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I’ve never been to someone’s house. Definitely not like this. Definitely not with someone like him.
“Alright,” I say with a dismissive gesture. “Thursday’s fine.”
“Great.”
My knees have turned to jelly, and my heartbeat is a chaotic, erratic mess, adrenaline pumping through me. I turn around with a casual wave, and elegantly climb the steps to the girls’ dorm. Once I’m inside and the door is firmly closed behind me, I clap my hands against my mouth, realisation crashing down on me.
Have I just arranged to hook up with a gardener I only met earlier today?
Yes, I have. I smirk into the shadowy corridor. How’sthatfor going low, daddy?
Chapter 6
Upmarket Nude
OnceI’mbackinmy room and able to process what happened, I end up feeling pretty good about it. If my father finds out that I’m sleeping with some manual labourer townie, he’s going to go apeshit. I’m sure he can’t think of a worse fate for his daughter than this.
I just need to make sure he finds out.
And what better occasion for that than to bring my brand new low-class lover to the Siddal Gallery Gala?
All I need to do is have Noah wrapped around my little finger enough that he’ll agree to do with me. All I need to do now is to get him there—the rest of my plan will unfold naturally once my father gets there.
The mere anticipation of his anger is going to fuel my motivation until then.
For now, I need to focus on Thursday. It’s less than a week away. I probably won’t see the townie—Noah, I remind myself, his name is Noah—again until then, since he said he only works at Spearcrest on weekends.
In the meantime, I need to make sure I’m out of sight, but not out of mind. This way, I don’t run the chance of him cancelling our plans.
Taking off my flower-embellished corset is an ordeal, but once I manage to pull the hooks loose and unlace the thin silk camisole underneath it, I’m not completely unhappy with the result. I open my camera and hold my phone up, framing the image so my face isn’t quite showing, and snap a picture.
The image is aesthetically pleasing and sensual. A corset corner, silk laces. Roses and scattered petals. Small breasts and pink nipples.
This isn’t just a nude. This is art, eroticism softened by elegant composition.
Without even bothering to save Noah’s number, I send him the picture. It’s a strategic move: a tasteful, artistic nude that will ensure he doesn’t forget about me until Thursday. Besides, it’ll give him something to look forward to.
To my complete and utter annoyance, I receive no reply. There’s no double-tick to tell me he’s even seen the picture, but I know plenty of people who turn their read receipts off. That’s something I would normally consider a red flag, but I suppose the whole point of this poor-boy-lover endeavour is that Noah is one big red flag.
A flag red enough to draw my father’s attention, and teach him he has less control over me than he thinks.
Tossing the corset and roses off the bed, I strip the rest of my outfit off to get ready for sleep. It might have failed to capture Evan’s attention, but at least the outfit wasn’t a complete waste.
I just hope that naughty selfie was enough to fluster stoic Noah. I fall asleep hoping it does.
WhenIwakeup,a little groggy and blinking blearily in the morning sunlight, I roll over and open my phone. Notifications flood my screen, most of them flurries of drunken texts and voicemails from Cammie. Finally, one notification catches my eye.
A text from an unsaved number. I open it.
Unknown: Looks good.
Not the reply I expected. “Good” is not the word I would use to describe my pretty breasts in that artfully composed shot. I can think of a plethora of other adjectives he might have gone for—other responses with more eloquent opinions.
But I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything different. It’s not exactly like I chose him for his brilliant intellect and scintillating conversation, anyway. At least he didn’t send me a couple of eggplant emojis.
I close my eyes. His text might have been underwhelming, but it doesn’t stop me from imagining how he might have reacted when he saw my selfie.
Did he like it? Did he stare at it, bite his lip? Did he grow hard looking at it? Did he picture his big hands parting the satin fabric and brushing aside petals to squeeze my delicate breasts, fingers scraping the pink nipples? A hot rush of arousal shudders between my legs and I squirm under the blankets in a shiver of mixed pleasure and embarrassment.
