“Yes, I bought a new vibrator,” Taylor said. “And to answer your question, no I did not sleep with my client. But I did kiss him. And it wasn’t a fake kiss to go along with our fake relationship. It was a real kiss. With tongue. And my legs around his waist. And I can’t stop thinking about it.” She slapped her palm to her forehead. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“So why did things stop at a kiss?” Samiah asked.

Taylor threw her hands up in the air. “Didn’t I just explain this? He’s a client!”

“You know,” London drawled, swirling the wine that remained in her glass. “This has been a really enlightening conversation. I’m learning things about myself that I never considered. For example, I never saw myself as an amoral person. I mean, come on, I save the lives of children for a living. But, I have to admit, you’re a better person than I am, Taylor Powell. I would be fucking that man every chance I got. Screw being a professional.”

Taylor covered her face with her hands. Peeking through her fingers, she looked to Samiah and asked, “Are you going to be the voice of reason here?”

Samiah lifted her shoulders in an apologetic shrug. “I’m totally dick-whipped, so my advice would be the same. Screw being a professional.”

Taylor growled. “You two are absolutely no help,” she said, pushing herself up from the floor. “But thanks for the Ethiopian food, I guess.”

“You’re leaving? It’s only— Oh, shit, it’s almost ten,” London said, looking at her phone. “I need to get out of here too. I have two consultations scheduled before nine tomorrow morning.”

They cleared the food from the coffee table and divided the leftovers into take-home containers. Samiah put her arm around Taylor’s shoulder as they followed behind London to the door.

“I know we weren’t much help tonight when it comes to advice,” Samiah said. “But I applaud you for being so principled about this.”

Taylor tried not to roll her eyes. Unless principles became a magical cure for horniness, she wasn’t sure they did her much good.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

This shit is not working.”

Jamar peeked out of one eye, then quickly shut it again. He forced himself to remain in the massage chair, pressing his head back against the mechanical balls made to mimic thumbs. He still saw a massage therapist monthly, but for the time between his sessions, the therapist had suggested he set up a “tranquility room.”

He’d ordered an obscenely expensive massage chair, along with a commercial-grade aromatherapy diffuser that misted lavender, rosemary, and other shit that was supposed to relax him. He’d even had mood lighting installed, thin LED strips that ran along the crown molding, casting off colors he manipulated by remote control based on the ambience he wanted to set.