It pleased me greatly.
My little deer chews her lower lip and wraps the ends of her long hair around her pointer-finger. “I want to buy things…” She looks at the ground. “And tap a card.”
“Look at me.”
Her eyes pop up.
“Things for you,” she adds, lifting her nose. “Like a surprise that a dobber rat can’t inform you about. Things for the boys. I want to swipe a card. I want to…” She blushes. “See what it feels like to spend money. Like, I wanted to buy my lingerie, and I wanted to buy a sausage roll from the bakery. I want to remember to get cash out to tip people who are nice to me, and I want to order coffees for the henchmen. I want to tap my card and get excited when it says approved.”
I watch her lips move, trying to stifle my logical mind. To temper the condescending tone on my tongue. Money is the blight of most normal people’s lives—a means of controlling them. I should know; I hold many of their strings. Money isn’t real, not for people like me. I have gold bars, diamonds, mansions, and security-backed lines of credit that borrow from my own damn portfolios, but she wants a little credit card of her own to play with. It’s not something I wanted her dealing with; I wanted her every whim to come from magic, to appear, to seem free—emphatically hers.
I sigh roughly—but it doesn’t matter what I want. She wants toplaywith money. I don’t pretend to understand the appeal, but then I’ve always had money.
“Madonna mia, alright.”
“Really?” She beams, her big doe-eyes sparkling, and my heart fucking throbs with how lovely she is.
“Yes.”
“From the bank?”
Christ. I nod, trying to remain serious, but melting into a chuckle. “Why a credit card? Why not a debit card?”
“Because the credit is in my name,” she says adamantly. “Money I owe to the bank when I spend it. Right? And a debit card is like… you putting money in there. I don’t want you to just dump money in there. I don’t want your money, Sir.”
A single laugh escapes me. “It’s all my money.”
She tilts her head, big glossy eyes peering up at me from the floor, begging me to pretend with her. “When I spend money on the credit card, Sir, I owe that money.”
“I understand how credit works, little deer.”
“Fawn Harlow owes that money.”
To me…“But I will be paying it off.”
She waves her hand dismissively. “ButI’llowe it, Sir.”
I stare at her, fighting an even bigger smile. This sweet girl—this silly little thing—is impossible. As if I’d say no. As if I stand a chance. “I will organise a credit card for you, sweet girl. In your name.”
“From the bank?”
Absurd.I sigh roughly. “Yes.”
“Thank you!” She does a little dance on her knees, her young tits jiggling beneath silk worth more than most people’s credit card limits. “Thank you, thank you.”
Fuck me.
My smile aches watching her.
It’s pretend, of course. She must know that in the real world, cards have limits, applications, fees, andyouhave to pay them back to a bank, but this is enough for her. The concept of her own money, her own limits—feigned normality—is all she really wants but couldn’t bring herself to admit.
“When will I get it?” She fucking beams.
I tuck a piece of blonde hair behind her ear. “I will order itnow. Usually, it arrives within five days.” Reclining in my chair, I stare at her.
“Can I mouth your cock now, Sir? And rest my head on your lap?” She settles her cheek on my knee, big pleading eyes endearing me.
“Yes, sweet girl.”
