Page 9 of Scout
Then he pulls out carefully, ties off the condom, and tosses it. He disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a warm, damp cloth. He cleans me up gently—no jokes, no teasing. Just soft touches and a kiss pressed to my forehead.
I blink up at him, exhausted and wrecked in the best way possible.
“Was that part of the rental package?” he asks, voice hoarse.
I laugh; real and warm, watching as he slips into bed beside me.
“No,” I whisper, pulling the blanket over us. “That was just for me.”
I melt into him, chest to chest, limbs tangled, his hand running slowly up and down my spine.
And for once, I don’t feel like just a pretty distraction.
I feel…wanted.
4
Scout
I left rightafter Kendrix fell asleep last night.
His time was up. Clocked out. Done.
He didn’t stir when I slipped out of his bed, didn’t even flinch when I leaned down and kissed his shoulder, because—well, I don’t know why I did that. It just… happened.
I walk barefoot through my apartment. Everything feels weirdly quiet. Too still. Too clean. I switch on the dim kitchen light and pour some orange juice, as if that’ll fix whatever’s tangled up inside me.
Because I’ve done this before.
I’ve fucked clients before.
Not regularly, but… if they’re hot? Respectful? Into it? Sure. I’m not made of stone.
But this?
This felt different.
And I don’t know why.
I take a long drink, staring at nothing. My mind keeps flashing back to little moments. Kendrix’s hands. The way hekissed with intention. The way he looked at me—not as some hired fantasy, but as something real. As someone who mattered.
God, I need to snap out of it.
It was a job. Ajob.I was paid to be there, paid to play the part. He’s not my boyfriend. He’s not anything. And he’s clearly still hung up on his ex. Last night was one big rebound fuck. Which…fine. Not the first time and definitely not the last.
I’ve played that role before. The hot distraction. The body they use to get over someone else.
I’m used to it.
I really am.
So then why the hell do I feel so… off?
I set the glass down a little too hard and grip the edge of the counter, trying to shake it off. But it’s there, like a bruise under the skin, tender and hard to ignore.
Maybe it’s because he treated me like a person. Or maybe because, for once, I let myself pretend I wasn’t being paid. Just for a second.
And now?
