Page 43 of Tips and Trysts

I look away fromEverett and face the mirror. He appears behind me, keeping his distance and hugging the wall. Our eyes meet in the reflection.

“Oh, look at that,” I comment. “Youdohave a reflection. I owe Valeria fifty dollars.”

“I usually don’t, but the dark energy radiating out of the empty space where your heart should be is fueling me.” Everett moves forward and puts his hands on the sink, bracketing me. “Panties off, princess.”

His expensive cologne wraps itself around me, and the warmth from his big body emanates across the sparse inches separating us. My skin prickles under my sweater. I glare at him.

This guy is so gorgeous that it borders on evil.

Even underneath the harsh overhead lights of a coffee shop bathroom, he looks like he was born to be the most powerful man in the world. Maybe he was. Maybe he will be. He leans down, head canted, inimitable gaze locked on mine. A lock of his hair tumbles over his forehead, and he doesn’t release his grip onthe sink to fix it. He inhales, nose close to my ear, and when he speaks, his breath grazes my skin. “Panties off.”

Unhurried, I put my hands under my short skirt, watching for reactions. His eyes don’t leave mine, but his hand flexes in my periphery, tightening on the porcelain. His breaths have picked up, and when I lift the hem, Everett groans like he’s been suffocating the sound for months.

I tug my panties down until they’re a heap of barely-there lace around my ankles. “There you go,” I murmur, lifting my chin. “If you want them so badly, go get them.”

For the first time today, he hesitates. It’s the same hesitation he showed in my kitchen—disbelief that anyone would ask the pride of the Logan family to take a knee.

He stares at me in the mirror. I wait.

After a beat, his hand shifts on the sink. It’s slight. The motion would be almost imperceptible if his thumb didn’t graze my pinky.

“Go get them, Everett,” I whisper, moving my pinky over and touching his skin. “Unless you don’t want them as badly as you say.”

The upturned corner of his lips is the only warning I get before he whispers, “You have no idea how badly I want it.”

It. Not them, the panties, butit—my pussy.

Slowly, he releases the sink and lowers until I’m alone in the mirror with a man at my feet.

And just like that, Everett Logan is on a knee on a bathroom floor, wrapping his hand around my ankle to raise my foot. Right first, then left. “Your legs are amazing,” he whispers, dragging his fingers—no, my panties—up the back of my calf before he says, “I’m sorry.”

Confused, I crane over my shoulder to look at him.

“This is what you meant in your kitchen. Begging on my knees.” He looks up at me, gaze earnest. “I’m sorry. I’m so unbelievably sorry.”

He looks so good down there, and I find myself saying, “Thank you, Everett.”

Moments later, he stands and towers over me again, tall and refined—and holding my panties. His hand is raised, dangling them from the tip of his middle finger, and his chest presses against my back. “Look at you,” he whispers, connecting our gazes in the mirror’s reflection and lowering my panties until the lace skims my shoulder. “Look at yourbody, princess.”

I nod—and it’s so unlike me to just nod, but I don’t know what to say.

Not only did Everett Logan ask for forgiveness on one knee, but he just complimented me—again.

He moves in once more, wicked mouth back by my ear. “Talented,” he continues. “You were made for this shit, weren’t you?”

“Camming?”

“Camming,” he agrees. “Teasing. Stripping. All of it. You’re intelligent. You have a way with words. Butmy godyou’re good at fucking yourself like a...” When he trails off, we both know exactly what word should come next.

Awhore.

He can do it. I want him to do it. Beyond my degradation kink, I’ve always loved how those vile words beg for complexity—the complexity of self-empowerment, of having rejected all convention to make money off my body. A whore. A slut. Those words can’t hurt me; they’re a part of me. I don’t hide who I am anymore.

Three years ago, I made a choice to become a sex worker. I own that choice. Ilovethat choice.

Everett needs to prove he can love it too, and I think he could. Maybe he, of all people, could be what I’ve been waiting for.

“I’m good at fucking myself like a whore,” I fill in, emphasizing the words. “Good at showing off my pussy for money.”

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