2. Ask And You Shall Receive
ASK AND YOU SHALL RECEIVE
Desire.
You know what the problem with men my age is?
Half of them are still splitting rent with a roommate, living off their mother’s Netflix password, and sinking money into ‘side hustles’ that don’t even cover bottle service, let alone keep up with me.
And the ones who do get money?
Whew.
Arrogant as hell.
Loud in volume, smell and clothing. All designer brands, and no real substance. They think throwing a few bands around makes them kings.
Cute… but no.
Older men, though? That’s a whole different game.
Now, I’m not talking about the ones trying to play daddy and tell you when you have to come home. I already have a father. I don’t need another one.
I’m talking about rich older men.
Let’s be real here, my lifestyle ain’t exactly cheap. I liked the best wine, custom high-quality clothes and vacations where the beach didn’t have any bad ass kids running around screaming.
Rich men my age look at that as if I’m being high-maintenance.
But rich older men?
They saw luxury and privacy as a necessity.
What I loved most was how they moved. They didn’t have to brag or try to prove anything. They let that black card do the talking, and I loved that shit. They’ll watch you test them with a little smirk that says, ‘go on baby, see how far you can push’.
And that power? That assurance?
It’s fucking addictive.
I should know, I’m used to the finer things in life. I was raised on them. So being with a man who can meet me where I’m at financially, mentally, and socially? It isn’t gold-digging.
It’s just alignment.
“It’s a gorgeous room you have, Mister S,” I said as we stepped inside.
And it really was.
Floor-to-ceiling windows spread out across the far wall, showing the whole city glittering like a jewelry box cracked open.
The skyline looked close enough to touch.
The suite was all sleek and modern with a plush cream sofa, heavy glass coffee table, art that looked too expensive to understand, and a faint cedarwood scent that made the whole place feel sexy.
“Thank you,” he said, already at home in all this.
“It’s so clean in here, I should take my shoes off,” I teased, reaching for the buckle on my heel.
But his firm hand stopped mine, squeezing slightly. “Don’t. I like the height.”
I arched a brow at the gesture, but my smile betrayed me.
Smooth. Very smooth.
He let go, and without another word, he crossed to the minibar.
His movements were that of a man accustomed to getting what he wanted without rushing. He set two glasses on the counter, poured amber liquid over ice, and stirred with the kind of care that let me know he didn’t do shortcuts.
And that right there was why men like him made sense for me.
He didn’t need to flash, didn’t need to sell himself. His tailored suit already did that, hugging broad shoulders, showing the quiet strength in his frame. His beard was trimmed, peppered with silver that made him look more seasoned than old, and the way he carried himself?
Authority.
Control.
This wasn’t a man chasing his prime but living it.
I wandered the suite while he fixed our drinks, my heels clicking softly on polished hardwood.
The bedroom door was cracked, showing crisp white sheets pulled tight, not a wrinkle in sight.
The dining area had a fresh arrangement of orchids that were a part of the hotel service no doubt, but it still made me smile.
“You know, I asked my father for the penthouse? He told me it was unavailable, so I’m guessing you’re the room thief.”
“Mhm,” he grunted, not even looking up from the bottle he was pouring.
I rolled my eyes.
Figures.
The downside of rich older men? They could be cold. Detached. Mean even. Always so damn focused that your words were background noise to their own thoughts. My dad was the same and Mister S—well, he looked the type.
Maybe it’s best to shut up. Like he asked.
I leaned against the back of the sofa, watching him. He handed me a glass, and his eyes lingered just long enough. I really shouldn’t drink from strangers… but ahh, fuck it.
“Gimme yours instead.”
He offered his glass and didn’t even hesitate, I like that.
I took a sip, humming softly as the liquor burned warm down my throat.
“Mmm. Not bad. You trying to impress me?”
“No,” he said flatly, sipping his own.
I laughed, tossing my hair over my shoulder before circling and sinking into the sofa, crossing my legs.
He walked towards the window and stared out at that gorgeous skyline. I watched him nurse his drink like it was the most important thing in the room, deep in thought.
“You always this serious, Mr. S.?”
He sighed. “More damn questions.”
“Well, you can’t blame me for being curious. I was expecting the interesting man I met at the bar. Not Bruce Wayne.”
His mouth tugged at the corner, barely a smile. “Maybe that was all the interesting parts of me.”
I laughed, tilting my head. “Mm, I don’t buy that. I think you’re secretly very fun.”
“Not a chance,” he said flatly, but his eyes flickered like he almost enjoyed me poking at him.
I slid off the sofa and crossed the space between us, slowly dragging my movements out. “You know, I could probably get you to smile again for real, if you let me try.”
“Doubt it.”
“Oh, that sounds like a challenge.” I grinned, looping my arms around his shoulders, leaning in, about to steal a kiss.
That’s when he stopped me. His hand was firm at my wrist, voice calm but commanding. “I think we need to establish some ground rules.”
I blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift. “Rules?”
“Rule one,” he said evenly, ignoring my confusion. “I don’t want to be touched. And yes, that includes kissing.”
I pulled back slightly, frowning. “Wait, what? Then how are we supposed to—”
“Rule two.” His tone cut through mine, leaving no room to argue. “I don’t like to be questioned.”
That shut me up real quick.
“And rule three.” He released my wrist but held my gaze. “Communicate. I want to know what you like, what you don’t like, what feels good, and what doesn’t. I can go as hard as you want, for as long as you want. But don’t hold back. Ask, and you’ll get it. Understood?”
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “Understood.”
“Good.” He nodded towards the bedroom door before taking a sip. “Bed. Now. I’ll be with you in a moment. Gotta make a call.”
I nodded and made my way over to the room door, looking over my shoulder to see if he’s looking. He’s not. He’s already on the phone.
With a sigh I push the door all the way open.
The dick better be worth it.
Instead of getting on the bed like he asked, I walked around. The bedroom was a lot colder than the rest of the space. Everything was too perfect. Sheets pulled tight, not a crease in sight.
No softness.
I walked slowly as I dragged my fingers across the dresser just to break the stillness. His suitcase sat open on the rack, clothes folded with a precision that made even me pause.
I hovered for a second.
I could look, you know.
Just a quick peek.
Not like anybody would know.
But no… that felt too predictable. And it’s not like it’s gonna tell me why he’s so strict. Men like that didn’t leave their trauma out in the open.
Maybe I should check the medicine cabinet.
What am I thinking? This ain’t his house. My attention shifted instead to the desk.
A neat stack of papers sat there, perfectly aligned. I stepped closer, tilting my head as I read it.
Sucré.
I knew he was here for the event. Still, this doesn’t look like the invitations that were sent, it looked more… internal. I leaned in, curiosity prickling—
“You don’t like to listen, do you?”
I jumped.
My hands flew behind my back so fast it was as if I got caught doing something wrong.
“No,” I said, turning toward him with a shrug, playing it off. “Not really.”
“Tuh.” He shut the door behind him. “I don’t know if this will work out for us then, Desire. ‘Cause I really don’t like repeating myself.”
I exhaled through my nose, kinda irritated. “You said bedroom and I’m in the bedroom so you don’t really need to repeat anything.”
“I said bed.”
Whoops.
“Oh. See, now I get it.”
His eyes stay on me, unimpressed.
I straightened. “I’m sorry.”
He watched me for a second like he was deciding still, then gestured. “Come here.”
I walked over slower this time, stopping right in front of him. Close enough to feel him, not close enough to touch.
“Sit.”
I glanced at the bed, then back at him. “You always this warm and welcoming to your guests, Mr. S?”
He didn’t answer but I could see the vein growing in his temple.
I smiled to myself and sat anyway, crossing my legs, smoothing my hands over my thighs like I had all the patience in the world for whatever game he’s playing.
He stayed standing.
The silence stretched again, and I was positive he was doing that on purpose. Letting it sit. Letting me feel it. Quietly asserting dominance over me.
I didn’t like that.
So I fixed it.
I tilted my head up at him. “You just gonna hover over me like that all night, or is there a second act coming?”
That earned me the smallest reaction. A little shift in his expression that’s barely there, but I caught it.
Good.
At least now I know he wasn’t made of stone.
“I’m just thinking of every single position I want to put you in before you tap out.”
Oh!
“Well,” I leaned in. “No time like the present.”
My hands came forward, reaching for his belt and he caught my wrists instantly.
“Do. Not. Touch. Me.”
I blinked up at him, then tilted my head.
Now, we test how far he’ll let this go.
“Is that a kink with you? Or like a boundary?”
“Neither. It’s an instruction.”
“Mm.”
“Hands behind your back.”
I didn’t move right away. I let my gaze drag over his face, still pushing my luck and testing. “Are you always this demanding?”
“You always this difficult?”
I smiled. “Only when I’m bored.”
Something in his expression shifted. “Bored, huh? Okay.”
That sent a chill down my spine.
“…okay,” I said finally, sliding my hands behind my back.