“Are you still okay with this?” His voice is different than it was a second ago. It’s considerate and tentative. Reminding me of the game—the fantasy—we’ve consented to playing out. “If not, it’s strictly fake dating.”
“Yes, I’m okay with this.” I close my eyes, flustered and embarrassed at how quickly I answered that. I didn’t hesitate because I loved the way he used me. It’s incredibly degrading, but more than anything, it’s exhilarating.
“You have just as much if not more control than I do.” His voice is a deep rasp, intensifying the ache between my thighs.
“I don’t know…you’re the one paying me.”
“Doesn’t matter. We do as much as you want. We take it as far as you want. We stop whenever you want. You make the decisions.”
And that’s why it feels exhilarating. It’s probably idiotic to blindly hand him over all my trust, but I feel safe with him.
“You know…” I trail off, pausing to figure out how to communicate my jumbled thoughts. “Even without the money, I’d still be okay with this…us.”
“Us,” he muses, his voice ebbing softly in my ear.
I yawn, blinking the heaviness away from my eyes. “So how does this work?”
“How about we talk later? Text me when you’re up? I’ll come over.”
My heart skips a beat. “Okay.”
“Good night,meu bem.”
My breath catches. “Good night, Sylas.” I keep my voice even until I hang up, then a smile so unbearably wide stretches across my face.
What did we just get ourselves into?
17
SYLAS
Sunday, December 15
“Open the door,meu bem.”I rap my knuckles on Anna’s apartment door. I attempt to fix the brass number that’s crooked on the frame, but it swivels back to how it was originally.
The door opens a sliver, and my fixation on the number and the entire world kind of…fades.
I’m not a saint. I’ve done my fair share of things, made some choices I’m not proud of, but last night was different. I don’t know why, but it was. I keep telling myself it’s because of how things played out. How I watched her naked body move, how she rode her fingers, how she took me in her mouth.
But then I think about her smile, like the one she’s sporting now. It’s small, not reserved but sultry. Amiable. It does the weirdest things to my chest. I don’t hyper-fixate on things, but I can feel it; I can see myself obsessing over seeing it.
“Ready to eat?” I hold up the paper bag and cardboard cupholder.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this.” She pulls the door wide open, allowing me to step inside.
“Believe it.” I walk past her, hear the door shut, then she’s in front of me, guiding me to the living room.
This is my third time in her apartment, and each time I’ve felt overwhelmed by the decor. It’s ridiculous to feel this way over lights and colors, but everything in here feels strangelyreal. There’s a warmth to it I can’t explain. Which is baffling considering the building and her pint-sized apartment is old and worn down.
She plops down on the sofa, and I settle down next to her. She fixes her attention on our close proximity. After last night, it should be the least of her worries, and because she’s going to be my pretend girlfriend, we need to get comfortable sharing space.
“Chai gingerbread latte.” I hand her the cup, acting like her fingers brushing against mine didn’t make my stomach tighten. I grab my cup and throw the cupholder on the low table. “Don’t be weird.”
“Thanks, and I’m not being weird.” She tucks a leg under her and pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I’m…processing.”
I open the paper bag and hand her her breakfast bagel before grabbing mine. “Well, process faster. We’re meeting him today, and I know he’s already suspicious this isn’t real.”
She peers at me, disgruntled. “Well, it’s not real.” She slips her cup between her thighs and pulls back the parchment paper, moaning in appreciation. “But we can make it look real. We just need to be prepared. I don’t know how thorough your dad is but?—”
