It’s the only way that’s worked for me.
Because I’m addicted.
To orgasms.
Mine, specifically.
And living with this addiction
andthe trauma?
Fucking torture.
But I’m not naive.
I can’t float in this fantasy world forever.
All things end eventually.
(People just name itchangeso it doesn’t hurt as bad.)
And eventually, the Baby Contract will too.
“Hey, Baby,” Ben says,
throwing a smirk over his shoulder.
As if nothing’s wrong.
Which means everything is.
I smelled the fake before he ever opened his mouth.
He’s slouched against the counter,
sipping some Muscle Milk bullshit,
coffee gurgling behind him.
And when I meet his normally cold, glacier-light eyes, they’re too blue, too bright, too knowing of something I don’t yet.
I stop under the archway.
He’s geared up, joggers on and laced for cardio,
blond hair freshly damp from the gym,
tank clinging to his chest,
sweat outlining every ab.
BrooklynBros—the real bitch he wakes up for.
He’s a great boxer,
disciplined, focused, hungry,
and the second the owner is ready to sell,
