Poor, broken girl meets four hot, older men, who whisk her away for a weekend of spoiling and orgasms, then deposit her back in her normal life with tens of thousands of dollars in her bank account.
Yeah, right.
Sounds like a fairy tale.
. . .but what if I do think of it like that? Surreal. Fiction. My own personal fairy tale. An amazing fantasy that I can cross off and keep as a dirty secret to warm my heart when I’m secure and living my dream life?
Can I spend the weekend living in the moment and not giving a shit about anything outside of that exact second? Can I pretend that this is my normal, just for the next thirty-something hours?
Can I live my own fairy tale?
I scan the bathroom with its bronze fixtures, pink towels, and cream marble. The massive shower calls my name. I think about the bed and imagine myself sleeping on the pillow right in the center. Of sitting on a different lap for each meal.
And the black curtain.
I’ve done enough research that I can guess what’s behind that thing, even without the visual of the picture they sent last night.
Can I handle this place for the weekend? This reality?
Yeah. I think I can.
One more tear trickles down my cheek, but before it can roll past the curve of my jaw, I dash it away. No more tears—atleast, not sad ones. I have a feeling they plan to make me cry in desperation at some point this weekend.
After last night, I’m totally here for it.
I scoop up all my things from where I dumped them on the floor and carry them to the vanity table. Taking a few minutes, I carefully arrange the limited toiletries that I brought with me. Then I go through the suitcase and find my outfit for the day—a sky-blue sundress, the fabric some sort of frilly ruffle thing.
When Oakley showed it to me, I instantly loved the tiny straps and love-heart bustline thingy. She’d laughed at my expense and explained that it’s called a sweetheart neckline. Whatever, it’s cute as fuck. And bonus, it has pockets.
I dig out the little black belt and the ballet flats from last night. The whole outfit screams cute and young, perfect for the four daddies wanting their own baby girl.
Once I have what I need laid out, I turn to the shower and twist the closest tap. Thankfully, it turns on the closest showerhead, and I don’t have to call one of them in to explain how to use the fancy-ass shower. Water falls from a circular shower head that hangs from the ceiling.
As I wait for it to warm up, I start to strip out of my lingerie and am slightly embarrassed when I see how wet I am. How was I so turned on? Besides a minute or two of Darcy playing with my clit, nothing actually happened.
Was it the tease? How they all watched as Darcy clearly played with me beneath the table? Did I like that?
My clit throbs at the memory. Apparently, yes. Hopefully I’ll get to find out just how much this weekend.
When the glass of the shower starts to fog, I step into the water and realize a second too late that my hair is going to get very wet. But then I notice that there is one of those removable showerheads at eye level. Trying to keep my head out of the downpour, I look for a lever or something to change the flow ofwater. Finding it just above the tap, I rotate it until the water pressure comes to a stop.
Smiling as the water redirects and starts to come out of the lower showerhead, only to let out a high-pitched squeak when ice cold water blasts me for a few seconds before it heats up. Glowering at the showerhead for its betrayal, I turn my back and let the water pelt my spine.
Okay. I’m just going to go for it. All weekend.
Balls to the wall sugar baby duties.
Then, Monday morning, I can start living my life and making my dreams come true.
Chapter 11
Emery
The rasp of the zipper does crazy things to my chest. I’ve transferred my things from Oakley’s handbag to my brand-new backpack. Sure, it might be a little too big for a day bag, but I need to use it. I can’t explain it; all I know is that I can’t bring myself to part with it for even a moment.
It’s got a neatly folded cardigan in the bottom—I had no idea what the fuck that was until Oakley explained it’s like a button-up sweater, but classier. I’ve also put my shitty phone, my purse with the remainder of Oakley’s cash and my student ID, and a lip gloss in there. So, the bag is basically empty, but I don’t give a fuck.
There is a faint knock at the bedroom door before I hear the latch click. “Kitten, are you ready to go?”