CHAPTER FOUR — DAVID
I sit at my kitchen table with a glass of scotch and my laptop open, and I read the words Dear Stephanie for the fourth time.
I have never rewritten anything this many times in my life.
If Liam saw my screen right now, he'd have me committed. I can hear his voice like he's sitting across from me: Evict her today. Girls like that are more trouble than they're worth. And the truly annoying thing about my little brother is that he's usually right. That's what makes him a good lawyer.
But Liam hasn't seen her like I have. He hasn't seen her on her knees, looking up at me with those beautiful eyes and that bratty mouth wrapped around my cock. So, of course, it's easy for him to tell me to evict her, because he doesn't know what he's missing out on, but I do.
I take a sip and start typing again.
That's when I hear it.
A buzzing, coming up through the floor. It sounds familiar. In fact, if I didn't know better, I would think…
But it couldn't be that, right?
The buzzing gets louder and my blood pressure gets higher.
I set down my glass and listen for a minute longer, just to be sure.
Yep, that's exactly what it is.
Unbelievable.
I sent that girl downstairs forty-five minutes ago, unsatisfied, on purpose. That was the point. That was the lesson she was supposed to learn. That her actions have consequences.
And what was her response to that lesson? To lie in bed directly underneath me and use her obnoxiously loud vibrator immediately afterwards.
Clearly, I'm not getting through to her.
I pick up my phone.
Are you touching yourself right now?
The buzzing stops for a moment. I can picture her staring at the screen, deciding whether to lie to me.
None of your business, she replies.
I feel my jaw tighten. I text her back.
Turn it off. Now.
It's quiet for a few seconds. And then I hear the buzzing again, and this time it's louder.
I chuckle. I can't help it. I know I should be mad, and part of me is, but another part of me admires her audacity. Plus, I'd be lying if I didn't say there was a part of me that enjoys the fact that she keeps giving me more reasons to punish her.
She's unlike any other woman I've met. Every time I try and draw a line with her, she treats it like a negotiation, like a tug-of-war.
We keep shifting power back and forth, back and forth, and as frustrating as it is at times, it's fun too. We like pushing each other.
It's probably not healthy, but fuck it. I'm way past those kinds of concerns now.
She's constantly testing me, checking whether I mean it when I draw a line. Well, I meant it this time.
And she's about to find that out.
It's been five years since the divorce. Five years of a (mostly) quiet house, polite dinners with women my own age, conversations about renovations and retirement accounts. I told myself that was peace. Tonight, a twenty-two-year-old in a Halloween costume tried to blackmail me in my own house.
And somehow, I felt more alive during those ten minutes of blackmail than I have in the past five years.
Which makes me realize I haven't really been living.
I've been in a trance. Until now. Until her.
I've been sleepwalking through life, and it took Stephanie walking in and shaking me up like a snow globe for me to realize it.
Well, as much as she's shaking up my life, I'm about to shake up hers too.
I don't go downstairs. That's what she's expecting: me, pounding on her door, losing control.
So that's exactly why I'm not going to do it.
She's used to being in control, wrapping men around her finger, knowing just what to do, what strings to pull, to get the reactions she wants. Well, she'll find out soon enough that I'm not as easily manipulated as the men she's used to dealing with.
Instead, I text one more message: I hope that was worth it, because there will be consequences.
Then I put the phone face down, ignore the question mark she sends back, and go back to my laptop. Because as it turns out, she's just given me the next rule.
I read the whole thing over one more time. Five conditions. Half rent. Everything I promised her tonight, in writing, which Liam would tell me is the single stupidest thing a man in my position could do.
Maybe. But I've spent five years being smart. And what has smart gotten me?
An empty bed, a tidy portfolio, and absolutely nothing to look forward to on a Friday night, that's what. And I don't want it anymore.
The funny part is the money. Cutting her rent in half will cost me a few hundred dollars a month, but I'd pay ten times that without blinking for what I felt tonight. I can't let her know that, though. She needs to think that I'm giving up something here. That I'm sacrificing something.
And don't get me wrong, I am sacrificing something, but it's not money. It's risk. I'm risking my reputation by doing this. If word ever got out about Stephanie, I'd be in hot water. Very hot water. Scalding, in fact.
She's worth it, though.
So I sign the email, take a deep breath, and hit send.
As I brush my teeth and get ready for bed, I replay Stephanie's little stunt in my mind.
I think about her right underneath me using a vibrator on that tight, perfect little body of hers, and think about all the ways I can punish her.
I'm going to make it count. I spit in the sink and look up at my face in the mirror.
I don't know if I'm imagining things, but my eyes look brighter and my skin looks smoother. I look like somebody who's just come back from a Caribbean vacation, like my skin is glowing.
I don't know what's happening to me. I feel like a younger version of myself. I splash ice cold water on my face and pad out of the bathroom and into my bedroom.
I lie down on my cool, smooth bedsheets and stare up at the white stucco ceiling, contemplating when I should punish Stephanie.
I'll give it a few days, I decide. I'm going to let her sweat. I'm going to make her wait for it, wondering when it's coming.
I close my eyes and imagine her sitting in a wooden chair in a 200-person lecture, unable to concentrate because she's thinking about what I'm going to do to her and just when I'm going to do it.
I imagine her biting her soft lower lip, stomach in knots, tucking a strand of shiny hair behind one milky ear. My cock stiffens. I want her anxious and nervous. On edge. Like a skittish animal deciding whether to cross the road.
I want her to be so tense that when I finally come to collect, she'll already be so worked up that half my work will be done.
She wants to play games? Fine.
Let's play.