Chapter 11 #2
He holds up both hands, mock-serious. “Scout’s honor. I usually call them an Uber, so they vacate. Or, if I’m really lucky, they call an Uber themselves, and I don’t even have to do anything. I don’t make a habit of…” He trails off, eyes flicking to mine. “Of getting attached.”
I stare at my plate, the words sparking in my head.
“I see,” I say, and I’m not sure if it’s true.
He nudges my thigh with his knee. “You know, you’ve given me a few gifts since I met you. Last night was the latest gift.”
I look up, confused. “What is it?”
He reaches under the island and pulls out a scrap of fabric: my panties, the lace bunched in his fist. He holds them up, grinning. “A souvenir. For my collection.”
I snatch them from his hand, cheeks blazing. “You’re such an asshole.”
He laughs, deep and genuine, and for a second, I want to crawl into his lap and never leave. Thomas’s eyes dance.
“Sweetheart, I’d have to launder these with bleach before I gave them back to you because you know what I’ve been doing with them, right?”
I stare at him.
“No.”
He smiles devilishly.
“I’ve been using them to jack off, so by now, they’re crusted with my semen. I love it, sweetheart. I hold one pair to my nose to breathe in your cunt fragrance, and wrap the other around my cock as I pull my pole. It’s sheer heaven as I come like a hurricane on the panties themselves.”
“You’re so dirty!” I squeal, cheeks flushing as my nips peak. “Oh my god!”
Thomas smirks.
“That I am.” But then his tone changes, and he says, “You know, you can stay here. If you want. For the day, or longer. I have work to do, but you can entertain yourself.” He gestures around, vague.
I look at the city beyond the glass, the endless river of cars, the clouds gathering on the horizon. I picture myself here, all day, reading or working out, eating Mrs. Olsen’s food and entertaining myself. It sounds a bit solitary, but not in a bad way.
“Maybe,” I say. “But I have a question for you. Do you promise not to get mad?”
He shrugs. “Ask.”
“Why did you always…” I trail off, unsure how to say it, then just blurt: “Why did you always take me in the ass before? Was there a reason for that?”
He blinks, genuinely caught off guard. He picks up his mug, cradles it, then sets it down again. For the first time since I met him, Thomas looks a little nervous.
“I wondered when you’d ask that,” he says finally.
I fold my arms, not sure if I’m supposed to be flattered or hurt. “Is it just a control thing? Or is it because I was a virgin?”
He holds up a hand, as if to say: pause. “It’s not a control thing,” he says, but then reconsiders. “Not really, anyway. But—there’s a reason. More than one, actually. You want the real answer?”
I nod, heart pounding.
The handsome man looks at the window, then at me, and his expression is so naked that for a second I want to hide under the table.
“I’m a very wealthy man, Andie,” he says. “And that’s not a flex, it’s just a fact. When you’re wealthy—when you look like me, and have the lifestyle that I do—women try to get pregnant on purpose because a baby ties you to someone for eighteen years. Thirty, if you’re really unlucky.”
I blink, not sure how to process this. “You’re saying—what, that women try to trap you so they can live in the lap of luxury?”
He nods, unblinking. “Yes. They’ve tried, and it’s happened more than once.”
I wrap both hands around my mug, the ceramic cool under my fingers. “Wait, do you have kids? Other than Stella, I mean? Did Stella’s mom trap you?”
He sees where I’m headed and shakes his head.
“No, no unexpected children that I know of, at least. Thank god. And I was married to Stella’s mom, so there was no entrapment there.
The marriage didn’t work out, but I got an amazing daughter out of it, so that’s not it.
But in the past couple years, I’ve only done anal since I haven’t been in a serious relationship. ”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “So that’s why.”
He nods. “It started taking on a pattern, and after the third ‘accidental’ pregnancy scare, I stopped trusting anyone. Even myself. I never finish inside a woman unless I have absolute proof she’s on something permanent, or unless it’s somewhere—” He raises an eyebrow—“safe.”
The realization is both shocking and weirdly logical. It makes me feel sorry for him, but also kind of sorry for myself.
I look at him, really look, and say, “That must suck.”
He shrugs, mouth tight. “It’s not hard, but it’s a rule I keep. You learn to adapt. You have to, or you get destroyed.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I just reach out and rest my hand on top of his. He doesn’t move away.
After a moment, I ask, “So last night… you made an exception for me?”
He’s silent for a beat, then says, “Yes. Because I couldn’t help myself. And because it was your first time.”
I bite my lip, a swirl of warmth and embarrassment running up my chest. “So what about now? Now that it’s not my first time. Is it back to… you know?”
He looks at me, eyes heated. “Do you want it to be?”
I bite my lip and think. “I mean, I enjoy being with you both ways, and I think I’d like to do both straight and backdoor? Is that okay?”
He smiles, then says, “Yes, absolutely. I like all of you, Andie. Not just your ass, all of you. Though, I do love your ass.”
He runs a hand over my thigh, then squeezes, just above the knee.
I make a little noise, not sure if I want him to stop or keep going.
He leans in, lips at my ear. “Do you want me to touch it?”
My buttocks clench as excitement races through my veins. I can barely breathe. “Yes.”
He pulls my stool closer with his foot, then runs his hand up the back of my thigh, his thumb pressing into the muscle.
When he reaches the hem of the shirt, he lifts it, exposing me, then traces a finger down the crack of my ass.
I shiver, my whole body clenching around the touch.
Oh my god, is this really happening? Am I really in a billionaire’s penthouse, vibrating as he runs his fingers lightly over the rim of my anus?
“You feel so good,” he rasps, eyes meeting mine, intense hunger in his gaze. “You’re so fucking sexy, Andie.”
Then it happens. He circles my rim once more and pushes gently inside, just the tip, and I gasp, the muscles fluttering in memory. He circles, teases, then pushes deeper, slow and deliberate. I moan, loving the penetration in my ass.
“God, you’re so tight,” he says, voice rough.
I grip the counter, knuckles white.
“Is that good?” he murmurs.
I can’t speak, so I just nod.
He fucks my ass with his finger, slow and steady, while his other hand slides up to cup my breast through the shirt. The feeling is overwhelming—a bolt of electricity straight to my core.
He leans in, lips brushing my ear again. “You like that?”
“Yes,” I whisper, the word almost lost.
He laughs, then pulls his finger out, and brings it to his mouth, sucking my flavor.
“Oh my god!” I whisper, eyes wide. “That’s dirty!”
“No, it’s not,” Thomas answers in a sly tone.
“I love the taste of your ass, baby girl, and if I want to lick your ass or put my tongue in your butt, then that’s what’s going to happen.
But finish your breakfast, sweetheart. You’ve been burning a lot of calories, and need the nutrients.
” Then, he pours more coffee into my mug.
Just like that, the spell is broken, but the heat stays, coiled inside me.
He watches me drink, a sly smile playing on his mouth.
“You know,” I say, trying to regain some control, “if we’re going to keep doing this, you have to use condoms.”
He recoils, as if I suggested we move to a commune.
“I don’t do latex,” he says flatly. “I never have.”
I shake my head. “Well, I’m not on anything, and the pullout method doesn’t work, you know.”
The billionaire shrugs, but the look in his eye is pure confidence. “I promise you, it does. Or else we go back to just your ass, sweetheart. That could be real fun. Like I said, I intend on eating your ass before I fuck it.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re impossible.”
He grins. “You love it.”
I pretend to sulk, but it’s all theater. The warmth between my legs is still there, a constant, throbbing ache.
We sit in silence, just sipping coffee and basking in the shared absurdity. I steal a sausage off his plate, and he lets me, watching my mouth as I chew.
For a while, it feels like there’s nothing else in the world: just us, the morning, and the bright, buzzing hum of a secret that feels too big to keep.
Finally, he reaches for my hand again, fingers lacing through mine. “You okay?”
I squeeze his hand. “I’m more than okay.”
He holds on, and neither of us lets go.
Not for a long, long time.
The conversation drifts, like lazy smoke from a blown-out candle.
At first, it’s just nothing talk—who’s going to do the dishes (neither of us), what day it is (I have to check my phone, which earns a lecture about living in the moment), and whether we should go out for coffee or make another pot here.
I’m curled on a sofa now, my knees drawn up under his shirt, watching Thomas as he paces the living room in big, unhurried arcs, his hand always tracing the line of the window as if he could reach out and touch the city.
When he sits back down next to me, there’s a shift: his body is angled toward mine, his knees almost touching my thigh.
I think he wants to say something serious, and I brace myself for bad news.
He swirls his coffee, stares at the faint rings it leaves on the marble, and finally asks, “What does your week look like?”
The question feels loaded, but I play it cool. “Nothing special. Some classes, a catering shift, maybe a party on Friday. Why?”
He shrugs, the gesture unreadable. “I’m traveling a little. New York for a few days. After that, possibly London. I’ll be out of pocket.”
My stomach does a weird dip because I wanted to spend more time with Thomas, but I pretend not to care. “Wow. Jetsetter.”