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At Your Beck & Call

Jane Harvey-Berrick

  Table of Contents


  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19


  Picture List


  More Books by Jane Harvey-Berrick



  Jane Harvey-Berrick


  The New Samurai

  The Dark Detective

  The Education of Sebastian

  The Education of Caroline

  Dangerous to Know & Love



  Playing in the Rain (not yet published)

  Jane Harvey-Berrick

  Jane A. C. Harvey-Berrick has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Jane A. C. Harvey-Berrick has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in Great Britain in 2014

  ISBN 9780957496170

  Harvey Berrick Publishing

  Copyright © Jane A. C. Harvey-Berrick 2014

  Cover design by Hang Le

  Cover photograph Shutterstock

  Edited by Lori Sabin

  Formatted by Perfectly Publishable

  This book is dedicated to Kirsten.

  Soul sister.

  I fuck women for money.

  “So, what other services do you offer, Hallen?”

  How many times had I been asked that question? How many times had I answered it?

  She laid her hand on my knee, her gaze sharp, questioning, lustful—and ashamed.

  The light was not kind to her, emphasizing hard lines around her mouth, the overly tight skin of her forehead.

  She should have chosen a bar with softer lighting. Candlelight hides a multitude of sins. Except my sins are all on the inside.

  When I’d arrived at the designated restaurant earlier in the evening, she’d been careful to conceal her age. Maybe she thought I’d care. I didn’t. I gave my name to the hostess and asked her to let Ms. Mandelsohn know that I had arrived.

  It was always interesting meeting a new client—a challenge, too—getting to know her, putting her at ease, helping her to feel comfortable, working out what she wanted from a date. She needed to feel safe with me, like I’d take care of her in all senses of the words. And talking is underrated as a method of foreplay. Clients often said they felt like they’d known me for years. Well, they knew the part I showed them, which wasn’t the same thing at all. But it was enough to let me fuck them.

  They didn’t always want sex—or they said they didn’t. Once they’d met me, they often changed their minds.

  Usually I enjoyed it, but tonight I was tired. I’d just flown in from a long but lucrative job in Europe. I wanted some down time but Eloise had insisted. The new client—preparing to purchase a seven bedroom home in Bel Air away from her Silicon Valley bore of a husband—had money to burn. Eloise was interested in acquiring a share. Plus, she felt it was her professional reputation at stake if she couldn’t supply an escort on demand. It was a principle of hers.

  So, my client and I had an early dinner, saw Dudamel conduct Turandot at the Hollywood Bowl with the LA Philharmonic—her choice—and now we were drinking in a bar on East 4th Street. We were both aware that the real entertainment hadn’t started.

  She leaned forward and ran a finger around the rim of her brandy glass. She was trying to look relaxed and seductive, but her eyes flickered furtively and beads of sweat broke out across her top lip. She was nervous; worried that someone would see us.

  She glanced up from her glass and I met her gaze, staring straight into her eyes.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  She looked away, chewing her lip. Her reply, when it came, was barely audible.

  “You. I had you in mind.”

  Okay. Not that nervous.

  I glanced at my watch. She’d paid for another 40 minutes of my time, but strictly speaking the date ended with this drink. It was all billable, and I was a legitimate, taxable business, registered with the IRS. Of course, Eloise knew the likely outcome of a date, but it was on a need-to-know basis—and she preferred not to know—she just logged my hours. Plausible deniability. I provided a high-end, professional escort service. These days, I wouldn’t go from my bed to yours for less than $5,000. Plus Eloise’s share. Of course.

  “I guess you could say I’m available.”

  She smiled, her lips straining to curve upward. I noticed that her lip gloss had bled into the lines around her mouth.

  “I thought you might be,” she said, before pausing. “So, how does this work?”

  Time to play ball. So to speak.

  “You can book one or two hours. I don’t do couples, guys, orgies, or hardcore BDSM. No underage or animals. No filming. No photographs. No drugs. You pay for the room and any food or drinks.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  Yes, I know how that sounded, but in the early days I’d gotten into a few situations that I’d had to walk away from. I also didn’t go anywhere near groups, not since one disastrous trip to Mexico where my date paraded me around her rich bitch friends, clearly thinking they could all share me. And on top of that, they’d brought in another guy and four girls and had some sick idea about us enacting a rape scene. I declined. My ‘date’ was offended that I’d made her look bad in front of her friends, and sent me back to LA. I couldn’t get away from her fast enough.

  Then there was the creepy-as-fuck time when a woman had pulled off the condom we’d used, squeezed my cum on her tits, and had her dog lick it off. For fucks sake. I wanted to gag.

  Now I preferred to be upfront: one-on-one with a bit of kink thrown in as an optional extra. It saved complications.

  “That’s quite a list. What do you do?”

  “Everything that’s left.”

  Her eyes widened, and I watched as her pupils dilated.

  “My hotel is two blocks away,” she stated, the words husky and indistinct.

  “Do you want to walk or…?”

  She interrupted me. “No. Cab. And I want two hours.”

  “I’ll arrange it.”

  I stood up and pulled out my cell phone, texting Eloise to tell her to bill the client for a further two hours.

  Then I pressed ten bucks into the doorman’s discreet palm, and told him I wanted a cab in five minutes—long enough for Eloise to text back, confirming that the cash had left the client’s account.

  She was waiting for me, a hungry look on her face, her eyes stalking me across the bar. Her hand fluttered in her lap, and I glanced at the ring she wore—third finger of her left hand.

  Even when I started in this business, I’d never had a problem screwing married women. If I had cared, Eloise quickly pointed out that I would have maxed
out with about three clients a year.

  “How is this any different from marriage?” she argued. “It’s just a different type of transaction.”

  I was 21 then and didn’t have the life knowledge or vocabulary to disagree with her. Seven years later, Eloise hadn’t changed her opinion and I’d never been married. God, no. Nothing had changed.

  Confidence had never been my problem. Except now I was more experienced. You can charge extra for that.

  Eloise had been wrong about one thing though: only one in four of my clients were married or in a committed relationship, (and I didn’t dwell on the irony inherent in that statement). The majority were single, divorced or widowed, and didn’t have the time, opportunity, or inclination for a relationship. I provided a service and I was paid well.

  I was good at it, too. Very good. I’m not boasting—only repeating what I’ve been told on occasions too numerous to count, let alone remember.

  I had no illusions about my role. Prince Charming with a price tag. I was the fantasy lover and like all fantasies, I vanished before dawn. I drove home, slept in my own bed, and woke up alone.

  It suited me. It was easy.

  So seeing a wedding ring on the hand of my new client didn’t affect me one way or another.

  The doorman caught my attention and I stood, offering my hand. She looked up, her eyes wide, her small tongue flicking out across her lips like a snake.

  She seemed anxious in the confined space of the cab, her alcoholic courage seeping away. I held her hand and smiled at her. She was paying me to make her feel good, and I intended to make certain that tonight she would enjoy sex more than at any other time in her life. It’s a basic rule of marketing: give the client what they want—or what they didn’t know they wanted until they’ve had it—and keep them coming back for more. Market forces: supply and demand.

  You’d be amazed how rare good sex is—or so I’m told. My clients were forever complaining that their husbands and boyfriends didn’t take enough time getting them in the mood, or that these guys couldn’t find a woman’s clit with a roadmap, or know what to do with it if they did stumble across it. And the same men told their wives that the G-spot was a myth. I mean, hell, all you have to do is Google it. What I’m saying is that standards were so low, it wasn’t difficult being the best these women had ever had. I’m not being arrogant—I just paid attention.

  We arrived at her hotel a few minutes later and she paid the taxi driver.

  She had her key card with her so we rode the elevator straight up to the penthouse. I took the card from her, finding it slick with her sweat, then opened the door and held it for her as she walked inside.

  It was larger than an ordinary hotel suite, a little more opulent, the fittings of a better quality, the antiques real, the marble imported from Italy. It was one of the many hotel rooms that I’d seen during the course of the last seven years. Maybe even a room I’d been in before for all I knew—appointments blurred after a while.

  “Would you like a drink?” she asked, unable to hide the slight shake in her voice.

  “Thank you.”

  “Another brandy?”

  I nodded, glancing across while she tried to concentrate on pouring the drinks.

  Hanging my tux jacket over a chair, I casually dropped the packet of condoms next to the bed as she watched me. Then I loosened my bow tie and stood staring out at the toy cars creeping along the street below.

  She joined me at the window, a large glass of Cognac in each hand. I accepted one and clinked it against hers.



  She smiled and took a sip, her eyes thirsty and impatient.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked, quietly.

  “That it’s a long way down.”

  She laughed, tension seeping around the edges of the sound. “I hope you’re not thinking of jumping to get away from me.”

  I turned to look at her, deliberately running my eyes up and down her body. “No, I’m not thinking that.”

  Her lips parted in a small gasp.

  I took the glass out of her hand and placed it on the table with mine.

  Belinda. Her name was Belinda.

  “What do you like, Belinda?”

  “Um, I…”

  “You can tell me,” I said, as if we were sharing a secret. “Do you want me to touch you slowly?” I drifted my fingers down her arm, stroking her skin. “Or do you want me to take you hard?” I gripped her wrist in one hand and tipped her chin up with the other, so she was forced to look at me.

  I saw her moisten her lips and swallow.

  “Hard,” she whispered.

  Yeah, that’s what I’d guessed. You learned to read people—women—in this job.

  I wasn’t always so clinical and cut off … in case you were wondering … but it got me through the days. And the nights.

  I pulled her toward me and crashed my mouth down onto her throat, sucking at the skin where neck met shoulder, grazing my teeth over her loose flesh. The breath rushed out of her body in a long moan.

  I was careful not to mark her where it could be seen—that would be unprofessional—I’d find somewhere more discreet. A small memento.

  Snapping open the tiny button on her dress, I tugged it down roughly so she was standing in just panties and pumps.

  I weighed her breasts in my hands and rubbed my thumbs in slow strokes over her puckered nipples. I bent down to tug those stubborn little nuggets with my teeth.

  No, I never have any problems getting hard. I never need Viagra. Not many men would, I think, at 28.

  Horny + woman = hard dick.

  Any guy can do the math. It’s a reflex, like blinking.

  I told them all it showed how much I wanted them, but you can teach any dog to beg.

  She palmed me over my pants and I pushed my hips toward her, the familiar and rehearsed choreography a dull reminder of the work ahead. Maybe she’d surprise me, but I doubted it.

  She whimpered and started tugging at my shirt. I pulled away from her, and she stopped and stared. She was panting, her fingers extended like claws.

  I bent down to take off my shoes and socks. I don’t care if you’re George Clooney—no man can get away with wearing just his socks. Women appreciate details like that. And if I ever get around to writing a how-to manual, I’ll add: show respect; listen—really listen; make sure you smell good; and use a ratio of 4:1 on the time spent on foreplay and fucking. It’s not that difficult. Like most people, I’d assumed that these encounters couldn’t have meaning. But they did. It might not be much, but it was something.

  I stood up straight and held my arms away from my sides, inviting her to undress me, the slow revelation of her every dream. She began with her eyes, taking in my bare feet, the outline of my hard-on through the dress pants.

  She licked her lips again and tottered forward, her balance becoming uneven with an alchemy of alcohol and lust.

  While she undid the buttons of my shirt with trembling fingers, I circled my arms behind her to unfasten my cufflinks. The action closed the few inches between us.

  My shirt dropped to the floor and she scraped her hands down my chest and stomach.

  “God, you’re a Viking! You look good enough to eat!”

  “I’m open to offers, baby.”

  Her response was half laugh, half groan.

  The ‘Viking’ comment was nothing new. I was taller than average, with pale blond hair, worn short and spiked on top, my eyes an arctic blue. But it was my Swedish name that people remembered and encouraged the comparison.

  “Oh my, God, Hallen!” she croaked. “You’re so beautiful. Too beautiful—you don’t seem real!”

  Bored, I glanced at my wristwatch then brought my mind back to the internal script I used.

  “Do you want me to take you at the window, baby? Press your beautiful breasts against the cold glass while I fuck you. Anyone looking up would know what a bad, bad girl you are. Anyone could see.”

  She choked on a laugh and I could tell she was considering it. My guess was she’d go for the bed. Older women usually did. But I liked to offer the option. Adds to the fantasy, you know?

  “You want a bit of comfort, baby? You want soft sheets and my hard cock?”

  Her eyes widened and she nodded quickly.


  Women wanted to be wined and dined by a gentleman, but in the bedroom—that was different. It was the only time I talked dirty. It came naturally after years of practice—irony intended. The whole ‘baby’ thing—it was in case I forgot their names. That had happened once—followed by a pretty ugly scene. Eloise had been forced to reimburse the client. Neither one of them was happy. I stuck to ‘baby’ after that. I couldn’t bring myself to call anyone ‘love’—the word was too heavy and awkward on my lips. ‘Baby’ was playful and anonymous.

  I opened the button and pulled the zipper down with teasing slowness while she enjoyed the show. I stepped free and passed my pants to her so she could hang them on the chair with my jacket. She lined up the creases perfectly—only women who’d been married did that. I’d often speculated on the reason.

  I stroked myself over my briefs.

  “See what you do to me, baby? See how much I want you?”

  She sighed and her eyes locked below my waist.

  I pulled her toward me roughly, forcing her body against mine. Her hands were needy and her mouth slammed against my chest as I nipped her shoulder and grabbed her ass, squeezing hard.

  Passion by the numbers. Never fails.

  She began keening, murmuring wordlessly against my skin. I walked her backward to the bed, and when she stumbled I hooked my arm under her knees, swept her up, and dropped her onto the mattress.

  She was too surprised to protest, and her fingers grabbed at the sheets.

  I slid my body up the bed. Hovering over her, I braced myself on my forearms, and kissed my way from her round, soft stomach and pale stretch marks, to her throat, paying lavish attention to her breasts while she clawed at my shoulders and back. That shit was going to leave a mark, but I didn’t stop her. The customer is always right, isn’t that what they say?