Missionary Position(10)

By: Daisy Prescott

I raised my eyebrows at Gerhard, who stopped his laugh by biting his thumb. His shaking shoulders gave him away, though.

Tempted to stick my tongue out at Madame Shhusher, I instead leaned closer to Gerhard, inhaled his spicy scent, and repeated, “What are you doing here?”

He shook his head and wrote on his catalogue: “Bidding.”

I took his pen and replied: “For work?”

Another shake of his head. “For my father. He collects.”

Son of a collector. Not only did he make money, he came from money.

“May I?” I softly asked, gesturing at the catalogue. He had noted the sale price for several pieces and had drawn a circle around an upcoming lot, an Ashanti comb from Ghana. A woman’s head and chest, including pert gumdrop boobs, were carved above what resembled a large hair pick. Valued in the low thousands, it was impressive. I pointed at the picture and gave it the thumbs-up.

He smiled and flipped a couple of pages forward, pointing at a color photo of a group of sculptures of women, their breasts a fascinating depiction of the effects of gravity. He waggled his eyebrows at me.

I snickered like a teenage girl passing notes with the cutest boy in school. Damn him.

No hissing, but we did earn another dirty look over the shoulder, which only made me snicker again.

Gerhard’s hand wrapped around my wrist to calm me. It had the opposite affect; my pulse fluttered.

Madame Shhusher and the room faded away, leaving me fixated on his warm skin pressed against mine. His fingers tightened slightly and released.

His lot came up for bidding. This wasn’t his first auction. He waited until the frenzy at the front of the room slowed, and bid with a subtle flick of his paddle.

The way his wrist controlled the paddle did things to my pulse and stomach, which would appall the dowager in front of me.

The auctioneer tapped his gavel and called out Gerhard’s number as the winner.

“Congratulations!” I said, loudly.


Gerhard laughed and grabbed my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

We stopped at the desk to arrange delivery of the sculpture. I listened to him speak Dutch to the employees, charming them with his charms.

Bright sunshine greeted us when we walked outside.

“Do you have plans for lunch?” he asked, stopping when he stood a step or two below me, making us the same height.

“Aren’t we having dinner tonight?”

“We are. Let’s do both.” He grinned at me.

“Don’t you have to work? Auctions and lunches aren’t exactly bankers’ hours.”

“Are you looking for excuses to say no? Am I overcrowding your schedule?” Worry darkened his happy expression.

“Not at all. I have nothing for the next two days until my flight. I just—”

He interrupted me. “Then say yes.”

“Yes. But you didn’t answer about your work.”

He walked down the street and clicked the alarm on a black BMW sedan. I fell in step slightly behind him; my traitor feet would follow him anywhere.

And we hadn’t even had sex.

The image of him holding his paddle popped into my mind.


“… I’m not starting my next project for a few weeks.” While I was thinking about paddles, he’d been speaking.


“What what?” He tilted his head to look down at me.

“I missed what you were saying.”

“Is it the accent again? It’s stronger when I’m home.” He gave me a small smile. “Sorry. I was saying as much as you cling to the notion I’m a banker, I’m really not.” He bumped his shoulder with mine. “And my schedule is loose for the next couple of weeks until I start a new project.”

“Ah …”


“Got it. Where are you taking me to lunch?” If Gerhard wanted to bump shoulders with me and take me to lunch, who was I to say no? My mother didn’t raise a fool.

“IT LOOKS LIKE a propeller penis. Or a penis jet, which most planes look like anyway.”

“You’re very articulate. And perhaps a little obsessed?” He smirked at me. The sun faded his eyes from blue to gray.

“Stop. Look. Really look at it. Vertical, rounded top. Classic representation of the human phallus.” I flashed a grin at him. “Better?”

“It’s a windmill, not some sort of Dutch inferiority complex made of wood.”

“Who said anything about inferiority complexes? I certainly didn’t. Interesting you would mention size envy.” I pursed my lips together to maintain my serious expression.

We sat at a picnic table in a beer garden flanking the only working windmill within Amsterdam city limits.

Gerhard leaned back. “I guess from this angle, and with your perverted mind influencing me, I can see your point.” He nodded, and then rolled his eyes. “Also, I think you’ve had too much beer.”

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