Below the tip, a list of suggested meeting locations appeared, each with a little map pin showing distance from what I assumed was Mike’s office or home.
Caffé Trieste, Pacific Heights (0.3 miles… Blue Bottle Coffee, Presidio (0.8 miles)… Andytown Coffee, Outer Sunset (4.2 miles)
The message was clear.Make it easy for him. Come to his neighborhood. Prove you’re willing to accommodate his needs.
My hand had moved between my legs without conscious thought, pressing against the cotton of my panties. The seal beneath felt firm, unyielding, but the pressure sent a dull throb of frustrated need through my core. I thought about Mike reading my message and appreciating that I’d made things convenient for him. About him noting that I was the kind of girl who understood her place.
God, what’s wrong with me?
But I couldn’t stop my fingers from pressing harder, trying uselessly to find some friction through the sealed flesh. The thought of being accommodating, of beingavailableto this powerful man whenever and wherever he wanted—it sent shameful heat flooding through my body.
I forced my hand away and finished typing with shaking fingers.
Hi Mike, I’d really like to meet for coffee. I can come to wherever is most convenient for you. Where would you like to meet?
I hit send before I could second-guess myself, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
The response came within seconds. Literally seconds, like he’d been waiting for my reply.
Perfect. Caffé Trieste in Pacific Heights, tomorrow at one p.m. Looking forward to meeting you, Laura.
Tomorrow. Oh, god, tomorrow. I had less than twenty-four hours to prepare myself to meet a billionaire who’d seen me sealed shut and wanted to own me… to be the one to open me so that he could use me however… whenever… wherever he chose.
CHAPTER 8
Laura
I got to the café ten minutes early. I’d spent the morning trying on every piece of clothing I owned, rejecting each outfit as either too casual or trying too hard. I’d finally settled on jeans and a sweater—simple, unremarkable—and pulled my hair into a messy bun that I’d redone three times before giving up and leaving it slightly imperfect.
The walk from my apartment had taken only seven minutes, but I’d spent them in a state of mounting panic. What was I supposed to say to him? How was I supposed to act? The app had sent me a notification that morning with more ‘helpful’ tips about first meetings with sponsors, but reading them had only made my anxiety worse.
Maintain eye contact, but don’t stare. Smile, but don’t appear overeager. Be honest, but not too forthcoming. Let him lead the conversation.
Contradictory instructions that left me more confused than prepared.
Now I sat at a small table near the window, my hands wrapped around a latte I’d ordered just to have something to hold. The café was busy with the lunch crowd—professionals in business casual grabbing quick coffees, a few students with laptops, an elderly couple sharing a pastry. Normal people living normal lives, oblivious to the fact that I was sitting here waiting to meet a man who might pay thousands of dollars a month for the right to fuck me whenever he wanted.
The seal between my legs had been a constant presence all morning. Every time I moved, every time I sat down or stood up, I was aware of it. The desperate, aching need hadn’t diminished—if anything, it had grown worse overnight. I’d woken up at three in the morning with my hand between my legs, trying futilely to find some relief that didn’t exist. The memory of that shameful frustrated attempt made my face burn even now.
I checked my phone. 12:58 p.m. Two minutes.
The door opened, and I knew immediately it was him.
Mike Gallagher moved through the café with the kind of easy confidence that came from never doubting his right to occupy any space he entered. He was taller than I’d expected from his photos—maybe six-one or six-two—with broad shoulders that filled out his dark gray sweater in a way that made my mouth go dry. The slight gray at his temples was more pronounced in person, and somehow it made him more attractive rather than less. Distinguished. Mature. Dangerous.
His eyes found mine across the café, and I felt the impact of his gaze like a physical touch. Dark eyes that seemed to see right through me, that knew exactly what had been done to me yesterday, that had watched the video of me coming on camera like a desperate slut.
I looked down at my latte, my face blazing, my heart hammering so hard I thought everyone in the café must be able to hear it.
“Laura.”
His voice was deep, warm, with an edge of authority that made something low in my belly clench. I forced myself to look up at him.
“Hi,” I said.
My voice came out smaller than I’d intended, barely audible over the hum of conversation around us. He smiled, and the expression transformed his face from intimidating to almost gentle. Almost.
“May I?” He gestured to the chair across from me.
