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God, I just can’t stop myself, can I? But I mean—anything’s better than thinking about what I just did. Right?
Maybe I need another slap.
“I mean yes, sir,” I say.
His glare goes from menacing to pure contempt.
How is it that he hasn’t killed me yet? It’s clear some part of him wants to.
“Have a nice day,” he says coldly, like he would if he were holding the door for me.
I stand and fold my arms across my chest, letting him see all the fresh marks he left, which, not gonna lie, I can’t wait to see for myself.
He gives me a brief once-over, then stalks back through my foyer and out the door. He doesn’t slam it this time.
I am both charged with adrenaline and ready to collapse into a boneless heap. It’s the imbalance alone that keeps me standing. And now I have no idea what to do with myself.
Fuck, I can’t stop thinking about it. While it was happening, as a result of either hypoxia or deep, crushing arousal, I’m not sure which, I barely had a chance to fully register the fact that I was sucking a man’s cock. It all happened so fast, and I guess it made sense at the time.
However, the muscle memory is now embedded in my jaw, on my tongue and my lips as they dragged the skin of his dick back and forth in their grip. He was big—which, I mean—he’s tall, so—anyway, my jaw is sore. The scent of him, too, still lingers in my nostrils, hours later. Musk and soap. The taste—salty and dark. I can’t decide whether I like it or not. Not just the taste, that had been tolerable, but the whole thing. I’ve never so much as glanced at another man before in a flirtatious way.
Drew made things harder than they needed to be, forcing himself on me and everything, but it’s not like I sent him away or told him to stop. Once he’d taken his hand off my head, the rest had been all me. I made him come with my mouth. On purpose. Like I had a goddamned point to make.
I proved it, I guess, but at what cost? What does this mean about me, if anything? What about him?
Fuck, what’s it gonna be like the next time I have to see him? Tonight.
Simple, I’m sure. He’ll pretend it never happened, and so will I. But then there was that thing I’d said—about wanting it every day.
Not the cock-sucking part—just the marks. Fresh, pink and purple bruises I can’t explain away. That belong to me and that no one else paid for. I earned them all on my own. Maybe it shouldn’t surprise me that the thought appeals to me so much, but it does. After all, I wasn’t even allowed to find my own wife. I’ve been gifted one. One I promised to have sex with Saturday night—oh fuck—how did I wind up here?
Three weeks ago, I had the world at my feet. I was practically dancing on tables, or at the very least, looking up the skirts of women dancing on tables. And now I’m shunned. Betrothed.
Trapped.
Makes me want to claw at the walls.
I manage to find Drew Riley on Instagram. His portfolio is extensive, going back to the dawn of the app itself, I swear.
I was wrong about him moving here to be an actor. He’s a model. I huff a laugh at that, although his looks aren’t really a laughing matter, but I can see why he didn’t make it here. He’s too well-built. Too ruggedly handsome. And unlike the collegiate all-American look he used to sport, with all his tattoos now and his perfectly defined muscles, he’s got no place on the New York fashion scene, which prefers men who look like me. Slim, nearly skinny. Pale. More delicately-featured—androgynous, I guess, though I don’t identify as anything other than masculine. Still, my nanny always said I have the face of an angel.
Drew should have gone to LA. Australia, even. He doesn’t fit here. Not with what he’s trying to achieve. Great, now I feel sorry for him. Or maybe not him—the dude could snap my neck with his hand—but I do sort of feel bad for the shit I’ve said to him.
Maybe that’s what I’ll tell him the next time I see him. That I looked him up. That I’m sorry he couldn’t cut it in New York.
God, I’m fucking depraved. What is Elodie doing to me? In a month I’ll be as weird and kinky as she is. Maybe my dad and Mr. Lafayette knew what they were doing after all.
Ugh. The thought makes me physically ill.
I reluctantly dress for yet another dinner out. In the mirror, I run my finger down my throat, my fingertips lightly tracing the spot where the ring Drew wears on his index finger left a darker, more distinctive mark. I bite the corner of my lip as I realize I’m about to see him.
I wish I could say how I felt about it besides apprehensive, whether I like this feeling, or I’m disgusted by it, but the jury’s out.
“Off to see your young lady again?” Drew asks semi-politely as I pretend to adjust my cuffs when I get off the elevator in the lobby.
I glance up to find him ready to escort me to the door, a hand indicating the well-worn path. It’s a weird job—right? Doorman-ing? It’s not like he’s performing tasks I don’t do by myself all the time—leading me out of a familiar building, opening a door, pressing an elevator button. While I’m sure there’s a bit more to it than that, I can’t see how much to it there could possibly be. I wonder if it pays well. Whether he can afford to live in Manhattan, or if he commutes from somewhere like the Bronx.
Not that I give a shit.
