Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
I’m in my off-duty armor: light blazer, white shirt open at the throat, no tie, dark jeans that cost enough to fund a grad student for a semester. Most people wouldn’t notice the tailoring or the shoes, but that’s the point. You don’t impress anyone by peacocking. You win by looking like you could buy the building and then forgetting about it.
My coffee sits in front of me, untouched. Black, crema ringed, already cooling. The staff is all young women with braided hair and acrylic nails, no one older than twenty-two. They act like they’re baristas in Florence, but they can’t spell macchiato to save their lives.
I clock the regulars immediately. Two girls in XXL sweatshirts huddled over a single scone, arms linked, talking in the code of girls who need to be admitted to the “right” sorority otherwise they might as well drop out. A redhead with headphones buried in a MacBook, lips moving to the words she’s typing, maybe writing a thinkpiece or a bitter email to her ex. Then, a blonde near the window, in yoga pants and a powder blue pullover, FaceTiming so loud I hear every third word: “Oh my God, no, I told him, like, literally, just stop…”
They’re all technically attractive, sure. But none of them have the sheer beauty and grace that are Andie.
My finger drums the table once, a metronome of impatience, then stops. I exhale slow, the way I do before a deal closes or a judge reads out a verdict. I reach into the inner pocket of my blazer and lightly finger the thing that’s kept me on balance for the last seventy-two hours: a folded scrap of white cotton, trimmed in baby blue. The scent reaches my nostrils, and I breathe deep.
They’re Andie’s panties. They’re the kind of thing you’d buy in a Target ten-pack, nothing special, but when I ripped them off, she blushed so hard it was endearing. I could have told her to keep them on, but I wanted the trophy. I always want the trophy.
The fabric is still faintly scented with her: honey, sweat, and the scented female musk that’s her. I run my thumb over the stiff patch, remembering the way she looked bent over in the library, panties yanked to her knees, her ass high and shivering as I pushed deep into her rectum. The jolt of surprise she gave, and then the long, low keening cry of submission and desire. The way she began to get into it, humping her ass against me, and even reaching back with two hands to pull her butt cheeks apart, spreading herself so that I could get in deeper. That’s my nasty girl. My filthy little whore.
I’ve jerked off with the panties wrapped around my cock twice already—once in the Four Seasons, once in my office, both times with the blinds drawn and the thought of her moaning incoherently as I flooded her asshole with come.
It should feel juvenile. It doesn’t. If anything, it feels elemental, like I’m staking a claim on a piece of earth no one else knows exists.
I gently finger the panties one more time, careful, as if they’re worth more than the watch on my wrist, and then put my hand back on the table. Then I survey the room again, scanning for anyone who looks like they don’t belong. There’s a student in the far corner, a guy with tattoos on every visible inch of skin, but he’s buried in a spiral notebook and not worth worrying about. I catch the redhead watching me over her screen, green eyes speculative, but I’m not here for her.
I’m here for Andie. I’m always here for her, now.
I wonder if she’ll recognize me out of context. Will she expect a suit? Will she expect me to look like a dignitary, or like the man who pounded her into a bookshelf? I like the idea that she has no idea which version of me will show up. I like the idea that I don’t know, either.
There’s a click of the front door, a spill of cold air, and for a second everyone in the café turns to look. The girl who enters is almost invisible at first—she’s dressed like she doesn’t want to be seen, navy coat, faded jeans, a scarf covering her hair, like she’s traveling incognito.
It takes me two heartbeats to realize: it’s her. She’s come early, maybe to scope me out, maybe to talk herself into leaving. She stands just inside the threshold, scanning the room, and somehow, she doesn’t see me. It must be because of the crowd. The beautiful blonde hesitates, hand on the strap of her bag, then crosses to the counter, orders something I can’t hear, and perches on the edge of a high stool by the window.
She’s turned away. Her body is tense, posture perfect, like she’s bracing for a car crash.