* * *

Mia:

I’m going to sum up the suckitude of my life with a three-point list.

1. Though I haven’t had sex with my boyfriend for over a month, he proposed last night in an extremely crowded restaurant, and I said yes. Because everyone was looking at me and I didn’t want to be the girl that broke his heart in a public setting. Even though I wasn’t really sure I wanted to marry Dennis.
2. Once I got back home, I started thinking about whether we were doing the right thing. So, I went over to his place to talk to him, and I found him plowing his dick in Tiffany Slater’s willing pussy. That wasn’t good.
3. I started yelling. Instead of groveling, he yelled back. “You’re frigid,” he accused me. “I’ve never been able to make you come.” Right. As if it’s my fault that I have to draw him a map to my clitoris.
4. (Okay, I lied. This is a four-point list.) Worst of all, when I threw his stupid engagement ring at his pasty-white butt, I missed. Big dramatic moment—ruined.

“So there you have it,” I finish reciting last night’s humiliating events to my best friend, Cassie, while unpacking a new shipment of cocktail dresses. “Can my life get any worse?”

It’s eleven in the morning, or as I like to think of it, ‘Treat Time.’ Usually, this is my favorite part of the day. The store is quiet, and I can arrange the clothing neatly on hangers, organizing them by color and function. I can fiddle with the display cases of costume jewelry and make sure that everything is perfect.

Cassie, who runs the coffee shop next door, is my supplier of treats. She’s watching me now, her eyes wide. “Dennis never made you come?” she asks, honing in unerringly to the most embarrassing part – the lack of orgasms. “Mia, the two of you dated for a year.”

“I know.”

She takes a bite of her muffin. Chocolate chip, if I know my friend. “Why on Earth did you keep going out with him?” she demands. Crumbs fall on my ornately tufted vintage velvet loveseat. Normally, I’d shoo her out of the way and bust out my hand-vac, but today’s not a normal day. “The guy’s not a looker, and he has the personality of a wet towel.”

I feel strangely compelled to defend my ex-boyfriend, but then I remember Tiffany, and I clamp my mouth shut. “I tried to tell him what turned me on,” I mutter, my cheeks flushed with humiliation. “At the start. He called me a pervert.”

Cassie’s eyebrow rises, and she gives me her ‘what-the-fuck’ look. “He called you a pervert?” Her voice is dangerous. “And you still dated him after that?”

Worse, I almost married him.

I avoid Cassie’s gaze. This situation would never happen to my friend. She’s bold and uninhibited, and she has every guy in our small town wrapped around her finger. Me? I’m the boring one in the corner, grateful for any scrap of attention that comes my way.

“Anyway.” Cassie dismisses Dennis with a shrug of her shoulder. “Forget Dennis. You dodged a bullet there. Let’s get you back on the horse. Friday night happy hour at The Merry Cockatoo?”

Normally, even the mention of The Merry Cockatoo would get a giggle out of me. The newly opened bar is on the same block as my clothing boutique and Cassie’s coffee shop. My landlord, George Bollington, has been waging a low-grade war with the woman who owns the bar, trying to get Nina Templeton to change the name.

“We’re a family-friendly town,” he grouses every time he sees me. “What kind of woman calls her bar that name?” Mr. Bollington is so uptight he can’t even say Cockatoo out loud. Because I’m the town’s resident good girl, he thinks he’s got a sympathetic audience in me. I get to hear him grumble about Nina, about the sex therapists who’ve just opened a practice in town, about people who chew gum and listen to loud music, about people who litter… you name it, and my landlord probably disapproves of it.

I agree with him on the litter, but the rest of it is Mr. Bollington being a grouchy old man. Except for the sex therapists. That’s professional jealousy. Mr. Bollington is a psychiatrist, and he’s grown accustomed to being the only option in town. He now has competition, and he doesn’t like it.

Speaking of Mr. Bollington, the door bells chime, and my landlord walks in. When he sees Cassie sitting in my store, he frowns. Cassie is another person Mr. Bollington doesn’t approve of. “Mia,” he says, ignoring my friend, “I just saw your window display.” His forehead creases with disapproval. “It’s very unsuitable. This is a family-friendly town.”

Last week, I’d received some incredible hand-made silk lingerie from a small French manufacturer. Each piece was so gorgeous that it should have been in a museum. I’d spent most of Saturday setting up a window display for the bras, panties, and slips. I should have known Mr. Bollington would get his knickers in a knot about it. (Ha ha. See what I did there?)

“Mr. Bollington, I run a clothing store.” I try and keep my voice firm. “Window displays are an important part of my marketing strategy.”

He’s unmoved. “Need I remind you about the morality clause in your lease, young lady?” he demands. The threat is unmistakable. Take the offending display down, or my landlord will make trouble.

Cassie snorts into her muffin once he leaves. “One day,” she gripes, “I wish you’d stand up to him and tell him his stupid morality clause isn’t legally enforceable. You’re going to take the lingerie down, aren’t you?”

“Probably.” I’m a people-pleaser. I want everyone to like me. And it seems easier to give in to Mr. Bollington’s demands than fight him. It’s just a window display, after all.

Cassie lets it go. “Back to more important things,” she says. “Friday night. We’ll get drinks, get tipsy, and go home with unsuitable men.” She winks in my direction. “The kind that will have you screaming with pleasure. The sooner you forget about limp dick, the better.”

I feel my cheeks heat. “Yeah, about that,” I mumble. “Dennis might be right.”

She frowns. “Right about what?”

Oh God. It’s mortifying telling Cassie the truth. “I’ve never had an orgasm with a guy in my life.”

Her mouth falls open. Thankfully, she’s finished chewing her muffin. “With any guy?” she asks, her voice astonished.

I think back to the three men I’ve slept with. Brett, my high-school boyfriend, who I went out with for two weeks before he dumped me to date Gayla, a big-breasted blonde cheerleader. Tony, my college crush, who slept with me once before confessing that he preferred men. And of course, Dennis, who buried his cock in Tiffany’s twat less than two hours after proposing to me. “Nope.” I lower my voice. “There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there?”

“Apart from your horrible tastes in men, no.” She gets to her feet and muffin crumbs cascade to the floor. “Friday. Meet me at six. Prepare to party your brains out.”

Once she leaves, I stare blankly at the rack of beaded and glittering dresses and think about my ex-fiancé. Even at the beginning of our relationship, I’d never felt the kind of passion for him I read about in books. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am frigid.

Cassie isn’t going to tell me the truth. The best-friend rules clearly state that she’s supposed to say supportive things.

But there’s another way to get the truth. As I vacuum up chocolate chip muffin residue, I make a decision. I’m not the kind of girl who sleeps with a guy she picked up at the bar. Even if I wanted to have sex with a stranger, they never tended to notice me. That kind of attention is reserved for Cass.

No, I’m going to solve my orgasm problem the responsible, adult way. I’m going to see a therapist. Not just any therapist. I’m going to see the sex therapists that Mr. Bollington hates. Benjamin Long and Landon West. Maybe they can figure out what’s wrong with me.

* * *

Benjamin:

It’s been two months since Landon and I opened our practice in this small town, and I can’t say that I’m enjoying it so far. While the pace of life is a lot more peaceful than Manhattan, I’m used to the anonymity of the big city. In New Summit, everyone has their noses in our business all the time. Given what we do, that’s a problem.

Landon, my partner and best friend, comes into my office at ten in the morning. “I need to talk to you about Amy,” he says without preamble, taking a seat opposite me and propping his legs up on my desk.

I give him a pointed look, one that just makes him laugh. Landon knows I like my office tidy and organized, and he takes delight in messing with me. “Make yourself at home,” I say dryly. I look him over. His hair is tousled, he hasn’t shaved, and his eyes are red. “You look like hell by the way. Late night?”

He grins. “Samantha came over,” he says. “She's a tiger, that one. She kept me up all night.”

It’s far too hard to keep up with Landon’s dating habits, but I could have sworn he was seeing someone else. “Weren’t you sleeping with Claire?” I ask him.

“Not anymore,” he replies with a shake of his head. “She was getting clingy. Talking about clingy, how's Becky?”

I gave him a puzzled look. “We broke up. Didn’t I tell you?”

A faintly hurt expression flashes across his face. “No,” he says. “You forgot to mention it. When did this happen?”

I do the math in my head. “Three weeks ago.”

“Why did you break up with her? The two of you seem to get along well enough.”

Landon knows me pretty well, so he’s guessed, correctly, that I initiated the break-up. I think about the lawyer I dated for six months. Landon’s right—Becky and I got along just fine. We never fought, we never argued, and we never even bickered. It had been an amicable, adult relationship, and it had bored me to tears.

“She wanted to move in,” I explain.

Landon raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess,” he says, his voice amused. “That suggestion filled you with horror. You thought about Becky’s stuff all over your place, her toothbrush next to yours, her pretty lingerie in your closet, and you ran for your life.”

“You don’t need to psychoanalyze me,” I tell him. Landon and I have been friends since college. He knows my flaws, and I know his. After a childhood filled with chaos, I’m almost pathological in my desire for calm. Landon’s father cheated on his mother and slept around like a randy tomcat, and as a result, Landon avoids relationships, convinced he wouldn't be able to stay faithful. “I’m quite aware that I’m a little stuck in my ways.”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” he replies, his expression serious. “I was going to tell you that you only pick women that you aren’t truly attracted to, so it’s easier to walk away from them when you’re done.”

I glare at my friend. That assessment is a little too close to the truth for comfort. “Didn’t you say you wanted to talk about Amy? What has she done this time?”

Amy Cooke is our receptionist. She’s new; the receptionist we had in Manhattan hadn’t wanted to leave the city. She’s still on probation, and at the rate she’s going, she’s not going to last very long.

“She outed Natalie to her sister-in-law.” Landon’s voice is angry. “Nat called me in tears this morning. It seems that Amy ran into Doris in church, and proceeded to ask her if Nat’s husband knew what she did in our office.”

I see red. Our practice specializes in sex therapy, and Natalie is one of our best surrogates. We use her to help clients who are having issues with their sex lives.

Unfortunately, surrogacy is still considered similar to sex work, and while Natalie’s husband knows what she does for a living, the couple would prefer that no one else does.

Now Amy has outed Natalie to her family.

“We should fire her,” I say flatly. “Amy knows how important confidentiality is. If she can’t respect the most basic rules of our profession…”

Landon winces. He’s kinder than I am. “Give her a warning,” he says. “Tell her that she’s out of second chances.”

I frown. “You do it then,” I tell him. “I’m too angry.”

“Not a chance,” he says promptly. “She has a crush on me. She'd be more terrified if you yell at her.”

“Fine.” Amy has to realize how important discretion is in our profession. Otherwise, she is going to get herself fired. Already George Bollington, the psychotherapist in town, is gunning for us. We don’t need any more hassle.

My intercom buzzes just then. “Dr. Long? Dr. West?” Amy’s voice sounds in my office. “Your ten thirty appointment is here. Mia Gardner.”

“Thanks Amy.” I put the phone on mute and grin at Landon. “I hope you’re ready to put your thinking cap on.”

“New patient?” he asks. Landon and I see new patients together, at least until we have a treatment plan in place. ”Let’s go.”

* * *

Landon:

There’s only one word I can use to describe the woman who waits in my office. Hot.

She’s in her mid-twenties. Her eyes glitter like green emeralds. Her hair is dark and lustrous, cascading in long, loose waves down her shoulders. Her body is the kind that a man dreams of, curvy and lush.

Except she’s a prospective client, for fuck’s sake. And though Ben jokes that I’ll screw everything in a skirt, I have some boundaries. Clients are always off-limits.

“Ms. Gardner,” I greet her with my most professional smile. “I’m Dr. West. This is Dr. Long. Please, sit down.”

I wave toward the deep burgundy couch, and she perches on the very edge of it. Her fingers are clenched into fists, and she’s yet to say a word.

“What brought you in today, Ms. Gardner?” Ben asks encouragingly.

She bites her lower lip. My cock takes note of the way her teeth indent the flesh, and I stir in my armchair, trying discreetly to adjust myself. God, this is embarrassing. I’m a sex therapist. I’ve watched people get fucked in this office, and I’ve never yet had to fight off an erection.

Fuck me. My dick hardens even further at the thought of seeing Mia Gardner naked.

Okay. Focus, Landon. She’s here for help.

“Ms. Gardner.” I lean forward. “It’s okay. You can tell us what the matter is. Everything you say in this office is confidential. We’re here to help.”

She nods. “I have a problem,” she says, her face flushed. Her voice is barely a whisper. “I don’t think I enjoy sex.”

“Why do you think that?” Ben asks her.

Her eyes drop to her lap. “I never orgasm,” she mumbles. “My fiancé thought I was frigid.”

She has a fiancé? I don’t know why that bothers me as much as it does.

Ben is more helpful than I am. “It’s pretty common not to orgasm with a partner.”

“It’s not just Dennis,” she confesses, her hands worrying the fabric of her skirt. “I’ve never been able to come with any partner.”

“Couples sometimes fall into a rut,” I suggest. “They find it helpful to tell each other about their fantasies. Role play, kink. Whatever jolts you out of your rhythm.”

Her face turns fiery. “Have you tried telling him what turns you on?” I continue.

“What turns you on, Ms. Gardner?” Ben’s voice drops an octave, and his eyes glitter with heat. Whoa. Benjamin Long is interested in this girl too. Well, well.

“It’s too embarrassing.” She can’t look at us.

“If you don’t tell us, we can’t help you.”

“I just can’t,” she wails.

I have a brainwave, which is a miracle, given that most of my blood has pooled in my dick. “Sometimes, when our clients are having trouble relaxing, we use hypnosis.”

“Good idea, Dr. West,” Ben says, giving me a sidelong look. He turns back to Mia. “Would you like to try that?”

She bites her lower lip again. I can see her debate it in her head.

“We record the session,” I assure her. “So you don’t have to worry about what you say.”

She appears to reach a conclusion. “Yes,” she nods. “I really want to solve this problem of mine, and if that’s what it takes, let’s do it.”

Ben’s the hypnotist. “Lie back on the couch,” he instructs Mia, while I set up the recorder.

She gulps, but obeys. She stretches out on the red burgundy velvet, her skirt riding up to mid-thigh. Her skin looks creamy and soft and very touchable.

“You have nothing to worry about,” Ben assures her. “Despite what you hear, we can’t make you do anything during hypnosis that you won’t do otherwise. It’s just to get you to calm down.”

He looks deep in her eyes, the lucky dog. "Relax,” he says, his voice low and soothing. “Let your muscles sink into the couch.” He draws out his sentences, the syllables slow and smooth. “Breathe in. Fill your chest and lungs with air.”

She complies, and her breasts strain against her shirt. I want to adjust myself but can’t. Until Mia goes under, sudden movements will startle her and pull her out of her trance.

“Good,” Ben continues. “Now breathe out slowly. Empty your lungs.”

After several steadying breaths, Ben proceeds to the next step. Despite what you see in pop culture, you don’t need a swinging watch to hypnotize someone. Just a focal object.

Unfortunately, Ben picks me. “I want you to look at Dr. West’s face,” he instructs. “Focus on him. Don’t move your eyes away from Landon, Mia.”

Her pretty green eyes meet mine. There’s a hint of nervousness there, but as Ben goes through each step, it disappears. After five minutes of slow, patient encouragement, her eyes grow heavy, and her breathing evens out.

Ben nods at me. She’s good to go.

“We were talking about sex, Mia,” I say. “Tell us what you want.”

“Dennis was tentative,” she murmurs, her voice soft. “Sometimes, I wanted him to take charge.”

“Take charge how?”

She hesitates. “I wanted him to push me against a wall,” she whispers. “Pull my hands above my head and hold them in place. I wanted him to be forceful. I wanted to be taken.”

Stay calm, Landon.

“What else?” My voice is strained. “What do you fantasize about?”

“I want to be spanked,” she replies. “I want to be dragged over a man’s lap.” Her expression turns dreamy. “He’ll pull my panties down, and he’ll order me to take my punishment like a good girl. And if I don’t obey, he’ll tie my wrists up so I can’t move.”

Oh my fucking God.

Even hypnotized, her cheeks go pink. “Then, once the spanking is over, he’ll push me down on my knees, and he’ll thrust his cock into my mouth.”

Ben makes a strangled noise in his throat. Thankfully, it doesn’t stop Mia Gardner, because she keeps talking. “Sometimes,” she whispers, “I even dream about more than one cock. One in my pussy, one in my ass. Taking me hard.”

This girl will be the death of us. Her fantasies are dirty and kinky, and I want to fulfill them.

She’s a prospective client, asswipe. Keep your dick in your pants.

Ben’s heard enough. He pulls Mia Gardner out of her hypnotic trance. When she’s sitting on the couch again, her back straight, her hands clenched in her lap, he continues gently. “Do you remember what you told us you want?” he asks her.

She shakes her head.

I swallow. Mia is an irresistible combination of good-girl on the outside, and hot kinky vixen when her inhibitions are down. Following procedure, I copy the recording on a flash drive and give it to her. “If you want to listen to it later,” I say in explanation.

Ben takes a deep breath to steady himself. “It sounds like you want to spice up your sex life,” he says. “Perhaps your orgasm problems are tied to that. Have you tried talking to your fiancé?”

Her fiancé. What a douchebag that guy must be. If I had a woman like Mia in my bed, I’d make damn sure I please her.

Ben says tied, and I think of Mia stretched out on the couch, her arms above her head, bound together with a tie. Not mine; I never wear one. Ben’s tie would work nicely, though.

“I can’t. We broke up.”

An unexpected surge of triumph runs through my blood. Yes. She’s single. Tell me more about your fantasies, I want to urge. Ben and I have shared women in the past. We haven’t done something like that in a long time, but for this woman, I’ll be happy to make an exception.

“We have some other options,” Ben says. “If you’d like, we can explore using sexual surrogates to help you climax during sex.”

She sits up. “A surrogate? You mean someone will have sex with me while you watch?”

“We’re trained professionals,” I reply. “I know it sounds awkward, but it isn’t as bad as it sounds.”

She jumps to her feet, her palms pressed against her cheeks. “I can’t,” she says, her eyes wild. “What was I thinking? Oh my God, I need to get out of here.”

She rushes out of my office. I stare after her retreating back. “Well, that went well,” Ben mutters. “Now I get to go and yell at Amy. What a fucking day.”

* * *

Start reading , book 1 of the Dirty Series today! Each book is a standalone MFM menage romance with a guaranteed HEA!