25. In Comes Evan Fine
IN COMES EVAN FINE
Kayleigh
The best part about being a kept woman, I discover, is that the rules dissolve as soon as you’re alone.
I’m not supposed to be alone, not exactly.
If Trevor were the truly controlling sort, he’d have staff trailing my every step, or security cams in the bathroom, or some kind of AI assistant that sends him reports whenever I pause in front of the fridge for too long.
But instead, when he leaves for work in the morning—after fucking me so thoroughly that my insides hum—he just gives me a lazy, proprietary kiss and tells me to enjoy my day.
Sometimes he’ll even say “you’ve earned it,” which makes me want to both giggle and weep.
The whole point, the entire arc of this arrangement, is that I don’t have to earn anything anymore.
I just exist, warm and soft and available, inside the walls of this penthouse, able to live a life of utterly hedonic pleasure.
Right now, I exist in his en suite, which is two times larger than my old bedroom and so luxurious it feels like a dream.
There’s a sunken tub the size of a small Prius, white marble on all six surfaces, and a single vanilla-scented candle guttering on the ledge by my head.
The Epsom salts cloud the water to a milky blue, and every time I sink my shoulders under the surface, the steam comes up so thick I can’t see the edge of the tub.
There’s no sound except the drone of the ceiling vent and the occasional tiny slap of water against my skin.
My phone perches on the faucet shelf, untouched. The rest of the world could be dead for all I care.
This is my favorite part of the day: the suspended, timeless hour after Trevor leaves.
The housekeeper’s already outside, bustling about in the kitchen and polishing surfaces that are already clean.
But me, by contrast? In this hour, I am utterly relaxed.
I don’t have to pose, or smile, or keep my knees together.
I can become a puddle of goo in the tub and stare at the ceiling, my mind blank and turned off.
But my body aches. Not in a bad way, but in the way that makes you want to keep finding new ways to ache.
My hips are sore. The inside of my thighs feel stretched, bruised with the memory of hands that gripped a little too tight.
My asshole and my pussy both throb, a deep, satisfied pulse that shows no signs of abating.
There’s a faint, oblong mark at my left hipbone, where Trevor must have pressed me into the mattress and left the print of his thumb.
I touch it now, tracing it with a wet fingertip, and it zings up my spine with pleasure.
I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything more than this bruise. I hope it lasts all week. That’s how much I’m infatuated this man.
I tip my head back into the water, and the world goes muffled, like I’m at the bottom of a pool.
There’s an urge to keep sinking, to see if I can slide beneath the surface and just vanish, white and boneless and weightless.
But then the phone lights up and buzzes, a flat, angry noise that cuts through the calm like a rescue helicopter.
I blink, water streaming off my lashes, and grab the phone with damp fingers before it can buzz a second time.
It’s Trevor, of course. There’s no text, just a direct FaceTime call, because that’s how he is: always live, always immediate.
I accept the call, propping the phone against a bottle of shampoo.
His face fills the screen, all angular bone and masculine stubble, the oceanic blue of his eyes even more intense in bad office lighting. There’s a city skyline behind him, but I can’t tell if it’s real or a Zoom background.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, the word surrounding my heart like a soft blanket.
I wipe my nose, realize I must look wild—hair a dripping mass, eyes unfocused, skin flushed from heat.
“Hi,” I say, and my voice comes out dreamy, half-melted.
Trevor clocks the look instantly, and one eyebrow goes up just a millimeter. “You enjoying yourself?”
“Very much,” I say, and I mean it. I arch my neck, letting my head loll against the porcelain edge, and hope he can see how relaxed I am.
“Good,” he says, but there’s a twitch in his jaw that means this is about to turn.
“I forgot to mention it last night, but there’s a real estate broker coming by today, in twenty minutes actually.
To look at the penthouse. It’s been booked for weeks and it’s too late to reschedule. He’s probably already on his way.”
I blink, the fog of pleasure thinning a little. “In twenty minutes?”
“Yeah. Shouldn’t take long. He’ll just walk through, take some notes, maybe a few pictures. Standard stuff. But I wanted to let you know because obviously, a stranger’s going to be walking through our home.”
My heart shudders because he just referred to the apartment as “ours” and I smile with utter joy. Then I nod, still half-wet, half-wild, fully naked under the water.
“Sure, I’ll get out so he or she doesn’t find me en flagrante in the master bath.” I have to suppress a laugh.
Trevor must see it in my eyes. He gives a smile.
“Definitely make sure he doesn’t see anything, Kayleigh,” he says, with a gentleness he reserves just for me. “Just smile and be polite. He won’t linger. I’ll be home soon enough.”
I nod again, this time with more certainty. “No problem.”
“Great. Thanks, baby.” He pauses, the silence stretching just long enough to make it intimate. Then: “I’ll see you tonight, sweetheart.”
The call ends.
For a moment, the room is silent again, but the silence is different now. The old calm is gone because damn, I have to get up. I lay back in the water, staring at the candle flame, and try to imagine how a normal person would handle this.
A normal person would get out of the bath and put some clothes on. That’s what I have to do.
With a sigh, I climb out of the bath, the air sharp on my skin. I wrap myself in one of Trevor’s towels—so thick and heavy it feels like a weighted blanket—and stand in front of the vanity mirror.
I take inventory. My body is pink and shining, flushed from the heat.
There are more bruises than I realized: one on my ribcage, a couple on my inner thighs, the perfect print of a massive hand at my left shoulder.
My hair is a mess, but a good mess. My lips are still red and pouty, and my eyes look huge, innocent and yet now with a womanly air that wasn’t there even a few months ago.
For a second, I think about putting on make-up, but then decide against it. The broker doesn’t care what I look like, and even if he does, I’m not here for him.
I towel-dry my hair, then blast it with Trevor’s Dyson for a few minutes.
It comes out fluffy, a little wild, but that’s okay.
I pull on a t-shirt (one of Trevor’s, because it smells like cedar and power and him) and a denim skirt that comes to the knee.
No bra, because my nipples are too sore and I like the way the fabric rubs against them when I move.
I slip on a pair of ankle socks and stare at myself in the mirror one last time.
Fresh-faced, a little flushed, hair wild, body still humming from the bath. Not the look of a professional personal assistant, but it’s fine. It’s just a broker.
I walk to the kitchen and lean against the marble, waiting for the knock.
It’s strange how fast a body can shift from one reality to another. Last night, I was a sex doll. This morning, a spoiled pet. Now, I am the lady of the house, responsible for nothing but being seen.
I hear the elevator chime, the slow tick of footsteps in the hallway, and I run my hand over my hip, feeling the faint ache of the bruise as if it’s a keepsake.
The knock comes, sharp and official, and for a moment I think about not answering.
I could pretend I’m not home. But I don’t want to disappoint Trevor.
Besides, he said he wanted to sell to buy something more family-oriented, and a smile wreathes my face as I remember the words.
Maybe with me. Maybe a bigger house with a garden for our shared children.
That does it. I square my shoulders, take a breath, and open the door with a practiced smile.
To my shock, it’s Evan Fine, the handsome bachelor from the auction.
“Hey,” I stammer, utterly stumped. “What are you doing here?”
He looks just as surprised.
Kayleigh?” he asks. “I’m here for a preliminary assessment for a client. What are you doing here?”
I stammer again, blushing.
“Well, I mean…well, I live here.”
He’s stunned.
“You live here? But this is Trevor Cahill’s penthouse, is it not?” he asks, checking his notes.
My cheeks flame.
“Yes, and I’m his personal assistant,” I babble. “Mr. Cahill hired me after the auction as his assistant. The kind that lives in-home. In a different bedroom,” I stammer. “He’s not home right now, so he asked me to give you a tour.”
Evan shoots me a long, assessing look. He’s just as I remember: tan, athletic, white-blonde hair just starting to grow in after a close cut, blue eyes that register everything, and a smile that goes all the way up into the small lines at the corners of his eyes.
He wears a charcoal suit tailored sharp as glass, a portfolio tucked under one arm, and a pair of black Oxfords that are actually shined.
Oh my god, he’s so professional and handsome, and I look the exact opposite.
I literally see his gaze skim my make-up free face, sliding to the hem of my denim skirt, then drifting down to my socked feet on the marble.
I’m the opposite of put-together, and I feel my cheeks go instantly hot.
Still, Evan’s too polite to say anything.
“Of course,” he murmurs. “You’re Mr. Cahill’s assistant. I’m looking forward to the tour.”
I hesitate just long enough to betray my nerves, then smile—too wide, all teeth. “Great, great. Please, come in.”