Reed's Sex Academy
Author
Rhea Harp
Reads
5.3M
Chapters
32
Why do I want this job? Because my sister is in foster care. Because I’m broke and can’t find a decent-paying job. And because I’m seriously on the verge of a breakdown if things don’t start looking up soon.
Mr. Reed opens my eyes, and my body, to the unspoken world of the Academy. I’m powerless to deny him anything. He owns me, and he knows it.
But someone else knows. Someone determined to take both of us down.
Will I survive long enough to get out with my heart intact?
Mr. Reed's Office
Book 1
“Take a seat.”
My heart hitches up to my throat as I slowly make my way deeper into his office. I shouldn’t be here, I know that. But because I have no other choice, I’m making a real effort not to give up on this whole idea.
The man behind the ebony desk doesn’t take his eyes off me as I approach the leather chair across from him. Pulling the edges of my short skirt down, I hesitantly do what he says and square my shoulders.
His tall figure, dressed in an impeccable, tailored black suit that molds perfectly to his muscular body, hovers over me like the threat of some dark, twisted promise I don’t dare think about.
Which is ironic, considering that I have been the one waiting for him to show up to this interview today. If anything, he should be looking more apologetic right now. Yet he looks anything but—as if the small error I made earlier was the biggest sin known to mankind.
I was smoking in front of the Academy when he arrived, checking in with my sick sister over the phone. She didn’t go to school today, and I worry that her foster mom isn’t taking good care of her. Even more reason for me to be here, taking this interview, despite this man being a total arrogant asshole.
When I saw him coming toward the building, I accidentally threw my cigarette butt on the ground, missing the trash can. And I nearly told him to fuck off when he demanded that I pick it up in a tone so hostile it felt like pure acid spilling from his lips into the back of my throat.
My attitude didn’t help either, I’ll admit. But I truly have no control over when my inner shameless bitch comes out. Now that we’re here, though, in the confined space of his office, the shadows swimming in his forest-green eyes make me want to think twice about the words coming out of my mouth.
Mr. Reed—his secretary called him as she ushered me into his office—sits across from me, no trace of amusement on his face. His eyes narrow on me, a few dark strands of hair swaying softly across his forehead from the breeze coming in through the open window behind him.
A subtle, decadent scent wafts over to me at the same time—musk and oak moss, and a hint of something crisper, something intoxicatingly beautiful—and I know it’s emanating from his expensive suit.
There’s a thin, open folder on the desk in front of him. But it’s not my résumé. That’s not how you get invited to an interview like this.
I’ve been out of work for three months, ever since being fired from the corner salon I worked at for years—for something that wasn’t even my goddamn fault—and finding a new job has been close to impossible.
It’s been three months of countless interviews, rejections, and humiliation. Three months of sleeping on couches and borrowing money from friends that I have no idea how to pay back.
I have no savings. Zero. Zilch. In a city like New York, there’s no such thing as saving money. Not when you’re making $15 per hour and you indirectly have a child in your care.
So when I overheard two girls at a café talking about the Academy, I knew this job was probably my only real chance to help my sister and support the two of us. The girls introduced me to someone who knew someone else who eventually got my name and contact info to the right people.
And, well, here I am.
Mr. Reed’s eyes run over my body and one corner of his lush, symmetrical lips lifts into a subtle smile. Not the good kind.
I try to swallow, but my throat is swollen and doesn’t want to work. There are no pleasantries with this guy, it seems. But that’s fine with me. I don’t particularly feel like being pleasant either.
“So, Miss…Beauvoir,” he draws out, his gaze glistening with something I can’t quite put my finger on. “What brings you here today?”
My name sounds abhorrent coming from his lips. I try not to let it get to me. If he wants tough, I’ll give him tough.
“Clearly, I want the job,” I tell him firmly.
His emerald gaze licks fire down my chest as his jaw clenches, and he pauses before speaking again.
“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I’m asking you why you want it, Miss Beauvoir.”
“It’s Evelyn,” I correct him, a hint of pride flashing through me at not making this any easier for him than it is for me.
But his question—a valid one—lingers between us. I look out the window and bite my lip, swallowing back my tears.
Why do I want this job? Because my sister is in foster care. Because our drug-addict mother can’t take care of herself, let alone a ten-year-old girl. Because I’m broke and can’t find a decent-paying job. And because I’m seriously on the verge of a breakdown if things don’t start looking up soon.
But I don’t say any of that, of course. Instead, I settle for the one answer you should probably never give in a job interview. Or, at least, in a normal job interview.
“I could use the money.” I shrug, trying to act nonchalant as he stares at me like he’s waiting for me to say more. But I have nothing to add. That’s all I’m saying.
“Have you worked in this industry before?”
I shake my head. The industry has only been legal for a few years. Before I lost my job, I never thought I would go this route. I was surviving, barely, but surviving. “I haven’t, but I…know what to do.”
“Is that so?” He tilts his head, assessing me.
“Well, I mean, I’ve…done things before. In my relationships.”
“Like what?”
Hot flashes strike like lightning through my face at the question. Too intimate. Too…perverse. And yet, I’m here because I chose to be. And I know I’m going to have to answer.
“Like…um…,” I start, pinching my thumb really, really hard while completely avoiding his penetrating gaze. “Blow jobs. A-and…”
“Yes?”
Oh, God. This might be the most embarrassing moment of my life. I pinch my thumb harder and think of my sister. Fuck my dignity. Bea needs me.
“And backdoor training.”
Backdoor? Who the fuck says backdoor? Oh, God. This must be a bad dream or something. Surely, if I can just wake up from this…
But then he nods, completely unfazed. And orders me to do the unimaginable, right here, right now. “Strip for me.”
