Pull You In (Rivers Brothers Book 3) Read online

  Contents

  TITLE

  RIGHTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  BONUS CONTENT

  ALSO BY JESSICA GADZIALA

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  STALK HER!

  PULL

  YOU

  IN

  Rivers Brothers #3

  —

  Jessica Gadziala

  Copyright © 2020 Jessica Gadziala

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for brief quotations used in a book review.

  "This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental."

  Cover Image Design: Jessica Gadziala

  Cover Image Credit: KQConcepts / Getty Images, Samy Vas / Getty Images, leuan / Getty Images, Foxy Dolphin

  PROLOGUE

  Call Log:

  11:51 PM

  Name: Katherine (1st-time caller)

  Notes: None

  Rush used to hate when they left the notes empty. Back when he first started the job, knowing what a caller wanted from him helped chase away the niggling uncertainty he'd felt about the job as a whole.

  After all, it was one thing to dirty-talk a woman in bed, in the heat of the moment. It was a complete other to have one cold-call you, give you nothing to work with, and come up with a one-sided script right on the spot.

  He'd learned fast that the reasons a woman called varied from one end of the spectrum to the next. Some just wanted to chat about their days, about their stress level, have someone who would actually listen to them, even if they had to pay for it.

  Others, well, others wanted you to pretend to be their Dom, telling them they were bad girls who needed to be punished, and all the ways you intended to do that to them.

  Rush had needed to brush up on his kink knowledge pretty soon after signing on with Fee. He spent his time between calls online looking at BDSM toys and protocols.

  Fiona had been a proactive boss, handing him a welcome package the day of hire that included dozens of pages of different kinks, lists of euphemisms, anything she had come across during her time as a phone sex operator that she thought might be useful to someone new at the gig.

  Maybe the information would have been enough for the male callers. But Rush quickly found that the women had higher expectations, that he wasn't selling them a quick orgasm, but rather an entire experience, a full-blown fantasy.

  So he delved deep into his studies.

  He couldn't claim to have been the best student in school. He'd always been half-ready to get onto the next thing, always chasing something.

  Then again, the subjects in school weren't nearly as interesting as all the different ways you could turn a woman on with only your voice, your words.

  Research, that was what the book on his desk was all about. The one with the half-clothed dude and the woman with a mask on her face.

  It was some story about a sex club.

  If he were being completely honest with himself, though, he would admit that he actually found himself enjoying the books he'd been reading as "research."

  He'd never been much of a reader in the past, either. Then again, these books were a lot more... stimulating than anything else that had been forced on him at school.

  Taking a deep breath, then a sip of the coffee he'd been sipping to keep him up on the night shift, the time when women were much more likely to call, he hit the button, accepting the call.

  "Hey, baby," he crooned into the receiver.

  He'd tried all sorts of pet names for callers, but "baby" had overwhelmingly produced the best results.

  There was a long enough silence that his brows furrowed, that he glanced down to make sure it was still ongoing.

  "You there, Katherine?" he went on.

  As much as women liked "baby," they also really fucking liked it when you used their names. At first, he figured it had something to do with building some intimacy when the situation could sometimes make it difficult.

  After trying it out in his personal life—with his very casual interactions with the other sex—though, he concluded that it was just a quirk, something he was grateful to the job for figuring out.

  "Yeah," a small voice whispered.

  A lot of them started off quiet, unsure. He couldn't figure calling a phone sex line was something most women could ever see themselves doing, no matter how hard-up. It could take a bit to get them out of their shells.

  Luckily for him, he'd never been shy, had always been good with women. That was why Fee thought he was good for the job in the first place.

  "Good. How you doing, baby? Had a long day?" he asked. They usually did. Hell, who didn't? Adulthood, he found, was just one long day after the next.

  He'd grossly underestimated that fact until recently, had taken Kingston for granted for always shouldering that pain-in-the-ass adult shit.

  Now, though, he was on his own.

  So he knew a thing or two about having days he wanted a break from. Which was what these women were looking for, to slip away from their worlds for a little bit, to fall into the fantasy he provided.

  "Yeah," she told him in that small voice.

  "Well, I'm here now," he told her, leaning back, resting his legs on his desk, crossing his ankles. "I will make you forget all about it," he told her.

  He started by telling her about his day, about how he was stressed, then segued into how when he was stressed, how he needed release.

  On the other end of the phone, he could hear Katherine's breathing getting a little quicker, a little more uneven, getting into the mood, getting turned on.

  It was a job.

  He'd taken a bunch of calls since starting.

  Even when things got heated, it had always been what it was.

  A job.

  There was detachment.

  But, he found as this client's ragged breathing became little whimpers, he could feel a telltale tightening in his chest, his own breathing getting more ragged.

  Turned on.

  But no.

  That didn't seem possible.

  She wasn't even saying anything, wasn't filling his ear—and mind—with some filthy-ass shit he hadn't even thought of before like some of the callers did.

  He was probably just hot, he tried to tell himself, fanning himself with his book. Whoever was in charge of the thermostat at the office kept it at like seventy-five degrees.

  "Are you wet for me?" he asked a moment later, hearing a throaty mewling noise. "What was that, baby?" he asked. Not usually one for nagging, he wanted—needed—to hear it.

  "Y-yes," she whimpered.

  There was no use denying it after that, though.

  His cock was thick and straining in his jeans at her little admission.

  "Fuck," he hissed to himself, then remembered where he was, what he was supposed to be doing. "Are you going to work your
clit for me?" he asked, taking slow, deliberate breaths, trying to ease the aching need.

  This wasn't about him.

  This was about her.

  The caller.

  The fucking client.

  If he was going to start getting hard on the job, he might as well get a job as an escort instead of a phone sex worker.

  His gaze moved to the clock on the wall, trying to listen to the irritating ticking instead of the whimpers on the other end of the phone.

  "Yes," she whispered in response.

  "Are you thinking about my hand?" he asked, voice getting thicker. "My tongue?" he pressed. The response to that was louder, throatier. "Yeah," he agreed. "How do you like it? Slow, fast?" he asked, trying not to let his mind go there, create a scene as well. His cock was already straining. It didn't need any more ammunition.

  Still, he couldn't seem to stop himself from wondering about her.

  She sounded younger, but plenty of older women had sweet, small voices too.

  Was she blonde? Brunette? Long-haired? What did her eyes look like when she was turned on? Did she arch her back, writhe her hips? Was she the type to run her hands up and down her body, feed into the fantasy, roll her nipples, squeeze her breasts? Or did she close her eyes, grip the sheets, get completely wrapped up in the moment, in the sensations?

  It wasn't long until her low whimpers were getting louder, more frantic.

  She would come.

  He could have left it exactly how it was, her fingers working her clit. It probably would have been better for return business if he kept some other fantasies for future calls if they came.

  But he couldn't seem to stop his mind from wandering, his mouth from making other demands.

  "You want my cock inside you now, don't you?" he asked, feeling the need for that sensation stronger than he had in a long time. Tight walls pulling him in, holding on, pulsating as she came, milking his orgasm from him as well.

  "Yes," she whimpered, voice even smaller than before. Turned on, yes. But also, he thought, because she was shy, because this wasn't something that came naturally to her, having a man talk to her during sex, needing to respond.

  That was something he was coming to find with his work. How many women kept their fantasies close to their vest, too insecure to demand what they want from their partners. Whether that was a societal problem, always making women feel like enjoying sex was sinful and unladylike, that it made her a slut, or if it was because they were stuck with insecure men who would take any suggestions in bed as criticism for his sex game, was anyone's guess.

  But, in Rush's opinion, it was a fucking shame.

  No woman should spend her whole life aching to have her ass smacked and her hair pulled by her man, and never feeling like she could ask for it, never getting to experience it.

  Maybe this Katherine was quiet because she was unsure, because she was out of her element, because her unsatisfying man was in the next room.

  It wasn't his place to judge.

  It was his place to make sure he got her off.

  Customer satisfaction and all that.

  Not to mention what this job was doing for his ego. True, it didn't need much help to begin with, but it never hurt to get your ego stroked.

  He certainly hadn't been getting anything else stroked lately.

  What could he say?

  The demand for his particular skill set took place at night. It put a crimp in his social life. But that was alright.

  He was enjoying having a steady job in a consistent town.

  "Are you thinking about my thick cock while you're fucking your pussy, baby?" he asked, shifting his legs off his desk, the friction the movement caused damn near enough to make him come too. "Turn your fingers around," he demanded. "Stroke over your top wall for me," he told her, hearing the catch in her breath when her fingertips grazed her G-spot. "Faster," he demanded as she got louder. "Come for me, baby. Come for me," he told her.

  Just like that, she did, crying out, the sound like a stab of need in his cock.

  He ended the call a moment later, standing up, raking a hand through his hair, hoping a little distance from the call might ease the need for release.

  But when his cock stayed stubbornly upright, he put the away message on the phone for a couple minutes, making his way through the deserted office, closing himself in the bathroom.

  He felt like some out of control, hormonal teenager as he reached into his pants, pulling out his cock.

  But he was never going to be able to get through his shift with the sexual frustration like a live wire in his system.

  Leaning back against the wall, he stroked himself with the sound of her in his ears, the idea of her in his mind, coming so hard that his vision blanked out for a long moment.

  He cleaned up and went back to work, nervous about taking the next call.

  But when it came, nothing happened.

  Not on the next one, either.

  Or the one after that.

  In fact, it never happened.

  Until it was her name on the call log again.

  Whatever the fuck that meant.

  ONE

  Kate

  You know what was pretty pathetic? The pile of self-help books on my nightstand.

  Don't get me wrong; I was a firm believer in improving yourself, working through trauma, changing negative coping mechanisms, all that jazz.

  What was embarrassing was the titles.

  Things like—The Shy Girl's Guide to Social Confidence, and Small Talk for the Quiet Person. Worse yet were the few toward the top of the pile with titles like: Untangling Yourself After Divorce, Starting Over Again, and How To Have A Good First Date.

  I don't know why I bothered buying those books. My issues with men started well before my eventual, idiotic, waste-of-time marriage that had been over for two solid years now. It wasn't like I was hung up on my ex or too wounded to move on.

  I was just awkward.

  Always had been.

  Always, it seemed, would be.

  No matter how many books I read on how to fix it. Or how many videos I watched. How many fake conversations I'd had in the mirror or the shower, coming up with sharp, witty, even funny responses to a multitude of things someone might say to me.

  The problem was, when they actually did say something to me, I swear my tongue got fat and paralyzed in my mouth. The words refused to come out.

  My childhood therapist called it a confidence issue. But even armed with that knowledge, I never seemed capable of shaking the problem. Not through school, my various attempts at college courses, only to realize not long after that I would never be able to do the career I was going to school for if I couldn't get a hold of the issue.

  Not even working at "For A Good Time, Call..." where actual grandmothers would take phone calls and talk all sorts of nasty things could help bolster up my stumbling self-confidence.

  At first blush, my job seemed ill-fitting. Not just because of the nature of the work taking place in the building, but because, as the front desk person, I was the "Face" of the company. I was who people saw when they came in the doors.

  That said, though, it wasn't like we were an office building, a doctor's office, somewhere I would be seeing dozens of new faces every single day.

  The office was a pretty closed-shop operation by design. Which meant I typically saw employees themselves, sometimes the close relatives of said employees if they stopped by to pick someone up for lunch or to drop something off, the mail carriers and delivery people, and the occasional woman who stopped by to see if we were hiring.

  Most of the day, I was left to my own devices, filing things, ordering supplies, working out the payroll. It wasn't the typical task done by a receptionist, but Fiona had put a lot of faith in my unfinished accounting degree.

  It was a good job. It allowed me to be in my own little world most of the time, but also have some people around to talk to, to share lunch with on occasion. Plus, Fiona was a generous emp
loyer, paying a more than fair salary as well as benefits.

  She offered paid vacation as well, but I never took it. The idea of going to strange places with strange people didn't sound like a good time to me.

  I hadn't taken vacation in over a decade, when I'd first started working there as a college student.

  Until now, of course.

  I mean they were calling it a "wilderness retreat" and it was, technically, a work trip. But it was reminiscent of a vacation.

  Which was what had me staring at my stack of books on my nightstand.

  Because it was a long flight.

  And I wanted to avoid having to speak to any seat-mates if possible.

  But I also couldn't handle the embarrassment of someone seeing me reading books with those types of titles.

  I grabbed the one I was reading anyway, stuffing it into my bag for possible private reading at the retreat. I figured there would be scheduled group activities followed by periods where we could mingle if we wanted to, or possibly do other sorts of unplanned group activities. I, however, would opt to spend that time alone, recharging. These people knew me, they would understand without getting offended. It was the reason I had decided to go instead of create some made-up excuse for why I had to stay in Navesink Bank, everyone knowing I was lying, but too kind to call me on it.

  "It will be good for you, honey," my mother had told me when I'd first gotten the invite, a little last-minute on a Friday night when we were set to leave on Monday. I guess that was why I hadn't heard anyone talking about it at work.

  Fee wasn't exactly an absent-minded boss, but she was often spontaneous, so she probably threw it all together as a surprise.

  And it left me very little time to freak out and talk myself out of it.

  I'd done some of the freaking out, of course. It was my nature, after all, when faced with uncertain circumstances. So I did my usual routine of calling my mom, talking it out, listening to her calm, reassuring voice, then feeling brave enough to shoot Fee a text telling her I would be there.