to me and that I rarely disclose any personal information. “Just toss one my way if you ever find your hands too full to juggle all those Vicky Secret Angels you like to keep stashed away.”

One swimsuit model. One. And suddenly I’m Hugh Hefner with a fresh Viagra refill.

I finish my beer in silence, listening to him ramble on about the insanely frustrating demands of our guests.

“No butter. No gluten. No dairy. No fat, no calories, no flavor. What the hell do these chicks want to eat? Air?”

“If you could put it on a plate and garnish it with parsley, it’d be a hit.”

“Fuck that,” Riku remarks with a shake of his head. “I want a woman that eats. Someone I can cook for and feed while she’s curled up next to me in bed. Ain’t shit I can do with a bag of bones. I mean, have you seen most of them? Shit, if they turn to the side, they fucking disappear. I’ll take tits and ass over Skeletor any-damn-day.”

I nod, feeling the double-edged sword of his words. Of course, these women want to eat. They crave rich foods and sugary desserts just like anyone else. They detest having to spend every waking moment obsessing over every pound and calorie. But when you live in a society that praises skinny and shames anything that doesn’t fit that extra-extra-small mold, you make sacrifices. And that’s exactly what they’ve done. They’ve sacrificed their happiness, their peace of mind, and in many cases, their health. And in the end, it’s not even about food or body image. It’s just another notch in the good ol’ fucked up, modern America belt.

I drain my beer before crossing the courtyard to my home. It’s warmer than usual, and under the dark cloak of night, I decide to take a swim to clear my head. After stripping off my suit and tie and changing into something more liberating, I dive into the turquoise water, letting the coolness drown the heat building deep in my gut.

This time feels different. I’ve been in this business for years, yet I feel oddly unprepared. It’s only the end of Day Two, and I’m already on edge, temptation closing in on the edges of my rationale. At this rate, I won’t last.

Ok, I lied before. Not lie-lie. Just didn’t tell the whole truth. When I said I endure six, sexless weeks during instruction, what I meantto say was that I tryto endure six, sexless weeks. Sure, I’m nearly always successful, but I must admit, there are slip-ups. That’s why I always keep a girl on standby. Very few outsiders know where the property is located, and the few who do are given that information under special circumstances. No strings, no expectations, just someone to scratch that proverbial itch so I can concentrate on the task at hand.

I swim the length of the pool, feeling my muscles flex and pull, igniting an entirely different burn in my thighs, calves and biceps. I push off the edge once more, causing my body to forcefully slice through the water. Damn, it hurts good. I want to keep going—keep pushing—until I’m too exhausted to think about what I really crave. I want to feel this burn of exertion until it eclipses the fire currently licking up my spine.

Most think I’m some kinda health freak. They see me doing laps, running, banging out pushups like it’s going out of style. But in reality, it’s necessary. It’s the only way I avoid what I really want. Without that release, I’d combust from the inside out. Either that or jerk my shit until it falls off. No bueno.

“Wow, no wonder there’s no decent junk food in this place. The owner is Ryan Lochte.”

I spin around to take in a pair of pale legs draped in floral silk to just below the knee. My curious gaze trails those stems up to the bend of soft hips that taper into a narrow waist before flowing into the bottom curves of full, pert breasts.

A grand says she not wearing a bra. Two says her nipples are practically winking at me under that maliciously thin sheath of silk.

Saliva collects in my mouth like a hungry lion and I swallow, forcing myself to look away before I allow myself to know the answer for certain.

I don’t need to see the rest. I already know. I can nearly smell her perfume in the whisper of wind that’s followed her to me. Hell, I can almost imagine the smirk that undoubtedly rests on those delicate lips.

“Seriously, what’s a girl gotta do to get some real ice cream around here?”

From the corner of my eye, Allison bends down to sit at the edge of the pool and tentatively dips her toes in. I turn to watch, amazed at the sight of the fragile gazelle at the watering hole. She visibly shivers and those large, animated eyes smile with amused wonder.

I clear my throat, praying that when I finally grow the balls to open my mouth, actual words and sounds will come out.