Chapter Six
Luther
I groan and roll over, reaching for her warmth, craving one more taste of Odette before our time is officially up. I paid for the night, after all, so morning sex feels like a fair addition. My hand brushes against cold sheets instead of her soft skin, and my eyes snap open. Her side of the bed is empty and there is no sign of her.
Maybe she's in the bathroom, cleaning up after the mess we made last night. I smirk at the memory—her flushed cheeks, the way her body bent to my will, the sounds she made when I pushed her over the edge again and again. My balls ache at the thought, heavy from the teasing I put myself through before finally letting go.
I stretch, wincing slightly from the physical toll of our night together, and shuffle toward the bathroom. The door is open, the lights off, and the space is empty. I run a hand through my hair, calling out, “Odette?”
Silence.
My gaze falls to the nightstand. Her wand and bag are gone. A faint trace of her perfume lingers in the air, a teasing reminder of her presence. The only tangible proof she was even here is the ripped thong lying on the floor. I bend down, picking up the delicate scrap of lace, and bring it to my nose, inhaling deeply. That addictive scent.
I drop the thong onto the bed and grab my phone. The app I used to book her is still open, the transaction completed. I scroll to the prompt for a review and a tip. A smirk tugs at my lips as I type, fingers flying across the screen.
Five stars, easy. The best fuck I’ve ever had. Didn’t bat an eye at my wants and needs. I came harder than I ever have before. Honestly, it felt like magic. Although I do wish there had been time for a morning romp.
Satisfied, I hit submit, then add a generous grand as a tip. It’s not like the money matters—Phillip’s covering half since he bailed, and this is a drop in the bucket for me. But something about her feels worth it. More than worth it.
I dress quickly, pull on yesterday’s clothes, and grab my things. The walk to the elevator is quiet, but my mind isn’t. Why would she leave without saying anything? Did I do something wrong? Was last night just business to her? It didn’t feel like just business. Her body’s reactions, the way she looked at me—it felt real. Or maybe I’m deluding myself.
By the time I reach the valet, my thoughts are still racing in circles. I murmur a quick, “Thanks,” as the valet hands me my keys, slipping him a fifty before sliding into the driver’s seat.
The diner on the corner catches my eye. It’s nothing fancy, but it’ll do. I park and walk in, choosing a booth in the back, away from the early morning bustle. I’m still stuck on her as I absently order a coffee and whatever special the waiter, Sal, suggests.
The food arrives—a skillet filled with Swiss, ham, and mushrooms—but I barely notice. My thoughts keep circling back to Odette. Why did she leave so suddenly? Did she fake it all?
I can’t let it go. I pull out my phone and compose a message through the app.
Hey Gorgeous,
Last night was amazing, and I think my tip reflects that. I’d love to book you again. Do you have any openings soon? I’ll pay whatever it costs.
-Luther
I take a bite of my food, forcing myself to eat as I wait for her reply. It’s almost absurd how anxious I feel, like a high schooler waiting for a crush to text back. My phone chimes, and I nearly knock over my coffee, grabbing it.
Hi,
Thank you for reaching out. I’m glad the service was to your liking. Your tip and review were appreciated—they help a lot. I’m booked solid for the rest of the month, but I can refer you to another girl if you’d like.
-O
Another girl? Like hell. My jaw tightens as I reread her response. Booked for the rest of the month? How many people is she seeing in a week? Do they touch her the way I did? Make her moan like I did? The thought of anyone else being with her—it burns.
I signal to Sal, requesting another coffee, making it clear I’ll be here a while.
"Keep them coming. I’ve got some work to do," I add. He nods and disappears toward the counter as I head to my car to retrieve my laptop.
By the time I return, Sal is already refilling my mug. "Thanks," I murmur, sliding back into the booth and opening my laptop.
I navigate straight to the website where I first found Odette, the same one that led me to her app. If she won’t tell me what I want to know, I’ll dig up the answers myself. Who is she really? Where did she come from? And why the hell can’t I stop thinking about her? I need to know everything I can about her.
This time, I take a closer look at the images she uses—each meticulously curated and tempting, yet they hold hints of the real her if you know where to look.
One photo catches my eye: a candid shot in a cozy coffee shop. The lighting is soft, and the decor in the background features rustic wood paneling and a mural of coffee beans painted across the wall. The coffee cup on the table has a distinctive logo—a steaming cup within a circle. I zoom in, my pulse quickening. I snag the logo and run it through reverse image search: The Roasted Bean. It’s just ten blocks from here.
As I dig deeper, I uncover her Pixtagram account. She tagged herself at The Roasted Bean in the very photo on her profile. I follow the tag trail to her personal account—completely public. Rookie mistake, Odette. It’s a goldmine of information. Pictures of pastries, lattes, books spread open on small tables, even selfies with captioned musings about her "love of quiet mornings." It’s all right here.
She goes to The Roasted Bean frequently, enough that I feel confident she’s a regular. I grab the café’s address from the web, throw two twenties on the table, and pack up my things. It’s time to move.
The drive to The Roasted Bean takes less than ten minutes, but my mind races the entire way. When I step inside, the shop is exactly what I pictured—a high-end yet quaint café with polished wood floors and plush leather armchairs clustered around low tables. The air smells of freshly ground coffee, citrus, and vanilla. Shelves line one wall, filled with artisanal coffee beans, ceramic mugs, and neatly stacked books. The baristas move like clockwork behind a marble counter, pulling shots of espresso and frothing milk with a practiced efficiency.
I order a citrus tea—refreshing, but not so much that it distracts me from my mission—and head to the back of the shop. A row of small tables line the wall beneath a mural of a sunlit coffee plantation, while soft jazz plays in the background. I choose a seat that gives me a clear view of the entrance.
I’m going to sit here all day. Tomorrow, too, if I have to. Until she shows up. And when she does, I’ll follow her. I’ll figure out her routine, her favorite spots, everything.
Because when we "bump" into each other one day, it won’t be an accident. By then, I’ll be exactly the man she wants—the man she dreams about—because I’ll know everything there is to know about her.
The hours tick by, one after another, as I sit in the back of The Roasted Bean, nursing my second citrus tea and watching the door like a hawk. Every time the bell jingles, my pulse quickens, but it’s always someone else—college kids, business types, couples laughing over their lattes. None of them are her.
By the time the baristas start flipping chairs onto tables and sweeping the floors, I admit defeat for the day. I leave a generous tip on the counter, offering a polite nod to the staff as I step out into the cool night air. My car is parked just around the corner, but instead of heading home, I search for a motel nearby. I need to stay close. If she comes here regularly, I’m not missing her tomorrow.
A dingy motel down the street fits the bill. I book a room and check in, the sputtering neon “Vacancy” sign reflecting off the asphalt in the parking lot. Room four hundred and three is just as expected—threadbare carpet, a musty smell, and a small TV perched on a scratched dresser. But it’ll do.
Once inside, I lock the door and place an order through a delivery app for clothes and toiletries. There’s no way I’m running back home. Settling on the edge of the bed, I turn the TV on, but the sound becomes white noise as I scroll through Odette’s Pixtagram again. Each photo is a tease—a carefully constructed window into her life. Her smile, her posture, the way her hair falls just right. She’s magnetic, and every picture draws me deeper.
Switching to her profile on the escort app, I pull up her image—the one with her piercing gaze and that coy smirk that promised everything and delivered even more. My hand moves almost instinctively, sliding down my pants. I cup myself, stroking slowly as I picture her beneath me again, her breathy moans, her nails digging into my shoulders. My grip tightens, the ache in my balls intensifying. I’m on the edge, about to lose myself entirely.
But I stop. Groaning, I let go, the frustration only feeding my determination. This isn’t for me to take. It’s hers to give. The pain is worth it, I tell myself. The next time I come, it’ll be because she’s beneath me, making me. That thought alone is enough to keep me going.
A knock at the door snaps me out of my haze. My delivery. I pull the door open to find a few bags left outside, the delivery driver already disappearing into the night. Grabbing them, I bring everything inside, rifling through the new clothes and toiletries before heading to the bathroom.
The shower sputters to life, the water pressure low but usable. As I lather up, my thoughts drift back to her. I picture Odette on her knees before me, her eyes locked onto mine, her lips parted, waiting to prove just how much she wants me. My hand slides down again, the steam around me thick as I stroke myself in rhythm to the fantasy. But, just like before, I stop short of release, groaning in frustration.
After finishing my shower, I pull on a pair of new sweats and collapse onto the bed. The TV’s glow pulses across the room, but I don’t bother watching it. I turn it off and stare at the ceiling, my thoughts laser-focused on her.
“Don’t worry, Odette,” I murmur to the empty room, my voice resolute. “I’m coming for you.”