The Gentleman Mentor
Page 12Brielle’s mouth drops open.
“Tell me one thing about yourself that you wish you could change,” I say, shifting the conversation to her.
She thinks for a moment before answering, taking another sip of her wine. “I wish I had more confidence. One of those women who can strut around in their birthday suit and feel like a goddess.”
I don’t know many women like that, but I know I can help her. It’s as if a man has never really appreciated her body, shown her all the ways she’s beautiful and amazing. I won’t make the same mistake.
“And what about past relationships?” I ask. “You indicated you had two.”
She nods. “Yes.”
“How have you felt you were unsuccessful in those?”
“I was probably too eager, too ready for a steady relationship and monogamy, and the future that goes along with it,” she admits. “Most men aren’t interested in that.”
She deserves monogamy and commitment from a man. But when have I ever really given that to a woman? Once, and it almost ended me.
She nods, chewing on her lower lip.
“Do you see that man at the end of the bar?” The guy is in his mid-thirties, decent looking, and dressed in a suit and tie. No ring, nursing a bottle of beer in front of him. Basically, an easy target.
She nods.
“I want you to finish your wine. Walk over there, stand near him with your empty glass. Make eye contact, only briefly, then look away.”
She swallows heavily, her cheeks brightening. The idea of this intimidates her, yet somehow I know she’ll follow through. “Okay. And then what?”
I stroke her cheek, encouraging her bravery. “He’ll start up a conversation with you. Be polite, but don’t be too eager.”
“Wait.” She holds up her hand. “How do you know he’ll start up a conversation with me?”
“He will. And he’ll offer you another drink. Think it over, and then accept. Don’t be too enthusiastic. You don’t need him. You don’t need a man at all, do you understand me?”
I stop her mid-sentence. “Men can smell desperation a mile away. If he thinks you’re aching for a ring on your finger and 2.5 kids, he’ll disappear so fast your head will spin.”
She frowns, and I suspect that my little overeager kitten has been going about things all wrong. Boldly making conversation, laughing at every bad joke, nodding along and agreeing to just about anything.
Fuck that. She is a delicacy to be savored. I want to breathe in her every breath, feel her skin warm beneath my hands, and know her moans of pleasure are because of me. And I want to fucking work for it. It’s all in the chase. The submission is that much more beautiful when I have to work to make it happen.
“Talk with him for a few minutes, but let him take the lead. He’s the man, for fuck’s sake. I want you to practice flirting.”
“I’m not good at flirting,” she says.
My impish grins tells her that’s the entire point, and when realization dawns, Brielle narrows her eyes.
“Your goal is to leave him wanting more. The old saying about giving away the milk for free? Let’s just say it’s entirely true. Leave him rock hard and breathless. Trust me, he’ll be itching to call you.”
She downs the remainder of her wine in a single gulp. “Wish me luck,” she says, rising to her feet.
Brielle smirks and lets her long legs carry her over toward him, then does just as I’ve instructed. She stands beside him as if she’s waiting for the bartender to notice her empty glass, and as I’ve predicted, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Douchey is already eyeing her up. He’s practically fucking salivating.
He asks her to join him, motioning to the empty stool beside him. Brielle, my good little student, takes a moment to think it over rather than immediately agreeing.
She’s a pleaser, and that’s her problem. I want to teach her to stand on her own two feet, to realize her own worth, and make a man work for her affections. No man wants a pushover. He wants the deep satisfaction that comes from conquering what hasn’t been conquered before.
After a few minutes, she has a fresh drink in front of her, and she’s smiling as she listens to something he says. She’s attentive and interested, but only mildly so. He has to work for it, exactly as he should. I expect Brielle’s eyes to dart occasionally over to mine, seeking approval, or just to check that I’m watching, but she doesn’t look over even once. It bothers me more than it should.
Soon, she’s leaning closer to him on the bar, openly laughing. As I watch them interact, I find myself wishing for something stronger than club soda. She’s just a client, so my reaction is out of place. We hardly know each other yet.
Perhaps that’s all it is—we’ve barely cemented our relationship, however brief it may be, and she’s already off trying to please another man. That won’t do. I haven’t even gotten to sample the goods yet, and there’s no way this douche is going to before me. We have an agreement. She’s mine for six sessions.
Impatiently I watch them, waiting for an excuse to haul her ass out of here.