“Well, if youdothink of anything, you know where I live…”
Fuck.
I watch as she slinks away, closing the door behind her. Then, and only then do I let out the breath I was holding.
I set my cup down. It’s too hot for coffee.
I shove my schedule aside. I have nothing for the first hour and I need to clear my head.
Amara’s punishment for her spicy reads is still living in my mind rent-free. Not to mention the fact that she let me face-fuck her on that hideous couch last weekend. It was probably the most erotic thing I’ve ever done. Probably the most unsanitary too, sexually speaking.
I’m not going to lie. Going to those stores was a stretch for me. The places I shop don’t usually consist of pop-up vendors with folding tables. I’ve never bought anything used in my life. Hell, even the penthouse was designed to my liking.
Which is why seeing those flea market things sitting in my pristine house feels off. Itchy.
And yet, the smile those things put on her face is worth it. There’s something about knowing she is happy and satisfied. It’s like a drug. Good, bad, uncomfortable—I want more. I need more. Warning labels and side effects and all.
Suddenly, an idea pops into my head. I open my laptop and start shopping. But not for a material item. I’m slowly, begrudgingly learning that I can’t buy her affection. I can, however, give her experiences.
And the girl loves music.
After a little research and a few clicks of the mouse, I call her back into my office.
“You wanted to see me?” she asks while perched in the doorway.
Damn. Resisting the urge to rip that dress to shreds has become a full-time job today.
“Yes. Come in and close the door, please.”
Amara does what I say and walks over to my desk, then waits. Such a good girl.
“What are you doing on Saturday night?” I ask.
“I was planning on helping my siblings finish up their move into the new place. Eliza doesn’t have to work and?—”
“Cancel the plan,” I tell her, and her shoulders droop.
“Do you need me to work?” she asks, her voice small.
“No.”
“Oh…”
Then I close my laptop and stand up. “We are going to a concert.”
“A concert?”
“Well, the Days of Rock Festival.”
“Days of—!” she blurts out, then simmers down. “Days of Rock.”
“Have you heard of it?”
“Of course I’ve heard of it. It’s only the biggest music festival in the state of New York. But how did you get tickets? It’s been sold out for months.”
I pick up my coffee, round the desk, and take a sip. “Because I got us the VIP ones.”
Her mouth hits the floor and I have to suppress the urge to smile. That’s not something I have an issue with most of the time, but Amara is acting like a kid on Christmas right now.
