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“As much as I appreciate your offer to ‘help’,” I start, “I don’t want someone’s charity.”
“It isn’t charity. You and I obviously have … something that transcends the computer screen. Look at me as a friend with means. I have the means. If this was truly a kind of charity, then there wouldn’t be anything in it for me.”
“So there is something in it for you?”
“Yes.” He nods my way, then smiles broadly. “Your happiness makes me happy.”
“My happiness …?”
“Yes! Seeing that self-assured smirk on your … forgive me for saying this … on your adorable face. It brings me a special sort of pleasure that no amount of money … not even the best orgasm in the world … can outmatch. I literally tremble with excitement just thinking about making you wildly happy.”
My heart jumps. It is an intoxicating idea.
Having a friend who will just buy me whatever I want. Pay for all of my needs. Excuse me from the pesky requirement of a day job. Provide a sort of free ticket in life, with few to no strings attached.
“You’re offering a lottery ticket,” I mutter, my eyes dropping to the counter.
“If you want to look at it that way. I’d rather see it as ‘support from a good friend’ … but—”
“But what sense of pride will all my endeavors carry if, when I look back at my life, I don’t see the years of struggling and fighting and working hard to battle my odds and overcome my own strife? How proud can anyone really be if all they see is a man who ‘paid their way’ to the top?” I shake my head and stiffen up. “Nah, I’m sorry. I can’t do it. I still can’t, even if it’s well-intended of you. Thanks, but … not all that glitters is gold, man.”
Richie continues to gaze at me. He is fascinated and locked onto every subtle flinch of emotion on my face. “You are … truly … one of a kind.”
I stare back at him.
Something inside me softens from the way he says those words. He speaks with such adoration to me, it’s difficult to see any ulterior motives, greed, or lust in him.
“So are you,” I say back, almost too quiet.
“Can you answer something for me?” he asks. “Actually, wait … Let’s get more comfortable first,” he decides as he swings around the counter and heads for the couch. “Would you like a drink? Are you comfortable in that outfit, by the way? Or would you rather slip into something else? I’ve practically brought my whole wardrobe in three full suitcases on this trip, and we look similar in build. I never, ever understood how people can possibly pack light. I pack my whole house just for a weekend business trip. I have some lovely Nike sweats I’ve never worn before, brand new.”
I chuckle, spinning on my stool to face him as he pulls off his royal blue jacket, settles on the couch, then tosses his jacket over the back of it. But instead of turning on the TV as I expected him to, he goes for a device on the end table, and then the music of Frédéric Chopin graces our ears.
It isn’t the kind of music I’m used to hearing fill a room, admittedly. Alas, if they only made club remixes of piano nocturnes …
I prop my elbows onto the counter behind me, kicking back a bit as I watch him. “Brand new Nike sweats, you say? Hmm … You mean you don’t like hanging out with Sleeveless Captain Zak?”
Richie glances over at me from the couch. His face reddens. “You do look quite powerful in that uniform … very powerful and sharp, actually …”
“Do I?” I give my captain’s hat a tug, then start checking out my tatted arms, shown off by the lack of sleeves, as if discovering how sexy my biceps are—a signature sort of thing I might do during one of our private cam shows. “Huh. Nice. I guess I fill this out quite well, huh?”
“You don’t have to perform for me.”
I peel my eyes off of myself and look at him. He’s always so quick. “Who says I’m performing for you?”
His jaw tightens. Desire fills his eyes.
Is this what he really wanted all along? Was I right? Has he been resisting his hunger for me all night, his own rigid sense of morality keeping him from just saying what it is he actually wants?
Namely: me?
Maybe this is the moment I should switch back to being my old self—the Zak he’s used to seeing on the screen—and put us both at ease.
I smirk knowingly as I hop off the stool with style and saunter over to the couch. “There is a lot of power in a uniform,” I point out. “Gives a man the sense that he belongs among a unit of some kind. A team. A company. A troop.” I plant myself right in front of him at the couch, standing over his glimmering, yearning, handsome eyes. “And when you’re the leader, you’ve got a lot of eyes on you.”
