Chapter 2. Florian
The man standing in the doorway made the barista's hands falter mid-pour, coffee spilling a little. Maybe it was just a coincidence, but I thought not.
When we first started talking, before exchanging pictures and details, I was sure he’d be a mid-aged lonely freak, probably ugly, probably too desperate to be using that app.
And I might have been right about the mid-aged lonely freak.
Maybe desperate. But, boy, he wasn’t ugly.
He was the polar opposite of ugly. He looked like a fucking deity.
He had sent pictures, but I thought I was being catfished then. I wasn’t.
Knox was tall. Taller than I expected, with broad shoulders in a charcoal suit that fit him perfectly.
He was older, forty-eight, his profile had said, the salt-and-pepper hair swept back from his forehead.
Still, he was so fucking handsome. Annoyingly so, in the way that made it impossible to look away, even when I wanted to resist the pull.
His features were too symmetrical, his eyes a shade too dark.
Intimidating. He worked out regularly, for sure.
He could be a fucking model or actor. What the fuck was he doing here?
Trying to meet me? And he had money. I asked for a lot, planning on bargaining it with time.
But he never even offered to lower my rate, he would pay in full.
And on top of everything, he was a Dom. Even vanilla people knew it. I knew they knew.
He didn't scan the room. He didn't look for a table. His eyes locked onto me instantly, as if he could smell desperation. I wanted to look away. I wanted to slouch, to hide behind my cup. I wanted more than anything to play it cool. To be a professional prostitute, or something. But I froze. His gaze started at my messy hair and slid down to my scuffed sneakers, missing nothing in between. I gulped hard, feeling my Adam’s apple moving up and down.
It brought tears to my eyes, and a kind of shame only a little boy confessing his sins to the strictest shepherd of the church would know. It paralyzed me.
He walked toward the counter, moving with his predatory stride that made the college students all over in their pajama pants look like clumsy children.
He didn't ask me what I wanted. He just held up two fingers to the barista, murmured something in a low voice, and paid with a tap of a sleek black card.
My heart was doing gymnastics in my throat. Run, a small, panicked voice whispered.
Run before he owns you. You know you can’t do this, Florian, and he will know as well.
But I stayed. I stayed because the eviction notice was burning a hole in my memory, and because, God help me, I wanted to see what he would do next.
Knox approached my table, carrying two fresh cups.
He set one down in front of me, hot chocolate with whipped cream, and placed his own opposite it, black coffee, no sugar.
This guy was obviously big on metaphors, not even bothering to hide it: his drink was bitter, adult, serious, scary.
Mine was sweet, soft, and easy to drink.
Almost as if he screamed: you're just a little boy, and we both know it.
Then, he sat. He occupied the chair like he owned the whole place, his hands clasping loosely on the tabletop. His hands were large, manicured.
"You look younger than your profile suggested," he said.
It wasn't an accusation, just an observation of a fact. It made me want to apologize. My defenses snapped up instantly. I straightened my spine, jutting my chin out, my eyebrows coming together.
"I'm twenty-one. I have ID. I’m not lying."
"I don't need your ID, Florian."
He used my real name, the one I’d foolishly given him in our message exchange after he asked for it.
He said he demanded to know the truth before meeting me, and if I lied, we wouldn’t be meeting.
So, I told him. And he told me his own real name.
He said he never lied about these things. And I trusted him, I didn’t know why.
"I need to know if you're capable of understanding the arrangement."
"I'm not stupid, Mr. Dominant," I snapped, the bratty tone slipping out before I could check it. It was my armor, I knew it, but couldn’t stop. "I know how this works. You pay, I... provide company. Whatever you want."
Knox’s expression didn't change, but a tiny spark lit up in his dark eyes. Amusement? Or was it satisfaction?
“Not whatever I want. You're entitled to your hard limits,” he said, almost like a teacher lecturing a silly student. I rolled my eyes and, this time, I saw the smirk playing on his lips. So, he enjoyed it when I was a brat. I wasn’t the biggest brat to exist, but I did enjoy pushing some buttons.
And I desperately wanted him to have a good time, even now.
“I know, Mr. Dom,” I said, playing along.
He just kept the smirk. “You'll be calling me other things soon, but, for now, feel free to call me by my name.”
“What if I don't want to call you by your name?” I teased.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly vibing with me.
It fed me: his attention, the unspoken challenge in his gaze.
How fucking gorgeous he was. I could feel the brat in me waking up, hungry for more of this game, for his approval.
Just knowing I could get a rise out of him, even a tiny spark, made me want to test him again, to see how far I could go.
“Then, you'll call me Daddy,” he said.
And just like that, I was suddenly speechless.
My mouth went dry. I’d heard it used before, online, and in half-joking texts with guys who barely knew me, but coming from him, in that low, unyielding tone, it felt different.
It was a command, not a request. I felt heat rush up my neck, embarrassment, and something twisting in my gut.
Daddy. The word tasted forbidden, and yet, God help me, I wanted to say it.
I wanted to see what it would do to him, to me.
For a long moment, all I could do was stare at him, every smart retort I might’ve had suddenly wiped from my mind.
But he didn't wait. He chuckled, a low growl, reached into his suit pocket, and withdrew a heavy cream-colored business card, sliding it across the laminate table with two fingers.
"My address," he said. "Tomorrow evening at seven. We'll discuss the specifics of the terms there. You will be punctual."
I stared at the card. It was minimalist, just a name, Robert Knox, and an address in an exclusive part of the city, the kind of place where the driveways were heated, and the security guards carried guns.
"We're not discussing terms now?" I asked, confused. "I thought..."
"I don't conduct business in coffee shops surrounded by children," he interrupted, glancing at a group of sophomores arguing over a biology project nearby. He turned that intense gaze back to me, pinning me to the back of my chair. "And this is a business negotiation. Until it isn't."
I swallowed hard, my throat dry despite the hot chocolate.
“And you told me you're an adult, right? You can handle a business negotiation, I believe.”
“Of course I can,” I said, blushing deeply again, and my tone didn't sound like I could handle anything at all. But I ignored it. Or, at least, I tried. He looked at me as if I were a scared kitten, though, and that evil smirk was back there.
“Good. So, it’s settled,” he said, close to getting up and leaving. But I couldn’t let him go just yet.
"Why do you do this?" I blurted out. It was the question plaguing me since his message. "You must have loads of boys wanting you. Why do you pay for random guys in an app like that?”
Knox leaned forward, just an inch. It made me stop breathing for a second.
“I don’t do this because I can’t find someone. I do it because I want honesty. No lies about what we want or why we’re here. I don’t have to pretend, and neither do you. It’s easy.”
He paused, letting the silence stretch, forcing me to sit in it. So, he really was just a rich guy who was buying me just as much as he bought designer clothes and sports cars.
"And because I like to play with boy toys who think they're tougher than they are."
The breath snagged in my lungs. The term boy toy should have been demeaning. It should have made me grab my bag and storm out. But coming from him, delivered with that absolute confidence, it sent a shiver down my spine.
I opened my mouth to retort, to find some witty, biting comeback, but he was already moving. He stood up, buttoning his jacket. I almost begged him not to go. I didn't want him to go. He was addictive.
"Tomorrow. Seven," he repeated.
He placed a plain white envelope on the table next to the coffee he hadn't touched.
He nodded toward the envelope. "Consider it compensation for meeting me today. And a practical measure, I expect you'll take a taxi tomorrow. The neighborhood isn't pedestrian-friendly after dark."
And then, he was gone. He walked out of the coffee shop without looking back.
I sat there for a long time, my hand trembling as I reached for the envelope.
It felt heavy. I peeked inside. A stack of bills stared back at me, clean, crisp hundreds.
It was exactly half the sum we had discussed for the full night.
He had given it to me for five minutes of conversation and a cup of coffee.
There were no strings. I could take this money, pay my rent, and ghost him. I could delete my profile and never think about Knox or his charcoal suit again. He wouldn't chase me; men like him didn't chase.
But as I watched the empty doorway where he had vanished, my heart racing a mile a minute, I knew I wouldn't run. The fear was there, cold, but beneath it was something else. A pull. I had never felt like that before. And I knew he knew it too. He knew I wouldn’t run.
I shoved the envelope into my pocket, keeping my hand over it. My head was spinning, dizzy with the sudden shift in my reality. I took a sip of the chocolate he’d bought me. It was perfect. Strong, dark, and hot enough to burn.