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He picks me up and takes me into the shower.
He dirties me—and I mean that in the best possible way—then cleans me up with tender, soapy strokes. The glass-encased shower, which seemed oversized before, now makes perfect sense. Afterwards, he dries my skin with the softest towel known to man. He pauses at an old scar, as if he’s about to ask about it, then thinks better of it and moves on. Inwardly, I sigh in relief. When he reaches my face, he takes care to avoid the dressing on my temple.
“It’s not your fault, you know,” I say, because I catch the look of guilt that flashes across his face.
He growls in reply. A noncommittal grizzly bear.
I agree. The less said about the incident, the better. Just for now. Just so that we can finish our time together, because once the truth is out in the open, it’ll all be over.
Once he’s happy that I’m dry enough, he wraps me in the robe and pulls out his phone.
“Penthouse. Yes. More champagne, please. From the vintage library.” He holds the phone away from his ear. “You hungry?”
I nod, perhaps a little too frantically, which makes him smirk. Room service! I’m famished. I’d love to eat a pizza in bed with him. Heaven.
But when the food arrives, it is not pizza. Of course it’s not pizza. And it’s not in bed.
A whole table is wheeled in, replete with starched white tablecloth and five highly polished bronze cloches over small plates. Warm artisan bread rolls, infused butter, elegant copper cutlery. He approves the champagne label and the waiter opens the bottle with a subtle pop while the bodyguard looks on.
“Oh,” I say, trying to be cool, but my mouth is watering just looking at the table.
I love food. I’ve always loved food, but I hardly ever have the money to eat out. As it is, buying organic groceries is enough to bankrupt the average peasant. But I can still dream.
One day, I always tell myself. One day. Even though I know it’ll never happen, because even if I were to miraculously have the money one day, the guilt of eating a Michelin meal would make it stick in my throat. When you know that an impoverished family can buy groceries for a week for the cost of a fancy entrée, eating out can never be the same.
The waiter is dismissed with what I surmise is a large tip, given the startled look on his face. The bodyguard escorts him out and locks the door behind them.
My billionaire and I sit at the table together and for a second, I think it might be awkward having dinner with him. We don’t know each other from a bar of soap, and we live in such completely different worlds that I’m sure we’ll have nothing in common, and nothing to agree on. Never mind the awkwardness of knowing his face was buried in my pussy just an hour ago.
“You look warm,” he says, playfully. “Here, have some champagne to cool you down.”
I take the glass and smile at him. He must know what I was thinking. He lifts the cloches to reveal five plates of food. They are absolutely beautiful. Works of art.
He looks less impressed than I do. This is just standard hotel fare to him.
“Looks amazing,” I say, testing him.
“It’ll do,” he replies, shaking out his napkin and laying it on his lap. I quickly do the same.
“I know we’re doing the whole furtive thing,” I say, “but I need to call you something.”
“Why?” he asks, taking a bite out of a buttered olive ciabatta. I do the same. It’s warm, crusty, and salty. Kalamata and rosemary. Sea salt. And the soft flavored butter is just perfect. If this was all there was for dinner, I’d be happy.
He has a point about his name, but I keep trying. “Because I just do. Besides, it’s not fair. You know my name.”
“You can call me anything you like,” he says, waggling his eyebrows at me. I assume he means something like daddy.
“That’s not really what I had in mind,” I reply.
“My friends call me Al,” he says.
I almost choke again, this time on bread. I catch it just in time, and the near-splutter turns into a laugh.
“Al?” I snort. “You just made that up.”
“I didn’t.”
“Al doesn’t suit you at all. Al is, like, the name of an uncle with a beer belly and a sunroof. He’s the vice-captain of a ten-pin bowling league.”
