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Tears sprung to my eyes, and I let my viewers believe it was from the pain. But in truth, my heart ached for Henry. And as I came for the second time into the sleeve, clarity hit like a ton of bricks.

I wanted Henry so much it hurt.

After I’d tipped the sleeve into my mouth and swallowed some of my cum to a final flurry of tips, I signed off, knowing I was wrung out and in no mood to be able to come a third time. I didn’t get depressed often—well, I didn’t allow myself to feel depressed often—but I couldn’t shake this melancholy. What was happening to me? Was something seriously wrong with me?

As I luxuriously bathed, lathered my skin with a shimmering vanilla lotion, and dressed in my most comfortable loungewear for a night in, I realized there wasn’t anything wrong with me. Things were maybe right for the very first time.

I’d thought I was unworthy of love, that since no one in my life had chosen me, I wasn’t worthy of it. I’d opted to stay stuck in the pain of never being chosen, never feeling good enough for a relationship or love, but this aching for Henry was even worse. Why was I putting myself through one pain—a worse pain—in an attempt to avoid another?

Sam and Cameron had been right; I was pretty amazing, and I was worthy of love. Though life up to now had shown me otherwise, I didn’t have to accept that going forward. I could choose a different ending. I could choose myself, could choose to allow myself to love and be loved.

It was scary, but wasn’t everything worth doing a little terrifying? I was worth it. Love was worth it.

Henry was worth it, too. He was worth everything.

It was time for me to let him in.

Chapter eighteen

Henry

It had been two months since Tristan had warmed my bed, and I still wasn’t over it. I still wasn’t over him, and I wasn’t sure I would ever be.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to be.

It had been a few more months than that since I’d watched a Substar live stream. I desperately wanted to, but I thought that was precisely how it would make me appear: desperate. And maybe a little creepy. So I’d jerked off to lackluster porn for way too many lonely nights. Something had to give, but I wasn’t sure what. Tristan didn’t want me. He’d made that abundantly clear. I needed to figure out a way to move on.

Tonight was another Daddies and Subs Club meeting—they’d moved this week’s meeting to Thursday for a reason I wasn’t privy to—and Tristan had attended every one since he’d left me that fateful morning. Because I was a glutton for punishment, in kink and otherwise, apparently, I worked every single one, which meant each club meeting was like a thousand tiny little stabs to my heart. I might have been imagining it, but as the weeks had passed, he wasn’t quite as upbeat, didn’t seem quite as happy as he’d been before our night together. My best self hated that, of course I did, but a small, less-than-gracious part of me hoped he was missing me as badly as I missed him.

I was drying some glasses behind the bar with a towel when Tristan walked in the front door of Mix It Up. As he descended the handful of steps from the platformed entrance clad in chunky black ankle boots, an artfully distressed—read: tattered and full of holes—pastel-pink sweater over a sheer black tank top, and black jeans that showed off every single muscle in his long legs, my breath caught.

And as he got closer to order his obligatory mai tai—I’d already started making it—I noticed he wore eyeliner, mascara, and perfectly applied soft-pink eyeshadow. The sight punched me in the gut. Holy motherfucking hell. Where had this Tristan been hiding?

My mouth went bone dry, my throat closed up, and I swore my heart stopped as my desire shot through the ceiling. Tristan was my wet dream on a normal day, but dressed like this? He was a fucking angel sent straight from heaven to corrupt me and send me straight to hell. And I planned to beg him for the privilege to surrender my immortal soul to his every whim.

Tristan could ask me to do absolutely anything for him right now, and I’d oblige. I was utterly helpless under the man’s spell.

“Hey, Henry,” he called as he approached, his usual friendly demeanor suspiciously more flirty, unless I was imagining it. Was that just wishful thinking?

I swallowed hard, blinked once, twice, then found my voice. “Holy shit, Tris—you look amazing.” I’d tried to stay strictly in the friend zone these past few months, but I had to comment on his upleveled look. I set his finished drink on the bar top and slid it over to him. “What’s the occasion?”

I could’ve sworn he blushed at the compliment as he reached for the drink, seeking out the stirrer straws with the tip of his adorable tongue and leaning forward to take a taste. I couldn’t help but stare at his pursed full lips as he sipped the sweet drink up the straws. “Just wanted to dress up.” He smirked playfully, and my dick twitched in my jeans. “And thanks.”

His eyes flashed when he said it, and I let myself entertain the idea that he wanted to dress up for me. But that was ridiculous. Of course he didn’t wear the sexy clothes and gorgeous makeup for my benefit. Believing that would only bring me heartache.

“Well, mission accomplished. I imagine every Daddy here will want to take you home.”

He pulled the drink away from his mouth and bit his lip, his eyes still sparkling. “I don’t want every Daddy here. I just want one.”

I blinked, unable to stop the hope that coursed through my system at his words. “You . . . what?”

He flashed me a gorgeous smile, pinching the stirrers between his thumb and pointer finger and holding them an inch away from his enticing lips, then he dropped a bomb. “In case that wasn’t clear, the one I want is you.”

Then he pursed his lips around the straws, sipping his drink again as he sashayed away.

It took me a full minute to close my mouth after that jaw drop, and that was only when Cameron approached to order his own rum and coke. I made his preferred drink with perfunctory movements then set it on the bar. I offered small talk as I did, trying to play it cool, but my mind was racing. Had Tristan seriously just said he wanted me?

Over the past two months, we’d seemed to have fallen into an unspoken agreement to never discuss our one night together. I doubted he’d told anyone, and aside from me getting a little too drunk one night and moaning about it to Jack—leaving out Tristan’s name, of course—I hadn’t, either. So what had changed?