“How often are you guys…?” she asks, brows lifting.
“Often.”
“Defineoften.”
“Every few days. Sometimes every day. Sometimes more.”
“Jesus.”
I shrug.
“Okay, but how much do you actually know about him?” she asks. “Like, beyond the six-pack and the way he says your name and his huge…bank account.”
I shrug. “He has a penthouse in?—”
“April.”
“I know that he likes expensive wine, hates lateness, and refuses to eat before noon on weekdays. He’s extremely punctual, very private, doesn’t smile unless he means it, and he has a cock that could ruin lives.”
Nicky squeals with cringy delight. “I—okay. Alright. That’s all very helpful, thank you.”
I grin, but saying it out loud feels…wrong. Like I’m trying too hard to make this funny, or to make it seem like it’s nothing. I’ve pushed everything I’ve felt the past few weeks into a box labeledharmless sex stuffso I don’t have to think too hard about why I keep waiting for his texts. Why I feel that weird, fluttery ache in my chest when he makes a bad joke and looks pleased with himself. Why I can’t stop hearing his voice in my head when I close my eyes. It’s not feelings. It’s just endorphins. Hormones. Luteal phase. Probably. I open my mouth to say something else, but my phone vibrates.
Anthony Voss:
Come over.
My heart jumps a little at the sight of his name on my screen, and I stare at it for a second. I’m a little shocked at how demanding he is being right now, but I also like it.
“Is that?—”
“Yeah,” I say, thumbs already moving.
Me:
Not in the mood
Anthony Voss:
Not an option, princess.
I roll my eyes.
Me:
Pretty sure I signed a contract, not gave you a leash
Anthony Voss:
Disagree. You owe me at least one orgasm. I’ve been keeping score.
I stifle a laugh into my sleeve.
“God, you’re obsessed,” Nicky mutters.
Me:
I have a friend over. Try again later, maybe I can pencil you in.
