I want him to stay like that, on top of me, holding me in his arms, but he pulls out, lifts himself up and away from me. He goes into the bathroom and shuts the door, but I don’t move. Deliciously heavy, I stare up at the ceiling, my veins charged with euphoria. I touch between my legs tentatively. I’m a little sore. I’ve never been taken that hard before, with such assurance and lack of concern for my needs. I was his to be used as he wanted. And I loved it.

Naked and still a little hard, he comes back into the room. He smiles, half affectionate, half cocky. “Did you enjoy that, Reagan?” he asks, putting his underwear back on and lying down beside me.

I feel a flicker of disappointment, hoping we’d have sex again. “It was amazing!” I gush before I can stop myself.

He pushes a lock of my hair back from my face. “Good.” He seems very calm. I want him to take me in his arms and tell me how much he loved it, too. How it was the best sex of his life.

“Did you enjoy it?” I ask.

He laughs as if it’s a funny question. “Of course. You’re very beautiful. And very pliant. I think we’re going to have a lot of fun together.” He glances at the discreet clock on the nightstand. “I have an early start tomorrow. We should sleep.”

“Sure. I’ll just use the bathroom.”

The mirror tells me I look wrecked. But in a good way. My hair is all mussed, my cheeks are pink, my lips are red, and my eyes are blazing green. I look like I’ve taken ecstasy. “Natural ecstasy,” I murmur. This is what sexual satisfaction looks like. How have I lived for so long with only polite sex and thin vibrator orgasms?

I clean my teeth using the complimentary toothbrush and paste. When I pee, there’s a trace of blood on the paper. I smirk, feeling like I’ve lost my virginity again.

Back in the bedroom, Adler seems to be asleep, far over on the left-hand side of the bed. I climb in, debating whether I should snuggle up to him. I love snuggling with guys. With most of my boyfriends, I actually preferred the snuggling to the sex. But I don’t have the balls. I lie down with my head in the center of my pillow instead.

“Goodnight, Reagan,” he says. And that’s it. Before long, his breathing deepens. I stare at the dark shape of his head. He seems far away, and I suddenly feel very vulnerable. I want to share the experience we just had. I need pillow talk. I need reassurance, dammit!

Or maybe I need to stop being lame and drift off to sleep thinking about the amazing sex I just had. He said he needs to leave early, and it’s already gone four a.m. But it takes me a long time to drop off, and I only fall into a light sleep, semi-aware that he’s beside me. When he turns onto his side, I think about pressing myself against his back, but I don’t. There’s something forbidding about his big, silent presence, and I don’t dare to breach the chasm in the middle of the bed.

At seven-thirty, his alarm goes off. It jolts me wide awake, but I pretend to be sleeping while he showers and gets dressed. He doesn’t wear yesterday’s clothes, but takes a fresh set out of the closet. He was immaculately prepared. From the Champagne in the fridge to the bathtub already full of hot water. Hell, he probably even had the tub filled because he already figured out I don’t shave my pubes. He probably does this with a new girl every weekend.

My eyes are closed, but I sense that he’s ready to leave. He comes around to my side of the bed, and I feel him lean close, smelling of shower gel and shaving foam. He inhales through his nostrils, and I think he’s going to kiss me. But he doesn’t. A moment later I hear the bedroom door close very softly.

My eyes snap open. He’s smoothed out his side of the bed, and I slide my hand between the sheets, hoping to feel the residual warmth of his body. But there’s none. As I lie back down, I see a note on my nightstand:

You were sleeping so sweetly that I didn’t want to wake you. The room is yours until 3pm. Call down when you want breakfast. Don’t worry about checking out—it’s all taken care of.

I’ll be in touch soon,

Adler.

Hmm. I lay my head on my pillow and close my eyes again. It’s a pleasant message, but not a sexy or romantic one, and it leaves me feeling kind of empty. I also feel very tired and headachy, and the bed is insanely comfy. I drink a glass of water, set my alarm, and sleep heavily until eleven-thirty.

* * *

I’ve got a fierce hunger rumbling in my belly, so I call down to see if breakfast is still available. Twenty minutes later, it’s delivered to my room. I try not to look like a poor imitation of Pretty Woman as a waiter rolls it in on a trolley. It’s delicious, and there’s so much of it. I eat in while reading the morning paper, feeling like a queen.

When I’ve eaten way too much, I have a long soak in the tub then massage the hotel’s luxurious body lotion all over me. It’s not ideal having to put last night’s dress back on, but I sniff it, hoping to pick up Adler’s scent. There’s a definite hint of his cologne, which fills me with yearning.

After leaving the hotel at the last possible minute, I spend an aimless afternoon in my apartment. I hate it when girls ruin hot sex by endlessly dissecting every nuance of the guy’s actions and spend the next day wondering if he’s going to call again instead of wallowing in how much fun it was. But I find myself doing the same. Images from last night keep insinuating themselves into my mind—some scorching hot, others uncomfortable. Yesterday I was a girl I didn’t recognize, and I’m not sure I like her. From the moment Adler’s hands pressed into my thighs in the bar, I changed, and became pliant, just like he said. It wasn’t a sexy game, where I could’ve snapped out of it at any moment; it was serious. My whole self rolled over and said he’s in control now.

I wish Monica was here so bad. We would have gone out to brunch, giggled and gossiped, and the little hole in my heart would disappear. Instead, I wait until her shift’s over and she’s free to talk.

She calls just after six p.m.

“How did it go?” she demands immediately.

“It was hot. Really hot,” I say. And I give her an account of the night, leaving out only the most intimate stuff.

“Wow. That’s—that’s fricking awesome,” she breathes. “I mean, I wouldn’t trade what I have with Rick for anything. But wow!”

“I know, right?”

“How do you feel now?”

I take a deep breath, thinking. “So many different things. Happy, satisfied, uncomfortable. Anxious.”

“Why the negative stuff?”

“When we laid down to sleep, he didn’t snuggle with me.”

“But some guys don’t. Rick can’t sleep wrapped around me. We snuggle for a while, but when it’s time to go to sleep, he drifts off to his own side of the bed. I used to hate it, but I’m over it now, and I probably sleep better this way. Also, it’s probably against his rules.”

“You think he has rules?”

“He’s into formalized sex play. I’m sure he does.”

“I took it as a sign that he didn’t like me that much.”

“Despite all the stuff he said to you? It’s not like you to be paranoid.”

“Exactly. I don’t like seeing this side of myself. But then I’ve never woken up with a guy the first time we’ve had sex and not had breakfast together.”

Monica makes a sound that’s half gasp, half wild laugh. “Your problem is you haven’t had enough seedy one-night stands, girl. And I don’t mean those drunken ones you regret. I mean those nights when you meet someone knowing you’re going to have one hot night together, and that’s it. And you both leave with a smile on your face, and no pretense of exchanging numbers.”

I laugh. “That’s never been my deal. I’ve been a serial monogamist ever since I was seventeen.”

“I know, Rea. The only girl I know who’s never been on a date that hasn’t resulted in a long-term relationship. So, you’re going to see him again, right?”

“I don’t know. I’m not even sure if he wants to see me again. But even if he does, I feel kind of weirded out by the whole thing.”

“But why? Nothing extreme happened, did it? Unless there’s something you’re not mentioning.”

“No. In some ways, it was less extreme than I expected. He didn’t want to tie me up or anything. He was kind of gentle in a way. But I felt like he was holding back.” I pause, remembering. It felt like he was initiating me. Or auditioning me. Seeing if he liked the look of me. Giving me a test ride.

I get a knot in my stomach. “I think he tried me out and discovered he didn’t like me, which is why he left without saying goodbye,” I blurt out.

Monica snorts. “Why the hell wouldn’t he like you? You’re gorgeous, Rea.”

“I look like the girl next door. Like Marnie from Girls, as Hugo liked to tell me. All the damn time.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“He probably goes for girls like Dom. Edgy girls with tattoos and piercings.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous. He picked you out at the Sexpo. It’s not like a nuclear bomb just destroyed most of the world and he thought you two were the last people left alive so he’d better bone you quick.”

I click my tongue. “He picked me out thinking I was someone very different.”

“Maybe you are someone very different.” There’s some noise in the background.

“You have to go, don’t you?”

“Yes, sorry, cooking for Dan and Karen tonight, who have just walked in.” At the sound of Dan’s cheerful voice in the background, my throat tightens. I so wish I was there hanging out with everyone. Instead, a friendless evening stretches ahead of me.

“Say hi to everyone for me.”

“I will. They’re asking when you’re coming back to visit.”

“Soon, I hope. But you know, I don’t have a car, and it’s a long way by bus.”

“I know, I know. I’ll try to get a weekend off so I can come see you instead.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Okay, take care. Watch some comedy, and take it easy!”

I try to take Monica’s advice and flick through Netflix for something I haven’t seen before. Just as I settle on something, the front door of the apartment bursts open and Dom crashes in with several other people, all laughing and talking loudly. A moment later, she’s hammering on my door.

“Rea, we’re staying in tonight, watching movies and eating pizza. Are you in?”

I grin. “Sure am.” She really is the best roommate in the world.

There’s Xavier, the dark-haired guy in the cap I met at Dom’s last gig, and a couple other familiar faces. They’re a lot of fun. I go to the liquor store with Xavier, and we get wine, and when we’ve had pizza, Dominique brings out a bong. I haven’t smoked since college, and I get very stoned, culminating in a giggling fit that becomes infectious, and we laugh and laugh about nothing at all for hours.

It’s just what I needed, and as I stumble off to bed, I’m happy to register I haven’t checked my phone or thought about last night for the entire evening.

When I set my alarm, I get a shock. He messaged me four hours ago. My heartbeat speeds up as I unlock my phone.

I hope you enjoyed last night?

Drowsy and happy, I hold the phone against my chest while I think what to reply. I did. It was intense. I had a lot of fun.

I wait for him to reply, but ten minutes later, there’s nothing. I wake up next morning with the phone snuggled under the sheets with me. He eventually replied a little after three a.m. I’m glad. Are you free on Wednesday? Relief washes over me. Monica was right—I was just being a paranoid freak. I lounge in bed and allow myself to fantasize about him again. The memory of the way he took possession of me brings a flush of heat and discomfort. But that incredible body. Those lips that seem to be made for mine. I remember how good he felt inside me. The way he made me come properly for the first time ever. I can’t wait to see him again. To get to know him better, to understand his urges. To be held in those big, muscular arms.

I reply Yes, I am. But maybe not until late—work’s always crazy… where shall we meet?

He doesn’t reply immediately, and then Dominique knocks on my door and asks if I want to go to the movies with her. I wonder if she’s taking pity on me because I’m a friendless loser, but she seems to enjoy my company.

We go to an art-house theater in the village, and watch a quirky European movie with stunning cinematography and a loose, meandering plot, which we both agree is our favorite type of film. Afterward, she bounces along the street, wrapped in a fluffy purple coat, pointing out dive bars, eccentric fashion stores, and telling me all about the city’s underground scene. We end up going for drinks and a cheap dinner in town, too. At a cozy Italian trattoria by the harbor, we sit by the window, the dark water sparkling with multi-colored city lights, and we learn more about each other than we have in the past few weeks of living together. She asks me about advertising, what drew me to it, and I tell her about my path to account management.

“I majored in American Lit,” I explain. “I wasn’t sure what kind of career I wanted, so I needed to keep my options open. Then in my last year of school, I came across advertising, and I decided I wanted to be a creative. But then I couldn’t afford to take another year out to go to ad school, so I went down the account management path instead.”

“Which you can get into straight from school?”

“Right.”

Dominique looks at me carefully. “And are you enjoying it?’

“I…” I pause, stare off into space. “It’s early days, but I’m not sure if it’s the right fit for me. It’s pretty corporate. And kind of frustrating that the creative teams are doing all the cool stuff, and we only get to talk about it.”

She nods sagely. “Could you, I don’t know, stay in account management for a while, then try to maneuver into creative?”

I shake my head. “Creatives and account services are really separate in the advertising world. At least at Koln & Mathers. They just wouldn’t take me without a glitzy ad school on my résumé either.”

“Sucks being young and broke, doesn’t it?” she says with a sigh.

“It sure does.”

Our food arrives, and we dig into comforting bowls of fettuccine.

“How about you? Did you always want to be a burlesque dancer?” I ask.

She gives a snort of amusement. “Nope. We’re polar opposites. I majored in business and finance.”

“No way!” I blurt out, and we both laugh. “Sorry, I just imagined you doing something creative.”

Dom rolls her eyes. “My mom forced me into it. But in my final year at college, burlesque found me, and I realized it was what I wanted to do. She’s not really speaking to me at the moment.”

“She’ll come around. When you get really famous.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think she’ll ever get used to her daughter being almost naked on stage.”

“It must be hard to live your life doing something that you know is upsetting your parents,” I say, trying to imagine what my parents would say if they knew I’d had sex with a virtual stranger in a hotel room. Kinky sex. I think my mom would say, “Why the heck would you want to do a thing like that?”

She props her chin on her hand, her black eyes deep and thoughtful. “It is. And it’s something I have to deal with because I love my mom a lot, and I want her to be happy. But it’s my life, and I’m not hurting anybody. You’ve got to live for yourself.”

Even when living for yourself feels kind of weird and wrong? I ponder, when she goes to the restroom. I want to tell her about what happened last night, but something stops me. I think I’m worried what kind of impression it’ll give her of me.

* * *

When we get back home, I lie on my stomach on my bed and flick through my various social media accounts, a little deflated that Adler hasn’t messaged me. But there’s a surprise, an email from Hugo, my most recent ex:

Hey, Rea,

This is going to shock the hell out of you—I have a new job in town! I’ll be working as a portfolio exec at Intertech Bank. It’s starting in two weeks’ time. Not bad for a boy you said would never leave Springfield! I’m pretty psyched about it.

Anyway, I was wondering if I could stay with you this weekend while I look at some apartments? I miss you, Rea, and I miss us being friends.

Hugo xx

It does shock the hell out of me. I collapse on my bed because my neck suddenly doesn’t feel strong enough to hold up my head. The whole reason why Hugo and I broke up was that he didn’t want to leave our hometown. I loved him, but I knew I’d never live back in Springfield again, so we agreed not to try the whole long-distance, constant-angst thing. We split three weeks before I was due to move away, but then three days before I left, I found out he was already dating someone else. It hurt like hell, but I couldn’t officially blame him. I was the one leaving. And now he’s coming to live here.

I let out an epic sigh. What does this mean? Is he moving here because of me? I read the message several times. It doesn’t sound like he’s expecting anything from me. He’s just being Hugo—honest and good-natured. I flip onto my back and try to examine my feelings.

I miss him, too. He was my best friend. For almost two years, we used to spend so much time together. When I think of him taking me into his arms, my head resting in the usual place on his chest, it feels like safety. We were in love, but I never really gave him a chance because I always knew I’d leave one day. But what if that was no longer an issue? If this had happened two weeks ago, before I met Adler, I would’ve wanted to get back together with him. Right now, though, I’m not so sure.

As if on cue, my phone beeps. I retrieve it.

Same place as before. Does 9:30 work?

My heart plummets. I’d been hoping that Adler wanted to take me on a date on Wednesday. Drinks, maybe dinner. I imagined being in an intimate, dark lounge with him, kissing, flirting, while he gradually opened up to me about his past. Or that he’d invite me to his place at least. But this tells me all I need to know: he doesn’t want to get to know me. He only wants me for sex. In a purpose-made hotel room. “What did you expect?” I mutter.

Minutes later, I reply to Hugo, telling him it’s fricking awesome that he’s moving here, I can’t wait to hear all his news, and of course he’s welcome to stay with me. Then I put my phone on silent.

I prepare my clothes for work the next week, even taking the unusual step of ironing all my shirts and pants, all the while humming “Another One Bites the Dust” as nonchalantly as I can. But it’s not working. There’s a bitter little pain in my stomach. Why doesn’t he want to date me? I’m okay with him only wanting to have kinky sex…I think. I kind of get that. But why doesn’t he want to get to know me?

These thoughts go around and around in my head, and by the time I climb under my comforter, I’m in a bad mood and, worse than that, not far away from tears. I hardly know Adler, but there’s something about him that’s different from anyone I’ve met before. I felt it every time I saw him. It was like he was surrounded by a force field, pulling me toward him. I want to know everything about him. But he doesn’t feel the same. He probably thinks I’m a naïve nobody and there’s nothing inside me worth discovering. He probably dates actresses, women with fascinating, international lives.

I reach for my phone to set my alarm, and there’s a message.

I’ve been thinking about you all evening, remembering your lithe, curvy body pinned beneath mine. Those perfect nipples, swollen like two pink buds. It’s been very distracting, Reagan.

I suck in a breath and, against my will, a smile creeps across my lips. So I’ve been distracting him? Good. But this doesn’t change anything, I think, at the same time my clit gives a little jump. Another message arrives.

Have you used your vibrator since we met?

I draw my lower lip between my teeth, and before I have time to overthink it, I tap out a Maybe.

Yes or no?

I sigh. Yes. Once.

I don’t want you using it again. It’s a cheap trick.

Seriously? Because I’ve already decided that I’m not going to see him again, I feel flippant. But a reliable one.

He takes so long to reply that I think he’s gone, but a new message finally pops up.

If you want to continue this, it’s not negotiable, Reagan.

WTF? my brain says while my clit twangs, my disloyal friend, snapping me back into that headspace. There’s something shamefully hot about being told what I can and can’t do. You want me to promise not to use my vibrator again?

Yes.

Ok. I promise. I’m throwing it out right now. I take it out of my top drawer and stuff it in the back of my bottom one.

I have some more rules:

And they come, one after another, flashing onto the screen of my phone like warnings.

You are to keep your pubic hair shaved as smoothly as I did it for you on Friday.

You may masturbate as often as you like. But only with your fingers.

You are to keep a diary, detailing when and where you touched yourself, how long it took you to come, and what you were thinking about.

You must reply to any question I ask you truthfully and openly.

These are the rules for you to follow when we’re apart. I’ll give you other rules when we next meet.

I hate rules; I hate being told what to do, and yet a tidal-wave of arousal crashes right through my core, flooding my body with desire. My pussy is aching like crazy. I slide my hand into my panties. I’m soaked.

And what do I get in return?

In return, Reagan, you’ll get exactly what you need.

I begin to stroke my clit with my index finger. It feels better than the last time I tried, which was likely years ago. Once I discovered my trusty vibrator, I quit experimenting with anything else. Another message flashes.

Are you aroused?

Yes.

I want you to touch yourself right now. Then tell me about it.

I’ve never come like this before, but my clit has never felt so swollen beneath my finger, and I’m already lightheaded, my vision a little blurry. I roam through my thoughts, looking for the one thing that’s sexier to me than any other, and I land on Adler. Just him. Those lips, those eyes. That incredible stacked body. Naked, feet apart, his cock big and swollen. And me on my knees, my lips parted, his cock forcing its way between them. My finger’s going fast, and my hips jerk in a quick, uneven rhythm. I think about the fact that I’m going to have to tell him what I was fantasizing about, and I clamp my hand over my mouth as I come, slow-rolling thunder, before sheet lightning breaks across the sky.

Euphoria is still lapping through my body as I pick up my phone.

I was thinking about you in my mouth.

Good girl, he replies.