Protege(8)

“Go on,” she directed, with an air of exasperation.

He arched a brow. “I believe it works better for everyone if I give the orders, Ms. Banks. Let’s move to page eight.” He flipped the application to the back. “Date of your last clitoral orgasm.” Smothering the urge to see her shock firsthand, he kept his eyes on the paper, pen poised at the question. “I’m waiting.”

“You expect me to know the exact date?”

“Roughly.”

After a long pause, she sighed and muttered, “Yesterday.”

He silently chuckled as he recorded her response.

As his gaze returned to hers, heat tightened his gut. “And was this achieved individually or with a partner?”

“I was alone.” Her voice had turned small.

Her answer relieved his discomfort. “How frequently do you masturbate, Ms. Banks?”

“Whenever I can’t sleep.”

“That doesn’t answer my question?”

“Almost every day.”

“Almost?”

“Every day.”

“I see. And the date of your last vaginal orgasm?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Generalize. Years? Months? Weeks?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had an orgasm without clitoral stimulation.”

He marked down her answer. “That’s not uncommon.”

“I’m aware.”

He stilled, not caring for her change in attitude. Setting the pen on the desk he leaned back. “Is there a problem, Ms. Banks?”

“You’re doing this for your own entertainment. I’ve already answered all of these questions on the application you threw in the trash.”

“And we’ve established you weren’t one hundred percent honest on that form.”

“I was on this part,” she argued.

Drawing in a deep breath, he met her gaze with unyielding challenge. Her willfulness might be a larger issue than her lack of endorsement. “Ms. Banks, I understand the instinct to challenge my decisions, but you’re here because you asked to be. I do not appreciate having my choices questioned, nor do I often provide justification for my decisions. Fernweh is my business and it’s my job to properly run that business. If this is going to be an ongoing issue for you, we can stop now.”

***

Mr. Duval was definitely not in a humorous mood. She’d either misread him completely or offended him. Contrite, she nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not pointing this out to chastise you, sweet. I’m merely stating a fact. While willfulness can be amusing and admirable at times, brattiness is best suited for playgrounds and daycares.”

She gaped at him. “I wasn’t being a brat.”

“You were sulking. You still are.”

She grimaced. Her lips pursed to prevent further argument, which really was a struggle. Had she always been a brat? Did other people see her that way?

“Shall we continue?”

Silently, she nodded.

“Name of your last sexual partner?”

She drew in a deep breath. “Zack Shifton. Can I ask why that’s relevant?”

“You may. If you’ve slept together and you’re not still with him, you’re clearly incompatible. In the chance case that he might be a member of Fernweh, we like to do a background check.”

She supposed that made sense. But . . . “If he were a member, wouldn’t it be against the rules for him to sleep with me being that I’m not a member?”

“It depends on each individual’s preferences. We don’t go by a standard set of rules recognized by a prudish society. Some couples encourage their partners to stray. Others invite swingers into their relationships, or thirds, or even trade off for an agreed length of time. It all depends on who is setting the rules.”

She swallowed and whispered, “I don’t think Zack’s a member here.”

His mouth curved in the slightest grin, deepening the slight creases around his eyes. “You never know.”

She supposed that was true. When he didn’t continue with the questioning, she shifted. Her body had been unusually tense ever since he’d caressed her breasts while taking her measurements. Not to mention the way he touched her thighs and lingered longer than any seamstress ever had.

Her gaze traveled to his fingers. There was no telltale wedding band, but who knew with this crowd? He could have a wedding piercing from his lover, who might be named Buck. Besides, Mr. Duval was definitely too much testosterone for her.

His broad shoulders stretched the fine fabric of his dress shirt as his intense gaze studied her. He was tall and there was something mesmerizing about his jaw, the way the shadow of a beard threatened to rumple his sophisticated appearance. She bet he looked amazing in a simple T-shirt and jeans but could hardly picture him in such. His clothing was clearly selected to translate his authority.

Hopefully, if she passed the qualification process, she’d be put into the system and matched with a partner who appreciated her gentle disposition and didn’t think she was a brat. Perhaps they’d find her someone who understood chivalry wasn’t dead, someone who treated his woman like a lady yet heated her blood in private.

“You’re blushing, Ms. Banks.”