Page 29 of Toy Shop

“Okay.” Her hand hovers on top of the fruit of her choice.

I curl my fingers around her wrist, bringing it to my lips. “I’m the one doing the nurturing.”

“You’re aware I’m capable of eating on my own?” Her raised eyebrow presents a challenge.

It’s also entirely too fucking precious.

“I do.”

Neither of us budges, a pattern I’m beginning to notice. When we fuck, Nola is all too eager to please, but outside of the sexual content, she’s the polar opposite of a pushover.

I’ve never had anyone even closely resemble her. Then again, the entire experience with this girl is a ride down different paths than the ones I normally travel, so clearly applying a similar approach would be a futile attempt.

“Let’s make this whole thing less formal. Move to the couch.”

She considers it, opening and closing her full lips twice. Her head gets where I’m going with this, and she meets me halfway, saying, “I can do feeding on the couch.”

“Great.”

We walk to the living room, curling up on the chaise lounge. She rests her ear on my chest, enveloped in my arm wrapped around her.

My chin relaxes, resting against her temple. This domestic notion, though feeling so fucking right, is still foreign to me, though I enjoy it. I reduce the dissonance by rationalizing with myself. Creating this safe, nurturing environment for her doesn’t veer from my original, visceral need—to have the upper hand in life.

Here, in this cocoon Nola and I share, I have exactly that.

I feed her one of the green grapes, my eyes mesmerized by the gleam of her pink tongue as she captures it.

“Thank you,” I tell her.

“What are you thanking me for?” Curiosity seeps into her question.

“For calling me about the products.” Plucking a second grape, I place it in her wanting mouth. “For caring.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Her soft giggle sends warmth traveling to my stomach, my chest. “I cared for Chad Chadwick.”

Thanks to my fingers finding the tender spot at the side of her waist and tickling, I’m able to listen to her laughter linger, intensify.

“Alistair, stop!” Nola wrestles me, batting my hand and wiggling in my hold. “I’m warning you, I’ll feed you a grape myself!”

Her buoyant spirit, bright smile, and liberated laughter are addictive. I go at the tickles longer than I intended, only stopping when the grape platter on the couch cushion nearly tips over. My attention averts to fix it on the arm of the couch where it’ll be secure.

“Thank God.” Nola rests her head back on my chest, molding her body into mine.

“Jokes aside.” My fingers lie idly on her arm, casting my eyes down at her. “What made you call? Why would you risk your job at the shop for a stranger?”

Her focus travels to her hands, cracking her knuckles. A nervous mannerism.

“Nola?”

“I don’t do it as often as I’d like. The job pays slightly better than other retail positions, so most times I say nothing.” Shame taints her happiness. “But you just had a cart full of crap. I couldn’t send it with a clear conscience.”

“Toy Shop is one of the most exclusive, well-known shops in the US.” My brow furrows in confusion.

She winces, peeking at me through narrow slits. “Is that why you haven’t researched what you bought?”

“I never had to when I bought from a similar store in Paris. They closed two months ago, and Toy Shop received glowing recommendations.” My eyebrows probably cover half my eyes by now. “What’s going on there?”

“The majority of the products are legit.” Nola’s bittersweet smile speaks louder than her voice. “The rest, it’s a roll the dice kind of game. Some products might cause them infections or abrasions, some might not. The ones who do, Roger, our manager, takes care of them. From what I’ve seen in his emails, he guilt-trips them into believing their hygiene is crappy or goes so far as to suggest they contracted STDs. No one wants these speculations surfacing about them, especially well-known, wealthy, or famous people.”

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