Just A Slug

“You’re the one who dragged me here,” Titus pointed out, hands tucked behind his back as he perused the wall of paintings. “I’m just endeavoring to enjoy myself.”

“Father says we must be painted.” That was Ursula’s way of defending herself.

“We’ve been painted a hundred times.”

“He says it must happen again. You still have your ginger hair in the last one.”

Titus did not give her the satisfaction of a snarl. He corrected her with a single, calm word. “Copper.”

“It’s out of date,” Ursula barged on. She had come to the studio wearing a little beret, which was infuriating. It made her look like a sunken child. He could see Jean Pierre trying not to snicker at it. Titus had pleaded with her to remove it in the car over, but she insisted it was Paris and she was allowed to wear whatever she wanted and if Jean Pierre had a problem with it, they could throw money at someone else for the portrait.

They had come to see the master painter, but JP’s young student had grabbed Titus’s attention instead. You had grabbed his attention.

Some of your work was displayed in a corner, a dusty, tiny corner, which felt like a concession on the master artist’s part, a scrap thrown to a mutt. Your paintings could have been colorful fingerpaint swirls and the Frenchman probably still would’ve chosen you, and Titus understood, in a poisonously horny, red-blooded way, why. You were practically angelic in the summer light, your easel positioned near an old bay window with cracked paint on the trim, and you were there because the Paris heat was intense and just a whisper of a breeze floated in. The window overlooked a hilly twist of Montmartre, and you were currently painting people seated outside at a café across the street. A man’s white button-down shirt, worn to gauzy thinness, fluttered down over pale, cropped denim shorts that showed just about everything.

You were perched on a stool, facing the canvas, your body facing Titus, your bare feet dangling down, one resting on a rung of the stool, the other just barely touching the paint-splattered hardwood floor. Titus broke away from Ursula, wandering closer. Inspecting. Your toenails weren’t painted. He couldn’t remember the last time he had lusted after someone unpedicured.

“The lady first, d’accord.” Jean Pierre’s voice was one more Gauloises away from throat cancer. He scratched out another request for Ursula to follow him into the add-on where he had set up his own easel and a curtained, velvet tableau. Ursula had begged Father to let their portraits be separate—it was getting creepy that all of their paintings and photos featured the twins standing elbow to elbow.

She’s striking out on her own, Titus had teased. And it only took fifty years.

“Just a study today, and I can work from that, mademoiselle, I know your time is precious.”

Ursula skewered him a murderous glare. “Behave yourself brother,” she warned.

Titus lifted his brows, mouth slack; such admonishments were lost on a soul as innocent as his. Ursula and the painter’s voices grew distant as they retreated into the add-on. It wasn’t total privacy, but close enough. Titus circled back toward you like a hawk flying spirals above a mouse. He calculated his approach carefully. He stared at your mouth; he wanted to bite it.

You were doing a masterful job of ignoring him. It only made him more curious. Nobody ignored Titus Danforth. Maybe JP hadn’t adequately informed you of who exactly would be visiting the studio. The heat was impossible. Titus removed his blazer, hanging it casually on an empty easel not far from your position. He undid the buttons on his cuffs and slowly, methodically, rolled up the fabric to reveal his steel-corded forearms as he finally drifted toward you.

Your eyes remained fixed on your work.

Titus smiled. He appreciated that you wanted to make this fun for him.

“You’re very good,” he said, close enough now that his Shumukh cologne would start to work its intoxicating magic on you. Just a cool million a bottle. Agarwood, sandalwood, Turkish rose. Most women found it irresistible. He only ever used a miniscule amount, just a dab behind the ears. The sweat collecting there activated the scent, mingling it perfectly with his pheromones.

“Thank you.”

Titus dipped his hands into his pockets, eyes widening at your accent. He had expected a Parisian, but you weren’t local. “Hints of early Renoir, Monet, Cassatt…”

You daubed your brush into a fat glob of French ultramarine and sighed.

Titus straightened, that puff of breath like a horn sounding the hunt. I beg your pardon? Your shirt probably cost four francs at a flea market, if it wasn’t fished out of a basket of hand-me-downs from JP. Nobody with unmanicured toes was allowed to scoff at his compliments. He wanted to be repulsed, but the twinge in his pants told him he was far from that.

“What?” he asked, stark.

“If I had a dollar every time a man rattled off French impressionists at me…” You cut yourself off with a shake of your head.

Titus smirked. “You’d what?”

“Well, I wouldn’t be living in a shoebox in Bagnolet, that’s for sure.”

“I can change that,” Titus said. Cold. Flat. Your paintbrush stilled briefly on the canvas, then swished again as you made another sound of dismissal and refused to glance over your shoulder at him. “How much do you want for this?”

“This?” You laughed, your first. It was a free and easy sound, uncomplicated, a wildflower shoving up through concrete. Titus had sat through a dinner at Passione the night before where not a single woman laughed, not like that, with their whole body. You shook a few strands of hair out of your face, but the perspiration shining on your forehead and temples made them stick. Titus shifted toward you, pulling one hand out of his pocket to gently push those strands where you wanted them to go.

You shuddered and jerked away. Finally, your eyes met his. “What are you doing?”

“It was bothering you.”

Your eyes burned into him. “Don’t do that again.”

Titus backed away, hand up in surrender. “Enjoy your afternoon,” he said.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

An envelope of cash wider than your thumb was waiting on your easel the next morning. JP had warned you about it when you got in, bright and early. He was still hungover at noon, slung across a couch meant for their expensive clientele, a hair-of-the dog bottle of Kronenbourg dangling between fore and middle fingers, his other hand covering his eyes. All of the curtains were closed.

“What’s this for?” you asked, opening the unmarked envelope, your heart beating faster at the wad of cash inside. You had already slipped off your sandals and left them by your easel on the balcony. JP groaned and waved you away.

“That Danforth prick wants your café study.”

“Oh my God,” you muttered. It didn’t make any sense. A man like that could have anyone he wanted. He smirked like he had invented it and smelled like the gates of hell. Sinful. Scorching. He had touched your face like it already belonged to him, like everything belonged to him. Your phone buzzed in the back pocket of yesterday’s shorts. You opened the lock screen to a message from an unknown number.

The message contained a series of real estate listings.

7th Arrondissement or 6th? 6th seems more your style.

Damnit, he was right. Your heart clenched at the pictures of an apartment on Rue de Tournon—historical building, parquet floors, tall ceilings, beautiful windows that would let in so much gorgeous fucking light for painting… Your eyes watered at the price tag. Six million euro. Jesus Christ, these people were insane.

You pushed the envelope flap back into the body, hiding the cash. Closing your eyes, you commanded your hands to stop shaking, took a pencil from your kit and scribbled something on top. JP was already buzzed, so it was easy to get the information you needed. The bored little errand boy who chain smoked outside your building was happy enough to help you for the promise of free lunch.

“Take this to the Rosewood Hotel de Crillon,” you told him. “Leave it at concierge for Titus Danforth.”

You deleted the messages in your phone, opened the curtains in the studio, to your master’s groaning disappointment, and got to work.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

Titus stared down at the returned envelope, his heart growing three sizes. Which perhaps meant it was now spiritually the size of a walnut, but miracles must be recognized.

“She thinks you’re disgusting, by the way.” Ursula. Ursula in that fucking hat.

Titus had sealed off every entrance that led under his skin. His twin had no idea that this was exactly what he wanted. Exactly what he craved. Everyone gave in so easily these days, even the quarry on their property only had the good grace to beg for, what? Five minutes? Before slumping into the wet leaves and waiting for death.

“She’s laughing at you,” Ursula added.

They were meant to be sharing a companionable en suite breakfast, but she always found a way to be shrill and unpleasant.

“The more you try to ruin this for me the more I’m determined to pursue it.”

Ursula sat back hard against her chair, crossing her arms, pouting.

Titus grinned down at the envelope that was now beside his plate. Even your handwriting was cute.

I CAN’T BE BOUGHT

Ordinarily, Titus would have disagreed, but nobody suffered a living situation and commute as bad as yours unless it was for the love of the game. He believed you. What a fascinating creature.

“Don’t piss off JP,” Ursula said, picking up her coffee cup with both hands and squinting at him over the top. “Father’s paying too much for this portrait for it to turn out ugly.”

Titus ordered a girl to his room later that afternoon when Ursula was out shopping. He had stipulated to the madame that she look as much like you as possible. The girl that showed up was tolerable but dead in the eyes. She didn’t have your fresh beauty, your spirit. But needs must. He sat in an overstuffed chair and paid her to choke on his cock. It felt like nothing, but if he blurred his eyes, it was you kneeling between his thighs and that was an image he could beat off to later, belt tightened around his neck just enough to heighten the kick.

When she was done and her tits were back in her dress, Titus escorted her to the door. Sometimes he enjoyed playing the gentleman, performing normalcy.

“How do you seduce a woman who doesn’t want anything?” Titus asked her, deadly serious when she giggled and spun to look at him.

Her expression blanked at the sight of his, and she nervously lowered her shoulders, glancing away. “Nothing.” Her French accent was pretty, but he wished it was your voice coming out of almost your face. “You stay away.”

Titus nearly rolled his eyes but stilled. Maybe the whore had a point.

“You make her come to you,” she added. “Can I go now?”

Titus made sure she was tipped handsomely, for her services, sure, but more for her weirdly sage advice. The next day, the twins returned to the studio for their next appointment with Jean Pierre. You were there, of course, painting out on the balcony. The study of the café hung in your forlorn allowance of a corner, but Titus walked right by it. He didn’t acknowledge your existence, he simply waited his turn, sat for the master artist, bullshitted about vineyards and restaurants, and left.

On his third trip to the studio, he noticed a price tag had been added on a card beside your café study. It was a laughably small amount, but likely a fortune to you. He could feel you watching him as he stopped to appraise the painting again. Softly, he scoffed at the price, and casually strode away.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

Exactly nine hours later, you returned home to find your shitty apartment had flooded. All of your treasured, worn, precious belongings were ruined. Almost nothing had escaped the water. You managed to salvage a few pieces of clothing from a sheltered corner of your closet, and the cooking equipment was sturdy enough to be saved, but your laptop had been steeping in murky liquid like an electronic tea bag for hours. The real heartbreaker was your in-home “studio” which was just a pile of art supplies in a corner, thrifted brushes and paints, a stack of canvases, some finished, some yet to be painted…

Your landlord was extremely annoyed and French about it. He didn’t live on site and yours was the basement unit, so it had taken all day for anyone to notice the problem. A friend let you crash for the night, but she lived on the other side of Paris and the trains had stopped; by the time you got to bed, it was 2AM.

JP was predictably unsympathetic about it. What did you expect, slumming it in that horrible rat hole? C'est un truc de ouf. I told you to move out of there months ago. You did not point out that your apprenticeship paid a pittance. You calmly dressed in the only clothes you still had, pretended your life wasn’t in shambles, and took the bus to Montmartre.

You needed a hug. You needed a new place to live. What you didn’t need was Titus Danforth showing up in a pair of loose linen pants and a black cashmere t-shirt. It was the last day the twins were scheduled to appear for their sittings. Titus had brought a bottle of champagne for JP as a thank you. You tried not to hear their conversation while you mixed your paints for the next study. Working at a window or outside, normally the solvents didn’t go to your head, but from the stress, the lack of sleep, you were faintly dizzy.

“Mais, this is too fine by far,” JP was saying, though you knew he would never actually refuse the gift. You’d be lucky if he offered you a thimble of the stuff, a bottle that was worth more than what you spent on rent in two years.

“It’s nothing,” Titus assured him, hands in his pockets, relaxed, king of the fucking world. The light hit him like a laser beam, igniting the glowing silver in his hair and stubble, lightening the flat black of his eyes until you could see that they were actually a rich, complex hazel. He must have felt you looking, his gaze traveling across the wall to where you sat, veering south to take in your form starting at your feet. By the time he got to your face, you were subtly trembling.

Concentrate.

His voice cut through you at heart height. “What’s up with her today?”

I’m right here, I can hear you, you fucking asshole.

“Oh, mais, un petit désastre.” JP clucked his tongue as if you had stubbed your toe on the way in, not lost a vast majority of your earthly possessions. “Some flooding at her apartment, I believe. It is an old, bad building.”

I’ll show you an old, bad—

The tears were building in force and heat just behind your eyes. It felt like your head was going to explode. You had and could tolerate many things, but being condescended to was not one of them. The paintbrush in your hand snapped suddenly from your spiking anger.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath. You were using JP’s brushes. That would come out of your already pathetic allowance. To make matters worse, Danforth’s manic scream-laugh of a sister breezed in from the front door, a jaunty beret perched ahead of her blonde bun, three Cartier shopping bags swinging in her right hand.

“Sorry, I’m late,” she said, greeting JP with three air kisses. “Diamonds make me lose track of time.”

You wrestled back a helpless sound, a sob. Diamonds! JP waved off her apologies, carrying the champagne with him as he escorted Ursula away and to the annex. That entire time, from the moment he sensed you regarding him to now, Titus had fixed his attention on you. It never wavered. It felt like living under a spotlight, like a distant lighthouse had swiveled toward you and stopped, pinning you in place.

And now you were more or less alone together.

His hands never left his pockets as he sauntered over. You put your back to him abruptly, turning toward the canvas and the front of the balcony that overlooked the street below. If you looked at him, if you had to smell that fucking cologne on him again, you would break, ask for something you shouldn’t. You steadied your hand, rolled your shoulders back, and gave him nothing as he hovered.

You hadn’t showered. You probably smelled like the knee-high water you had waded through to assess the true horror of your situation. If Titus noticed your disheveled state, he didn’t comment on it. A hand slowly appeared in your field of vision, leaving behind a crisp, white card on the edge of your easel. You clenched your jaw and waited until curiosity won out, eyes flicking down to see the name of a fancy hotel. Not his, but nice.

“There will be a room there for you,” he said softly, then removed himself a few steps, giving you space. When he did, it was easier to breathe. “For as long as you need it.”

“I don’t need your charity.”

“I think you might. And anyway, I’m sure you’ll find a way to repay me.” He lingered, watching you. His eyes scraped the back of your neck, and you shivered. He didn’t even need to touch you. “Like I said—you’re very good.”

You made it two more days at your friend’s place. She was lovely, but the screaming matches with her quivering mustache of a boyfriend meant you hardly slept. The card Titus had placed on your easel languished at the bottom of your bag, and you fished it out with shame hammering your throat closed. You should’ve just thrown it out, but something had stopped you. Desperation was a fickle master.

The lobby of the hotel smelled like honeysuckle. You could feel the staff picking you out as a normie. One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn’t belong…

You had no idea if the room was still on offer, or if the Danforths were even still in Paris. You didn’t know which outcome you hoped for as you presented yourself at check-in and slid the card across the marble counter to the very chic, very smiley woman on the other side. The card worked like the finger of God descending from the clouds. The atmosphere around you changed. Someone appeared to help with your extremely light, extremely manageable bag. Did mademoiselle require anything? Champagne? Laundry service? Spa appointments?

“Just the room,” you told the small army that had assembled around you. “Please.”

With a mad drumming in your chest, you actually assumed Titus would be there when you got to your room. It did not seem beyond his capabilities. Six people could have comfortably stayed in the space allotted for just you. It made you feel covered in slime. Ungrateful, maybe, but the ostentation was stomach-turning. You couldn’t imagine actually living like this—so much waste, so much excess, and for what? Still. You waited until the staff had left, unpacked your six things, and used the bath. You soaked yourself until you were a fabulous-smelling prune.

Near the king-sized bed, you discovered a mobile phone on the nightstand. Your blood froze at the sight of it. Carefully, as if it might grow teeth and attack, you picked up the phone and opened it.

There was precisely one contact saved.

You didn’t trust your voice, so you texted instead.

Thank you. The room is very generous.

A few moments later, he responded, inexplicably respecting your boundary by messaging instead of calling.

Expect a delivery in one hour. Paint me something. I’ll be by tomorrow evening to collect.

Cold. Transactional. It actually soothed you. You didn’t want this to be a debt. You didn’t want to owe this man. He didn’t text anything else. The supplies arrived via concierge just as he promised—a crate of paints, solvents, rags, brushes and an easel, all from Magasin Sennelier. There were a packet of charcoal sticks and a sketchbook included in the haul, and with a deadline looming, you took those and wandered down to the lobby café to people watch and sketch. You noticed a woman who had broken the strap on her expensive shoe and was staring around trying to decide who to blame for her misfortune, and her mean little face called to you, so you sketched it and went back upstairs to set up your easel.

Conscious of the setting, you found a newspaper on the front table by the hotel room door and flattened it out, laying down a protective barrier by the window before securing a canvas to the easel and opening paints. Dinner arrived at eight o’clock sharp. You hadn’t called down for anything, but food appeared all the same, room service complete with a vase of dewy white roses. You didn’t want to admit how hungry you were. The staff disappeared without showing you a receipt or asking for a signature.

Pan-seared halibut with lemon. Heirloom tomato salad with burrata dressed in a light shallot dressing hiding under a fistful of fresh, green herbs. A chilled, unpretentious bottle of Chenin Blanc. Not Titus Danforth’s idea of luxury, yours. No lobsters drowning in butter, no gels or vapors or—God help us—foams. As you poured yourself a modest glass of wine paid for with his money, you began to understand how truly dangerous he was. You had spent almost no time together, just a handful of unremarkable moments, and somehow, he understood you already. The light in the room was blue and strange; you held out the glass of wine and studied your own hand--the skin looked different in this light, mottled, dead, like you were already a specimen speared and displayed in a collector’s frame.

The following evening, you paced the length of the room, anxious, waiting for Titus to arrive. Instead, a text came through. Apologies. Something came up. Keep painting, I’ll be in touch.

The first feeling that came up was relief, but it was chased with disappointment.

“He’s not my type,” you said, as if vocalizing it made it true.

Two weeks later, your landlord called to say that your place would be ready in about six days. Hearteningly, insurance would cut you a check for what was damaged, but you would never get back the paintings that were destroyed or the pictures and memories on your laptop. At least you could imagine your regular life again—you wouldn’t need to rely on Titus’s generosity for much longer.

Like clockwork, he texted every night to apologize and encourage you to keep painting. On that fourteenth night, your patience for the pattern thinned. It wasn’t like you wanted him to come see you, but it was strange that he kept rug pulling, promising and then withholding.

You’re going to have enough of my work to open a gallery, you told him finally.

His reply made your mouth dry up. Would you like that? A gallery of your own.

The period on the end of that phrase disturbed you. Not a question, a reality to be. And you knew, with a sinking feeling, that if you asked, even offhandedly, Titus would do it for you. Breakfast and dinner arrived every day, annoyingly to your taste, with random treats appearing with no explanation but plenty of innuendo. A new bathrobe. The weather turned, three days of rain pelting the city, and lo and behold, a simple Dior raincoat was there in your room. Well before your landlord got in touch to let you know the timeline, a trunk of clothes was delivered.

Crisp white shirts. Denim shorts. Sandals.

The cream-colored sheer bralette and panty set was the one thing you could tell was improvisation. Not your taste, his.

That you loved the way it looked on you was entirely beside the point.

You painted every night. You were determined not to owe him a penny. You ignored the impulse to run the math, tally up what the extended hotel stay and the meals and the gestures must have cost. Technically, your paintings were worth whatever you said they were worth. The phone in your hand felt like a lead weight. The message hadn’t magically changed since you last looked at it. Would you like that? A gallery of your own.

What sort of game are you playing with me? you asked.

You expected him to deflect or maybe ignore the message altogether.

Why? Are you having fun?

Panic fluttered up your throat.

Oodles. Shame it has to end. My place will be ready next week.

You could practically hear Titus’s dry laugh. I see. You should really have it inspected for mold.

He was right. Not that you cared.

Snob.

I’m a snob for caring about your safety?

Your thumbs stilled as you considered how to respond. That fear threatening to strangle you chilled into a guilty shiver. Shit, shit, shit. Were you being unreasonable? After a single night in the hotel, you had expected Titus to strut through the door and demand sex for all of his chivalrous deeds. But if anything, he seemed suddenly allergic to your physical presence. That single bra and panty set was the sole outlier. A bra and panty set, by the way, you were wearing under your clothes. You hadn’t been raised to be so ungracious. So, the painfully handsome billionaire was worried you were about to marinate in black mold and rat feces and he was the asshole?

You closed your eyes tightly. Fuck.

Your fingers moved across the screen before you could stop them. Where are you right now?

Le Cinq with Viraj.

So, he was still in Paris. Still in Paris but avoiding you. Or giving you space. Or…

You sighed. Viraj was like Madonna or Beyonce or Elon. Everyone knew Viraj Rijan. It made you laugh out loud that you had received a text message with those words in that order. Three weeks ago, you had overdrawn your bank account buying a baguette.

When you didn’t reply immediately, Titus hit you with: Should I come over?

The words felt like a portent. Like destiny. You looked at the canvases lined up against the wall drying. You considered the untouched bottle of Chenin Blanc still in its silver holster of ice. You deflated slightly, realizing the only people you had consistently seen lately were fucking JP and the nice guy who brought your meals to the hotel room.

What about Viraj? you asked.

Fuck Viraj.

You didn’t know he could be funny. That was a problem. It stirred your reckless impulse to be funny back at him.

But how does he look in a cream bralette?

Not as good as you.

Your breath snagged on the way down. Butterflies. Fuck. Fucking butterflies. You insisted that it was normal to flirt with a considerate older gentleman. Painters had worked with patrons since the dawn of the profession. This was just…Medici stuff, Parisian stuff, not—gag—some kind of illicit arrangement. The lie just made your stomach buzz harder.

You couldn’t possibly know that.

No, Titus texted back. I’m not that lucky.

You waited fifteen minutes and congratulated yourself for making it that far.

Come over.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

Part of him was beginning to believe you would never cave. Titus would get over it, of course, and this silly detour would just become another extravagance for his accountant to figure out. It tickled him that you had held out for two weeks, which had given him adequate time to play the doting benefactor, to be thoughtful yet benign and casual.

But now your guard was down. You were making flirty jokes about bras and panties. He knew, he already knew, that you were certainly wearing that charming number for him. You wanted to be good for him, it just took you a moment to realize, to let that feeling in, let it chip away at the admirable but futile wall of independence you had constructed around your life.

Titus called his man in Paris on the way over to your hotel and told him to put a down payment on that Rue de Tournon place, he’d be needing it after all. You would be needing it just as surely as you needed him. And he would make sure that the need you felt was so consuming, so terrifying, you would never again question whether you had the courage to confront it.

Viraj had been annoying about this abrupt departure, but Viraj was annoying about everything.

“I’ve got a live one squirming in the trap,” Titus had informed him, paying for half the bill even though he was ditching before the last three courses appeared.

You answered the door shower fresh. Titus smiled. Oh, little bird, you can stop squirming now, I’m here. He hadn’t come empty-handed. He had remembered, in fact, your simmering, stiff-shouldered fury the day he presented Jean Pierre with a twelve-thousand-dollar bottle of champagne. That same brut rose was in his grasp now, canted toward you with a sly lift to his brow.

“Here I am,” he said, tilting his chin up slightly. “Did you miss me?”

You accepted the champagne, stepping back to let him inside. He hadn’t dressed specifically for the occasion, having no way to know this would be the night you finally admitted defeat. But that was all right. He doubted you knew the difference between a crisp Tom Ford jacket and a more traditional Gucci wool. What mattered was that you liked it when he removed his coat, slung it over the rack, and rolled up his sleeves. He saw your eyes glow brighter at the sight of his bare skin, the freckles, the hair, the cruel strength of his fingers and wrists.

“You’re staring,” he said mildly, watching you blush. Watching you squirm.

Fuck, she’s right where I want her.

Poor little bird, cooped up in your lovely cage. The hotel room had a warm, lived in feel, and he could smell you in every corner of it. He liked you here, but he’d rather be paying the bills on an apartment, less room for error. People came and went at a hotel, someone sweet and young and giving could take the suite next to yours and cause problems. Once you were in that apartment, he would have a full list of your neighbors, and given the price tag on the building, they wouldn’t be strapping young competition.

“Sorry, I love to paint hands,” you said, leading him through the room to the romantic table by the balcony. You had tipped your paintings along the wall, a mini gallery, and Titus dragged his eyes away from you to admire them as you passed. You had been busy. Such a good, busy, industrious girl, hard at work to please him. “Everyone says hands are the worst thing to draw and paint, but I enjoy it.”

“You’re like me. You appreciate a challenge.” Your ears turned a bitable shade. Titus plucked some flutes from the cart near the table, not that they would be required, but he still wanted you at ease. “Would you paint mine if I asked?”

Solicitous. Careful. Your gentleman.

For now.

“I’d like to,” you said, abdicating the bottle to the table. You rushed to pull your hands away as if terrified of breaking it or spilling. “But how much longer are you in the city?”

Titus whipped a cloth from the cart, cradled the champagne, popped the cork deftly into the muffle of the doubled fabric, smiling at you all the while. Never a hitch. Never a strain. “As long as I want to be.” His voice lowered, rough, almost needy. “As long as I have a reason to stay.”

You stilled, your hands curling into loose fists. “Titus…”

Too fast. She’s spooked.

He put down the champagne bottle on the table while you went to the curtains guarding the balcony, fussed with them, opened them. A sweet, night breeze swirled in, ruffling your collar, making you sway. “Can we dispense with the modesty? You deserve this.”

You studied the street outside, still clinging to that delicious determination. That was fine. That was allowed. You shook your head, laughing at seemingly nothing. He rounded the table, not encroaching, just offering his presence. Your eyes swallowed him up, ticking once from obvious nerves. “What’s funny?” he asked.

“I’ve just…I’ve never even said your name. And now…”

Titus let that And now float for a while. He slid his hands into his pockets and noted the way your body relaxed, responding to his patience. Your gaze cut from his face to the champagne to his pockets to the floor and back to his face. He inched closer, pulled one hand free, and used it to mimic the first touch he ever gave you, settling stray hair behind your ears; when you didn’t flinch, his thumb settled over your chin, then outlined your lower lip.

Your eyes flamed against his, so ready, so begging, it made his cock stiffen against his thigh.

“I like the way my name sounds on your tongue,” he murmured. Your throat dipped as you swallowed. The war raged in your gaze, and he could tell the moment of victory; you swayed again, lashes fluttering, cheeks blossoming with fresh heat. “Would you like to say it more?”

You inhaled on a faint moan. “Yes.”

Titus didn’t smile, he simply nodded, almost grim. Then, he leaned down, pressing his mouth against your right ear, still holding your chin, holding you in place. “You’re very good.”

That was the test. You passed with flying colors. Your breath came faster. You dodged into his touch, against his face, rubbing yourself against him like a friendly kitten. He laughed low in his throat and pulled you into his orbit, hands anchored on either side of your head as he kissed you, gently at first, experimenting, still finding you parameters. When he broke the kiss, you chased after it, fingers fisted in his shirtfront.

Panting.

“You like being good for me, don’t you?” Titus asked in a rasp. He nodded toward the wall and the line of paintings there. It was a temporary out, a single toe dipped into a raging river. You could say yes in a professional way until you meant it in the depraved way. “Look how good you’ve been for me already.”

He kissed you again, gifting you the stall, letting you chew over your answer while his tongue was plunging into your mouth, fucking it. This time, you broke the kiss, pushing him away, gasping for air. “Titus…”

Still not completely sure. Still hedging.

Titus pursed his lips, softening his expression until you turned to goo in his arms, laughing at yourself and shaking your head again. “It’s okay, baby,” he told you, placing you just a few inches away. The distance settled you again, and that hungry shine returned to your eyes. Perfect. He put his hands back into his pockets, admiring, assessing. When the silence became too heavy to bear, he tipped his head to one side. “You’re wearing them, aren’t you.”

Not a question.

You paled, looking down at your own body guiltily, as if your tits and puss had spontaneously clothed themselves, like you had nothing to do with it, couldn’t be held responsible. You gave the sweetest little nod of confession.

“Show me.”

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

I’ve completely lost my mind.

Your fingers tangled in the top button on your shirt. Titus’s eyes had gone the removed, flat black of a shark. You couldn’t tell where his pupils began and ended. And he kept doing that maddening thing, hiding his hands in his pockets, keeping his distance, advancing and then retreating, the whole dizzying dance keeping you constantly off-balance.

But you were an adult. You had chosen to put on the bra and panty set that morning. Nobody had put a gun to your head even if now it felt like you were in the presence of a loaded weapon. His kiss was addicting, hard and hot; when you came to Paris, you had anticipated many such kisses with passionate Frenchmen who could talk about art and life and love, but the Tinder offerings were no better than what you had dealt with at home. Everyone wanted to fuck, nobody wanted to feel.

One button. Two. Three. When the fabric flounced open across your breasts, revealing a hint of the pearly clasp keeping the cups in place, Titus flinched. It felt good to make this powerful man wince just from a clumsy striptease. You were proud enough to be honest with yourself, to admit he frightened you, and still you wanted to fuck him, or rather, be fucked by him. You weren’t naïve enough to believe you were the one in control. He stood there like he owned the place. Maybe he did, who fucking knew? You reached the last button on your shirt, trembling, awaiting further instruction because, technically, you had done what he asked.

The bra was visible. You had shown him.

His eyes slid between your breasts to your hips to issue a silent command.

You like being good for me, don’t you?

It felt weird standing there in your open shirt, so you reached up and pushed it off your shoulders, letting it whisper to the ground. Titus pressed his lips together. The cold air conspired, just another of his subordinates, a cold gush of air pebbling your nipples, hardening them under his demanding gaze. You unzipped the fly on your shorts, then wiggled out of them, letting the fabric drop and pool around your feet. His eyes followed. You could tell right away what he was seeing, what you knew, what was now evident to both of you—there was a dark, damp spot revealing exactly how much you wanted him.

Titus closed the distance between you, removing his hands from his pockets to take you firmly by the waist and urge you against the table. You hitched one leg up until you were half sitting on it. He clamped his left arm around you, firm. “Hold still,” he whispered.

Taking hold of the champagne bottle, Titus tilted it, the cold shocking you, a bracing slosh of chilled wine pouring down your chest. You gasped and surged against his grasp, but he wouldn’t budge, chuckling before dipping his head down to lap at the bubbles tickling over your collarbone. You gasped his name, arching, digging your fingers into his forearms to steady yourself as he licked lower, his hot tongue an aching contrast to the goosebumps rising across your skin.

What about the carpet? What about the mess? What about the cost of the god damn bottle of—

His head shifted lower, his mouth closing over your nipple through the sheer fabric and sucking until every concern, every raised question dissolved. He poured more champagne down your chest, aiming for his own mouth, bathing your nipple in it until you shuddered and bucked, until he guzzled the excess and scraped the wet fabric down with his teeth, catching your swollen nipple in the drag, biting lightly until you thrashed in his grasp. He suckled you again, then let go with a noisy pop.

“Other side?” he teased, starting before you could object. “Other side.”

You stopped fighting against him, now just thrusting yourself into his touch. There was steel and desire in his hand as it molded around your hip, keeping you right where he wanted you. Just naturally, just from the hard arch of your back, you began to topple over the table, ass sliding up and over it. Titus followed you, never letting contact break, never releasing his pulsing, vampiric suction on your breast. He groaned against your tits, sucking and then releasing, biting, sucking, releasing, rubbing his nose back and forth against the bud until you grabbed his hair and wrenched it closer, wordlessly urging him to latch on again. He did, laughing at you, soaking up your naked desire for his attention.

“Baby, I could do this all night.” His eyes crawled up your tits to your neck, higher, ensnaring you. Now he was just holding you, letting you buck and thrash against nothing, your body clenching, pleading. If you didn’t have something inside you soon you would scream. It felt like a life and death absence. Titus slammed the bottle down next to your head, using that now free hand to sweep a ghostly touch over your sodden panties. He stroked across the fabric like he was afraid it might tear. “Unless…”

UNLESS.

Your head jerked up as if you had been electrocuted. “Titus…”

“Unless you want to be good for me.” His eyes flashed, gleaming with predatory refraction in the darkness. “Is that what you want?”

There was nothing left in you that wanted to resist. You nodded, biting your lip. “Yes. Yes, I want to be good for you.”

He smiled the smile of a wolf who could eat the world. One bite. One snap. “Open your legs for me, baby. Show me how good you can be.”

The leftover champagne on your skin was turning sticky. The cold night air rushed in, reminding you of the open curtains, the open balcony doors, and your body on display, wet and shivering and greedy. Titus climbed off of you, drawing a whimper from your throat. He smirked down at you, splayed across the table, then tore both shirts over his head, and undid his buckle with a crisp, final clack. The sound of his belt whipping through the loops as he pulled it free almost made you moan again.

As Titus stepped back up to the table, between your thighs, you spread them further apart for him. Shameless. Presenting like nothing more than a hole in heat. Titus licked his lips, scrunched his nose, pulled his thumb across the wet stain on the panties he had bought for you. “I can smell your whore pussy,” he hissed, unzipping his fly. You flushed and looked away. “No, no, no, baby, keep your eyes on me. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Your whore pussy is ready for me, that’s what good girls do, they get ready, they open their legs.” Titus withdrew his cock, showing it to you, thick and long and furious, weeping and red, as exposing of his desire as your surprise little whimper had been of yours. “Fuck, you’re so fucking wet.”

He tore the panties off of you, a single motion, flicking the scrap of fabric away with visible impatience. “Are you my good, filthy girl?” he asked.

“Yes.” You couldn’t believe yourself, couldn’t understand yourself… But your world had narrowed to the pleasure of his thumb seeking through your folds, circling your clit, playing it with the skill of a practiced lover. He dipped his thumb into you, tasted it, swigged from the champagne bottle and offered you some. It was awkward with the angle, but you craned your neck up, letting him pour twelve-thousand-dollar champagne right into your throat until you gagged and spat.

Titus laughed and hurled the bottle across the room. As it splintered against the wall, he sank into you, merciless, steady, coaxing his dick all the way in with a single dedicated thrust. Not fast but not gentle, deliberate, letting you feel every thick inch. He leaned down as he drove you against the table with his hips, licking the champagne from your lips and chin, kissing you with his sloppy, open mouth.

You wrapped your legs around him, hooking one ankle over the other.

“Good girl,” he whispered into your mouth, then your throat, easing back out to shove himself back in. Fuck, he wasn’t wearing a condom. You weren’t thinking. He grabbed your waist, setting a snapping rhythm, making sure you felt him on the downstroke. “You’re very good,” said Titus.

The rest of his shift, he makes it his personal mission to steal the thing and dispose of it. And he finally gets the chance when Robby accidentally leaves it at the workstation they tend to share.

Dennis looks around, making sure no one’s there to witness as he grabs the ball and takes it to the break room. He’s about to use a spare fork on it when he notices a pair of eyes drawn on the thing with a sharpie. But most notably are the prominent eye bags underneath, reminiscent of Dennis’ own.

Guiltily, he returns the ball to Robby’s station. But as the hours go on, his grudge on mini Whitaker grows.

When night shift comes in, Dennis grabs the ball while Robby is distracted, and takes it to an empty exam room where he left behind a scalpel.

He’s mere seconds away from ridding Robby’s world of the evil thing, when the curtain is yanked back, and none other than the man himself walks in, catching Dennis in the act.