Chapter 2 #2
He slid me a glance over his shoulder. “Probably.” His tone held the same teasing note as in the bar, when he’d roped me in like a captured ship. Voice a shade rougher now. “About what, though?”
“Don’t think I remember my name. Or the year.”
The bathroom light, filtered through frosted glass, cast his profile in softer hues. “Jesse,” he said—a murmur or a promise.
“Right.” I inhaled, water flowing through my mind, and uncapped the lube.
One finger, gentle press. Tight, even as he took it with a pleased sigh, shoulders relaxing by degrees.
Another, his body now seeming to welcome the stretch.
By the third, he was pushing back, my free hand curved around his hip to feel the shift of his muscles.
“Ready?” I sounded shaken, not sure why.
“God, yes.” A sharp breath when I crooked my fingers. “Please.”
I withdrew my fingers, rolled the condom on, and added more lube. Kissed his shoulder and felt ridiculous a second later, but all he did was look back to slide me a smile. I lined up, slow, resistance melting into heat.
Time slipped away like sand, rolling by in hazy bursts and increments.
The arch of his spine as I rocked my hips.
My thoughts gone liquid, swirling gold like heady bourbon in a crystal tumbler.
Water in my eyes and ears. Faster, my vision frayed, slap of skin.
He met each thrust, forehead pressed against the tiles, neck a gentle curve—water cooling into a lukewarm trickle.
I wrapped a slick hand around him and—oh—felt it when he barreled over the edge, body locking up around me. It tripped me right over, too, blinding and fierce, clinging to him through the aftershocks.
Breathing, moving. Condom in the garbage. He passed me a towel with a smile that I returned, reaching for him since words slipped through my fingers. Kissed him, slow like the drip of water from the tap, languid like the eucalyptus smell of shower gel.
I should go.
“Lie down for a moment?” he asked—an offer, not a request, and I thought of the cash in my wallet and the minutes I’d stopped counting.
“Just for a moment, yeah.” I sounded surer than I felt.
Finn’s grin was a too-quick flash in the shadows, something hesitant tucked into its edges.
In the hallway, someone talked in rapid Spanish, laughter drifting past the door, swallowed by the blare of a horn that crept through the window.
Ordinary details of a metropolis that, eight years in, I still sometimes forgot to call home.
He tugged the sheets aside and drew me down, two bodies and two pillows, a handspan of space between us.
Earlier, our conversation had bounced like a rubber ball, quick and bright; now, it felt like the room was holding its breath.
He shifted onto his back, and I followed the line of his throat, caught the subtle skip when he swallowed. Huh.
I inhaled, thoughts a heavy crawl. “Don’t worry, okay? I’m good for the money.”
“What?” He blinked at me, then shook his head, hair damp against the pillow. “Yeah, I wasn’t worried.”
“Oh. Good.”
“Yeah.” Something like a laugh was folded into his voice—distant, though. Or maybe it was me who was drifting a little, warmth settling bone-deep. The mattress dipped beneath me and I closed my eyes.
Just for a moment.
I woke up in stages—fluttering impressions that skipped and stuttered like a broken record.
Faint throb behind my eyes. Stale-cotton taste on my tongue. Floral scent of unfamiliar detergent and the rise and fall of someone else’s breathing. Finn.
If that even was his name.
I turned my head and found him half-sprawled, one arm flung out.
His curls were tangled, skin gone buttery in the dawn that brought a faint dusting of freckles across his nose.
I’d missed those last night. His silk shirt was still crumpled on the floor, dropped right where I’d told him to strip it off.
So. I’d fucked his mouth, then his ass, and then I’d dozed off when I’d meant to leave. Jesus. A real class act, wasn’t I?
Nothing wrong with paid sex, of course, not if it was freely chosen—consenting adults and all that.
But it had always struck me as a bad trade: money for orgasms, a calculated exchange, no spark.
Maybe that was my fault for lacking imagination.
Last night, though? It’d been quick banter and liquid smiles, vivid chemistry.
All just a performance? If so, he deserved a fucking Oscar.
He hadn’t seemed too hung up about the money.
First-contact discount, don’t worry about it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed his suitcase again—functional, didn’t look like something a sex worker would use to reveal an array of toys.
And his toiletry bag in the bathroom—sure, for the average guy, it made sense to keep lube and condoms in there.
But wouldn’t a professional have them right at hand?
Or maybe I was just flattering myself—fool’s gold, buying into the fantasy that he’d wanted me just as much.
I stole out of bed and gathered clothes I’d ditched on my way to the shower. My phone said it was just past five, bless my body’s inner clock. If I moved fast, I could still make morning rounds without wearing last night’s bourbon breath. Jeans, socks, shirt. Finn shifted, brow pinching.
I brushed a knuckle down his shoulder, whispered, “Hey.”
Nothing.
Again, a little louder. “Finn, hey.”
He mumbled something that might have been “five more minutes,” then rolled away, breath evening out immediately.
I could try harder. Should, maybe. But a stupid hitch of hesitation caught me. Wake him—and then what? Discuss the night like settling a restaurant bill? That’ll be one blowjob and a stellar fuck, discount applied, late fee for overstaying.
Jesus. No, thanks.
I checked my wallet and found two crumpled twenties and a fifty folded around a ten. A hundred in total. Not enough, but leaving nothing felt worse. I grabbed the palm-sized notepad—hotels still did that?—and borrowed the pen.
Hey—
Sorry for falling asleep. I didn’t want to wake you, so here’s all the cash I’ve got on me. Pretty sure I owe more, let me know how to get it to you. 646-555-0147.
—Jesse
I glanced at the bare slope of Finn’s shoulder and thought about adding another line. What, though? Last night was great—thank you. It sounded needy even in my own head. Not my style.
So I used the pen to fix the bills to the note, then crossed back to the bed to leave it on the nightstand. One last look at him—breathing slow and steady, lips parted and lashes like shadowed crescents—before I stepped away and out into the deserted hallway. Back into reality.
Ninety minutes until the start of my shift. Just enough time to head home, feed the birds, shower, and change. Probably not enough time to process that I’d paid a perfect stranger for the best night I could remember.
A temporary, hormone-induced mental blackout, a spark of chaos in a life I’d organized to glossy perfection—but not one I could really bring myself to regret.