18. Sinclair #2
That gets her attention pretty fast. “Come on.” She looks stunned.
I guess it’s a pretty out-there assertion.
Clearly, I’ve made no secret of how physically attractive I find her, but there’s a difference between ravishing her in private and making grandiose statements.
I don’t care. I raised the stakes last week, and I’m ready to double down.
“I’m serious. No one I’ve ever met can hold a candle to you. You are an exquisitely beautiful woman, Elyse. Which is why I want to discuss next steps.”
Okay, that was a weird mash-up of obsessive and businesslike. I press on.
“I would like to discuss whether you’re open to spending an evening with me at my home.
For dinner and sex, to be clear. It’s more private and more relaxed—for me, anyway.
I wouldn’t expect you to spend the night, and I’d pay twenty-five grand for your time.
Ideally, I’d like to make this a recurring appointment—possibly weekly. What do you think?”
Her expressive face, which has broadcast her growing surprise as I’ve been speaking, suddenly shutters. She looks down at her hands, saying nothing.
“What is it?” I push. “Look at me, Elyse.”
She takes her time, but finally she meets my eyes. She’s still silent, and I wait. Employing boiler-room sales techniques for sex is a bad look; I realize that much.
“This is surprisingly hard to say,” she says with an embarrassed little laugh, “but I don’t want to be paid.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She looks away again. “I’m not trying to play games here.
I—I know a relationship isn’t an option, and this isn’t about trying to blur any lines.
” The R-word has my heart rate ratcheting up.
I stare at her, trying desperately to work out where she’s going with this.
“But I’m pretty sure we’re both attracted to each other, and I’m also pretty sure you’ve just invited me over for no-strings-attached sex.
And that’s cool, but there’s no need for money to change hands. ”
“There is,” I protest, a little too quickly.
“It keeps things transactional. It keeps the rules clear. And it affords me a certain level of… control over the situation. If I’m paying you, I can insist that you turn up at a certain time.
That you do certain things. If I’m not, that seems… ill-mannered.”
She laughs at that. “Yeah. I’d say it’s a lot more than ill-mannered. But you could suggest that our date start at a certain time, and I’d still show, because that’s basic courtesy. Most people are able to set up dates without financial incentive.”
This conversation is not going the way I intended it to. I was hoping to set the terms and have her agree or negotiate. Not refuse. “Are you telling me you couldn’t use twenty-five grand?”
She casts her eyes upward as if seeking strength. “Everyone could use twenty-five grand,” she says, meeting my eyes again. I don’t miss the little catch in her voice as she says it. “But needing it and feeling ethically comfortable with taking it are very different things.”
Panic begins to claw at me with its icy fingers because it’s a given that I won’t feel “ethically comfortable” unless she takes it.
Unless she allows me to compensate her so well for her time that I’m essentially compensating her for the campaign I killed.
By my calculations, a couple of months of this arrangement would cover it nicely.
“Let me tell you this,” I say. “It’s bad business to turn down money when someone is waving it in your face. Very bad business.”
“You’re the businessperson here,” she says, her little face pale and steely, “but I’d say it’s bad business to pay for something that someone is offering to give you for free.”
Well, fuck. She’s got me there.
“What’s changed, though?” I ask. I genuinely want to understand. “You took my money the last two times, and that was higher risk. You know me better now; you know we’re sexually compatible. So why not keep going with our arrangement?”
She looks away. I sense that negotiating this kind of stuff is as uncomfortable for her as it is unfamiliar. “That’s exactly why.”
“What do you mean?”
She throws her hands up in the air. “I took it the first time, with extreme reservations, I might add, because I figured that even if it was a… not-great experience, then the money would be useful, you know?” She blows out a big breath.
“And I kind of did the same the second time because I’d had fun and I thought, why not?
But I’ve had an amazing time with you.” Her voice drops so low I can hardly hear it.
“And I wanna do it again. I just don’t want to be paid for it. It makes me feel icky.”
“Come here,” I say, patting my lap. She hesitates, then stands and makes her way over to me. I pull her down sideways onto my lap and put my arms around her waist. That’s better. Jesus, that’s so much better. “Why does it make you feel icky?”
“Because it makes me a whore, obviously,” she says to her knees, “and I hate that. It’s not who I am, even though I know I took your money.
Twice. But now you’re inviting me over, and I know it’s just sex, and, honestly, I’m cool with that.
But I’d really like to just be a woman you invite over on a date and not some kind of sex employee. ”
Jesus Christ. I have well and truly screwed myself over on this front.
If I have this right, I won’t be comfortable continuing to fuck Elyse unless I’m paying her handsomely for the privilege, and she won’t be comfortable unless I’m not.
What a mess—even though it’s not, really, because she’s made her terms clear.
I don’t get her unless we do it the old-fashioned way.
Alarm bells are ringing—just not enough to drown out the roar of desire in my ears.
I reach up to cup her jaw, turning her face toward mine, and I kiss her.
As soon as I seal my mouth over hers, those endorphins erupt like it’s the fucking Fourth of July.
After all the drama and panic of last week, after the days and nights of pining, I have my mouth on her and my hands on her, and, in this moment, she’s mine.
It’s all I’ve wanted, all I’ve craved, and while the hardened, controlling, litigious Voss part of me is seeing red flags all over the place, a softer, more tender part is turning cartwheels.
Because she wants me, too.
I allow my tongue to entangle with hers, to show her how much I’ve missed her, to remind her how fucking good it is between us. She kisses me back with just as much hunger, her little hand sliding through the open neck of my shirt and stopping at my heart.
“You look so freaking hot tonight, I can’t handle it,” she whispers against my lips.
I stroke the fine strap of her camisole with my fingertips. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You like kissing me and not getting paid for it?”
A happy little laugh. “Yeah.”
I smile against her mouth. “In that case, I was wondering if you’d let me cook you dinner next Wednesday.”
She sighs and tilts her head so that she can run her soft lips down my neck. In this moment, I feel incandescent with happiness. “That’s not the only thing I’ll let you do next Wednesday.”