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“A dancing act?”

“Yeah. Burlesque. Like the Pussy Cat Dolls or the Crazy Girls.”

“So you felt pressured to finance her business endeavors?”

“Not really. I told her eventually I would support her on any idea she brought me with a sound business plan. She never wanted to do the work. She just wanted a blank check.”

“So that affected your sex life?”

“It affected our relationship, for sure, but I remained supportive. The sex was still great.”

“So, what do you think the problem is?” I finally asked. These types of things seldom resulted from one thing, one event, unless something traumatic happened. Their relationship seemed to suffer from a multitude of things over a long period of time.

“I don’t know. That’s why I came to you.” He crossed his legs and arms as he answered. Not a good sign.

“Do you want to save your marriage, Mr. Baxter?”

“Yes,” he answered after a slight hesitation.

“Why only ten sessions?”

“Excuse me?” he asked, looking confused.

“Sexual therapy is a complicated process. It often takes more than a few months to resolve. You probably could have resolved it with a drug. This doesn’t seem like a commitment to resolve your marriage. It feels as if you are looking for a quick fix. Your contract only calls for ten sessions.”

He didn’t answer right away. I felt like he was considering his response.

“You like control. I get it. We all want some semblance of control in our life, but controlling when you’re going to resolve a problem like this isn’t a matter of setting up a workout schedule and reaching a goal. Your insistence on ten sessions seems suspect. That you were willing to pay me twenty thousand for each session makes it doubly suspect. What is your end goal, Mr. Baxter?” I held his gaze when I finished. I couldn’t help him if he didn’t open up and give me honest answers. Plus, the more I talked, the more suspicious I was. There was something he wasn’t telling me, and I didn’t think he wanted to save his marriage.

He still hesitated. By the time I finally had to blink, he uncrossed his arms and his legs and leaned forward.

“Trust takes time too, Miss Davenport. I have my reasons. Now, if you’re through with the interrogation, can we get on with my session?” His voice was level, controlled. I felt the skin on the back of my neck rise. His gaze held a steadiness that a brain surgeon would envy.

“You still haven’t answered why you had to do such a thorough background check and have your own security team interrogate my friends.”

“As I said, trust takes time,” he replied.

“And honesty, Mr. Baxter.”

I made some quick notes.

Likes to be in control.

Only ten sessions. $20K per session.

Why?

Not being honest with me.

“Very well. I need to determine if your inability to get an erection is limited to your wife. Have you heard of sensate touch?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“It requires you to work with my sex surrogate, Chastity. It allows you to explore the sensation of touch, both yours and hers, in a safe space…”

“A sex surrogate. I don’t intend to have sex with another woman, Miss Davenport,” he interrupted.

“You will not be having sex, Mr. Baxter. You will just be touching each other in a controlled way. I’ll leave that up to Chastity to explain how it will work.” I waited for him to respond.