E l y s e hen I wake the next morning in the twin room I share with Sylvie for space and practicality reasons—she can’t easily go to the bathroom on her own—it’s there. Ten thousand dollars sitting pretty in my checking account. I stare at the amount on my screen for a hot minute before putting my phone down quietly and rolling onto my back. I did it. I did it. Not only that, but I survived. More than survived, if we’re being honest here. I may have gotten home earlier than I would have on a work night—I was tucked up in bed just after midnight—but I am bone-tired in a way I’m not after a regular shift. Everything hurts. Muscles I didn’t know I had are stiff, and as for my vagina... well, it feels as though someone fucked me with a baseball bat, which is not entirely inaccurate. Might need to spend the day sitting on a bag of frozen peas. Or lying on one. God, I need to sle ep so bad. But my alarm will go off in less than ten minutes, and our morning—heavy on routine, light on time—will kick off. These few minutes, though, are mine. And, as I lie here in my aching, exhausted state, a smile cre eps over my face. Not only is the Ward family officially ten thousand dollars less in debt than we were yesterday, but the things I did to earn the money were pretty freaking amazing. I have never had a sexual experience like that. Never. The most risqué I’ve ever been was a few rounds of sex on the beach. There was one time on an ex’s tailgate, I guess... but nothing like what Sinclair put me through last night. It was like an hour of sexual Navy SEAL training, and hotter than hell. On the one hand, you can say he worked me hard. On the other, I’m not sure I should have gotten two orgasms out of it when he was paying me to debase me for his pleasure. Honestly, it makes me feel a little guilty. A little weird. And a lot grubby. I’m still shocked that he got me so turned on, so quickly. I went from terrified to dripping in five minutes or less, and I never would have guessed my body or my brain would be capable of that kind of one-eighty. I guess Katrin was right: I do like being dominated more than I realized. He was so insanely hot and so insanely in control, and I guess I didn’t stand a chance against that double threat—triple, if you count how fucking skillful he is with all his body parts. When he said that thing about being disappointed that I didn’t even put up a fight against my arousal, I thought he was serious for a moment. I can’t help but wonder if he wanted me to act different. To hold out on him. After all, the only reason I can find for him to have propositioned me in the first place is that I r epresented a challenge. I did not r epresent a challenge for most of that hour with him. And that’s probably how every single other woman is with him, all the hot blondes who st ep out on his arm on Page Six and hover around him at the club. Maybe I’m just as predictable as all the others, after all—a gushing little groupie.
Gushing is actually a pretty good word for what my pussy was doing last night. Horrifying. I clamp my hands over my eyes, like I can hide from the memory. I was so fucking needy. But he seemed to like it. My swollen and probably chafed inner walls clench in voluntarily around thin air as I allow myself to move on to my favorite memory of the evening: his reaction. He started out so cold and seemingly in control. Let’s face it, the guy’s not a bundle of personality. It’s not like he needs to be, with those looks and all that money. And clearly I was digging the whole hot, cold billionaire vibe. I mean, he does it well. But the most epic part of the whole experience, and possibly even cooler than those insane orgasms, was that I made him fall apart. I. Made. Sinclair. Voss. Fall. Apart. He’s obviously a bit of an asshole—so smug and arrogant—and I got the impression that the stuff he did to me, he did to prove a point. He did those things because he wanted to play with me. He wanted me at his mercy. He didn’t exactly hide that. He was generous, yes. Skilled, yes. Relentless, hell yes. And what was with that dirty talk? It was world class. Even without the mouth and the fingers and the dick, he could probably have talked me to a catastrophic climax. But he was affected, too. And I may not be the most experienced woman ever, but I kind of expected him to fuck like a robot, all controlled and controlling, making me fall apart for his own bored-rich-guy titillation and riding out his orgasm in a ruthless way, intentionally designed to maximize his own pleasure. That is categorically not what happened. A series of filthy, intoxicating flashbacks play in my mind’s eye. Being fucked while still bent over in that crazy contraption. The shock of him throwing it open mid-fuck and hauling me back against him. How it felt in that moment, when he glued me to his body and let rip with his hands, pinching and stroking and rubbing everywhere. Give me your mouth. Those kisses. I was not expecting kisses, but those were beyond. Crazy, desperate, ravenous kisses, like he was fucking me at both ends. Like he couldn’t get enough. My second orgasm, slamming into me as if he’d blown up my fucking womb. And then: On your elbows. Thrusting into me. Taking everything he wanted, everything he’d paid for—inside my body. Every time I r eplay a new moment, I think it’s my favorite. Afterward was... interesting, too. He seemed as wrung out as I was. After he’d finished coming, he bundled me up against him again and we staggered backward to the bed like we were drunk. (I suppose we were.) He kind of collapsed onto the edge of the bed, which is when he slipped out of me and pulled me so I was sitting sideways on him, my arms around his neck. He found my mouth and
started kissing me again, slower and more decadent than before, as he wrapped his arms around me so tightly that I couldn’t move. It wasn’t a cuddle, obviously—more of a mutual comedown. A what in the holy hell was that. But it was hot. And... a welcome surprise, I guess? I wouldn’t have put it past a guy like that to pull out and leave me hanging there, even if I’m aware of Alchemy’s strict etiquette around aftercare. I definitely needed some form of human connection after a vulnerability shitshow like that. My alarm goes off. Whew. I need to press pause on reliving my own private porno and get a serious grip on this day. I turn off the alarm and throw back my covers, wincing as I sit on my poor, abused pussy. In the dim light, I look over at my sister, who’s stirring. I wish I could tell her—about the great sex. About the money. All of it. I can’t, obviously. But what I can do is discreetly pay off ten grand’s worth of outstanding bills later and hope she doesn’t notice for now. I smile at her as I get to my feet, feeling like an arthritic (if horny) old lady. “Good morning, my love. Do you need to go to the bathroom?” “Y OU ’ RE GLOWING ,” my agent Olivia says as I pose for her on the High Line. The sun is hazy, giving us a good light without too many harsh shadows. Or so I hope. I make a come on face. “Yeah, right.” In hindsight, it was stupid to schedule my night with Voss before an important day like today. Really stupid. My only defense was that the money from him was a given, and the chances of today amounting to anything are tiny. Even so, I’m surprised I don’t have burst blood vessels all over my face. “No, seriously. You look totally luminous. It’s disgusting.” Olivia is as stylish as you’d imagine a model agent to be—think effortless chic in khaki coveralls and sky-high heels—while also being a decent human. She works hard, she expects the same from the girls on her books, and she’s a hustler. She doesn’t take no for an answer and she never sits around waiting for the phone to ring. I laugh, and she stalks toward me, digital camera held up. “Just like that. No, let the breeze blow your hair. Ke ep smiling, and look over to your right. Stay like that, but in motion. Now look back toward me. So gorgeous, honey.” The usual first st ep when a new job comes in is for the agent to send the client our portfolios, but apparently this client has requested close-up video footage, too. “You sure you can’t tell me anything?” I ask, dropping the smile and adopting a more neutral expression as I do my thing. I turn slowly toward Olivia and let my lips part as I stare into the lens of her camera. I’m makeup free, nothing but a fresh application of SPF on my face. “Oh my gosh, so beautiful. Girl. Those eyes.” I wait until she stops filming. She sighs. “Big U. S. house, new skincare line for them. Clean-girl look with a timeless French vibe, yada, yada, and they want a new face. A total unknown. Can’t tell you more than that. And honestly, you’d be
perfect.” She lays a hand on my arm, and I look down at the pretty, super-fine gold bands on her fingers and thumbs twinkling in the sunlight. “I haven’t told you this, but you’re the only girl I’ve put forward. Once I saw the brief, I knew it was you or nobody. I mean, come on. French? It’s made for you.” I give her a huge smile. I can’t help it. That’s incredible. “I had no idea.” “Yeah. Well, now you do.” She winks. “There are a few more hoops to jump through. They want the short list to do a test shoot in house. You know the score. But the creative director is a gal pal of mine. She’s fabulous, and I know her taste inside out. I’m telling you, you’d be perfect. And this”—she shakes her phone at me—“is gorgeous. Gorgeous. If we pulled this off, it would be a career-making contract for you. No more catalogues.” I laugh a little at that. I won’t let myself believe her, won’t let myself sip whatever Kool-Aid she’s on just yet. Because probabilities are probabilities, no matter how infectious her excitement is. And I can only hope the “big U. S. house” she referred to isn’t Sinclair’s family business, Voss. That would be a little too close for comfort. Still, a week ago, I didn’t think I’d be ten grand less in debt and dealing with the very high-quality problem of a banged-up pussy. Maybe, just maybe, my luck is changing. F OR THE FIRST couple hours of my Alchemy shift, I’m jumpy as hell. I have no idea if Sinclair Voss will stop by tonight and no reason to think he will. What did Pixie say last week—that she hadn’t seen much of him lately? Well, I saw a whole lot of him last night, and I shouldn’t expect lightning to strike twice. Besides, his parting words last night, after he’d zipped himself up and laid me back against the pillows like a zombie, were I’ll see you. Not I’ll see you tomorrow. If someone were to ask me if I even want to see him tonight, then I honestly wouldn’t know the answer. I have no clue if I do or don’t want to lay eyes on him after what went down. I think what I want is clarity? I would like to know for sure whether or not he’s stopping by, and ideally when, so I can either relax or psych myself up. I’m on tenterhooks here, and I hate it. I’m generally not the coolest person when it comes to seeing guys after I’ve sl ept with them, and I definitely have no game in the big leagues. How the heck are you supposed to come face to face with a guy like him after sex like that? I was fine playing it cool when he was just another hot, rich guy hitting on me across the bar. No, Mr. Voss, I never go upstairs. Yeah, not sure that line will work for me anymore. A gaggle of women comes to the bar—all sleek Manhattanites with perfect blowouts and expensive dresses and even more expensive faces. It sounds bitchy, but it’s true. No shade on them, but they weren’t born with those faces, nor did they grow into them. They’re undeniably beautiful, yet every feature is intentional. Pixie explained to me when I started here that the female members fall into two main groups: the professional women who work hard and come here looking for extreme and efficient forms of stress relief—which makes
total sense—and the socialites. I’ve gotten pretty good at identifying who falls in which category, and it holds equally well for the guys, too: they’re mostly crazy successful in the business world or spending the hell out of a trust fund. Or both, if you’re Sinclair Voss or Felix Wolff or any of their buddies. I study my current customers discreetly as I open a fresh bottle of Dom Perignon and pour them each a glass. There’s no way any of them spent the day on Wall Street. Do these glossy women, who seem terrified of breaking a nail or getting a hair out of place, all put out like I did? Do they relish having men strapping them to medieval torture devices and fucking the living daylights out of them? Or do they just pretend to enjoy it in the hope that it’s a means to a more official type of relationship? I must ask Pixie when she gets back from her break. Alchemy is an effective and exclusive way to access the hottest, richest, most debauched men on this island, that’s for sure, but I can’t imagine many of the guys are here to score a wife. I finish pouring the drinks and turn to set the bottle of champagne in its ice bucket behind the bar when one of them—a gorgeous redhead in a sleek one-shouldered white dress—stops me with a raised hand. “You can leave the bottle, honey.” “I’m afraid I can only serve it to you by the glass,” I explain. “I’ll need to stamp your hands for those glasses, and then when you’ve finished your glass, I’ll be delighted to refill you. It’s two drinks max if you want to go upstairs later.” The only way Alchemy can protect its two-drink policy is by handling bottle purchases this way. Full refills only. I’m not sure why I have to explain this to her, unless she’s a new member. Her jaw drops open. I think she’s trying to frown, but I can’t be sure. “We bought the bottle. We can decide when we’ve had enough. And I don’t need a fucking stamp. You think I want to risk getting your shitty ink on my Valentino?” She gestures at the dress. Conflict is not something I enjoy, but a lot of our staff training goes into dealing with entitled asses. Alchemy works because there is zero tolerance for any divergence from the rules. It doesn’t need to make its members happy, but it does need to ke ep them safe. The protocol is always rules over accommodation when it comes to alcohol consumption, although it’s not difficult to see that she’s already had a few drinks off-premises. Unfortunately, that’s not something we can police. “I’m happy to leave the ice bucket here for you, of course,” I say, gesturing at the bar in front of me as her girlfriends start to turn and pay attention to this little tiff. “But I will need to give you all a red stamp in that case, to show the doormen that you’re not interested in going upstairs.” “We paid fifteen hundred dollars for that bottle,” her friend says, leaning over the bar in a way that suggests she’s trying to intimidate me. I can see the whole way down her cleavage like this. “How long does it take you to earn fifteen hundred, hey, honey? A long fucking time, I’d say, judging by your nasty little Target shirt. We’re going upstairs later, whether you like it or not, and you’ll still be here, serving up your little drinks and hoping someone stuffs a few singles in your bra.” I am absolutely able to handle myself with these Manhattan princesses —I’m from Jersey, for chrissakes—but the sheer nastiness of their words has me reeling. I hold up my hand to tell them that Alchemy doesn’t tolerate abuse of its staff or its policies, but I don’t get a chance, because a huge fist comes slamming down on the polished wood of the bar, making me—and my adversaries—jump.
Oh fuck, it’s Sinclair.