Page 134 of Tips and Trysts

Right now, she needs the cock I pierced for her—and she needs her tip.

Cora lets my cock fall from her lips. She pushes back to her knees and holds out her hand to see the sapphire ring I placed on her finger. The thing is massive on its own, but on her slender hand it looks legitimately intimidating—which makes it perfect for her. And because we’re always in sync, all her piercings and rings are yellow gold today—like her new engagement ring. The deep blue of the sapphire contrasts nicely with her black nail polish, and I’ve never seen a more beautiful hand before.

Nearly half a minute later, she still hasn’t spoken.

Well, shit. I finally managed to render Cora Flores speechless. Normally, I’d be proud of myself, but I’m dying to hear her say she’ll be my wife.

“I wanted to buy you eight of them since you always wear so many, but everyone talked me out of it.”

Finally, she snaps back to attention and rolls her eyes. “They’re such rock blocks.”

I chuckle. “Don’t be too upset. I funneled the budget for all eight into that single ring. You could buy Andorra with it.”

Cora faces forward once more, eyes locked on her hand. Slowly, they travel up to meet mine, and a small smile rises on her lips.

Fuck, I love her. Taking a deep breath, I say, “Ever since you came into my life, I’ve steadily become the person I’ve always wanted to be. I hope you know how special you are. And for the rest of our lives, I’m going to make sure the entire world gets it. Will you let me? Will you let me do that for you?”

Her eyes are watery, but her smile is undeniable. She doesn’t try to hide it, and neither do I. We don’t hide anything—not anymore. “Ev, I love you,” she finally says. “And I’m yours. I’ve been yours since that night in the bar.”

“So…yes?”

“Yes, but can we please make up a better story? I don’t want to tell anyone that you proposed while your dick was in my mouth.”

I burst out laughing. “Fair. My timing has always been shit.”

Smiling, Cora—my fiancée—leans forward and kisses me. Her lips are soft and familiar, swollen in the aftermath of making love. She bites my lip, loving but probing at the same time, and when we separate, she runs her hand through my hair, holds my face, and reminds me: “Nobody’s perfect.”

Epilogue Two

CORA

Six years later

“…We have an interviewwith the Times, but I’m working on the scheduling. Regina wants to do lunch with you in three days, and she’s going to ask for another interview—”

“Beverly,” I say, practically shoving the interjection into the atmosphere. “Bev. I love you, seriously, but I need you to take these leftover vegan canapés and go home.” I thrust the container at her. “Tonight was great. I’d be lost without you.”

The pinch in Beverly’s brow fades. “Thank you,” she murmurs before she takes the canapés and rests her tablet on top of the lid. “You were fabulous tonight. I’ll call you in the morning.”

She heads out, waving as she goes, and with my Chief of Staff’s departure, another celebratory dinner with producers from 24N is in the books.

Having a Chief of Staff is an unprecedented, but necessary change in my life—and has been for the last six years. Everett was right: After our day in Richmond, astounding things did happen to me. That summer, the offers and opportunities were as abundant as egos in the Senate Chamber. I turned them all down with the exception of a proposal from Beverly Mazetti.

I was the first person she called once she quit Team Logan. After she helped us set up the governor, Beverly got a taste for rebellion. We met for coffee, and when we left Tryst at closing time, we had a business plan—and like so many of my plans that summer, it worked flawlessly.

It started the way camming did: sitting in front of a laptop in my bedroom. With Beverly’s help, I simultaneously released the first eight episodes ofNobody Ever Asks,a podcast about the eight women Felix wrote about in his book. The response was immediate. While Felix’s book kept the women anonymous and treated them as research subjects, my podcast shared their stories in their own words. Things grew from there.

Eight episodes became six critically acclaimed seasons. My point of pride: Every guest on the show has been a sex worker, including the two women at my kitchen island, picking at a leftover crudité tray when I enter the kitchen and collapse on a stool.

Essie throws her arm over my shoulder. “How do you feel?”

“Exhausted. But thank you for coming. It’s important for the producers to talk to more sex wo—”

“We’re here for the free food,” she interjects shamelessly. “Sorry. Someone had to say it.”

I laugh and chuck a triangle of pita bread at her, which Valeria snatches out of the air and eats.

“In less than a month, you’ll have a network-backed podcast,” Valeria mentions once she’s done chewing. “You’ll be on every music and audio streaming service and your marketing budget isbasically limitless. Do you think Felix is sobbing into his pillow right now?”

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