Page 14

I sit up slowly, the duvet pooling around my waist, and look around the suite. My green dress lies draped over the chair where he carefully placed it after undressing me. My mask sits on the nightstand, the delicate lace looking almost innocent in the morning light. My shoes are lined up neatly by the door.

But there is no sign of him. No discarded clothing, no wallet left behind, no mask—nothing. He took everything with him, leaving no trace of the man who took me apart with his hands and mouth and made me feel more wanted than I have ever felt in my life.

Just a folded piece of hotel stationery propped against the base of the bedside lamp.

I reach for it with trembling fingers.

The handwriting is bold and precise, the letters slanting slightly to the right.

Ivy—

Thank you for trusting me with last night. You were everything I hoped for and more. I hope you got what you needed.

Take care of yourself.

—V

That is it. No phone number, no suggestion of meeting again, no acknowledgment that what happened between us has been anything more than exactly what the app promised: one night, no strings, complete anonymity.

I read the note three times, searching for some hidden meaning, some indication that he felt even a fraction of what I felt.

But there is nothing. Just polite gratitude and a clean goodbye.

I set the note down carefully and press my palms against my eyes.

This is what you wanted, I remind myself fiercely. One night. Anonymous. No complications. You got exactly what you asked for.

So why does my chest feel tight? Why does the empty bed feel like a loss instead of a relief?

I force myself to stand, ignoring the way my thighs protest. I gather my clothes, my mask, my shoes. I find my panties on the floor near the bed and my bra tangled in the sheets. The physical evidence of what we did.

I dress quickly, my hands shaking slightly as I tie the wrap dress. When I catch sight of myself in the mirror, I freeze.

My hair is a mess, my lips are swollen, and there is a faint mark on my throat where his mouth has been. I look thoroughly, obviously fucked.

I look satisfied.

I touch the mark on my throat, and a shiver runs through me as I remember the way he kissed me there, the way his stubble scraped against my skin, the way his voice rumbled in my ear: You're fucking perfect.

No one has ever said that to me before. No one has ever touched me like that—like he couldn't get enough, like every soft curve is exactly what he wants. For one night, I felt like a goddess.

I grab my handbag and leave the suite before I can do something stupid like cry.

By the time I get home, shower, and change into comfortable clothes, it is nearly noon on Saturday. I make myself tea, curl up on my couch, and try very hard not to think about the night before.

I fail spectacularly.

Every time I shift, my body reminds me. The pleasant soreness between my legs. The tenderness in my breasts. The way my skin still feels sensitized, like it is waiting for his touch.

And when I close my eyes, I hear his voice—low, commanding, calling me things I never expected to want. Good girl. The praise that made me melt. And then, later, after he asked and I said yes: Daddy.

I press my thighs together, my face heating.

That word should feel strange. It does feel strange—intimate and vulnerable in a way I didn't anticipate. I gave a man whose real name I don't even know permission to call himself that, and somehow it didn't feel wrong. It felt like being cared for. Like being wanted exactly as I am.

But I don't know what to do with that now, in the bright light of my ordinary Saturday afternoon. I can't imagine saying it out loud, can't imagine applying it to anyone in my real life.

Especially not Brock Rhodes.