Page 5 of Lady and the Hitman
He sighed. “Z …”
But I was already gone—mentally halfway out the door, already peeling off the last traces of what we’d been.
Because the truth was, he hadn’t changed.
And maybe I never wanted him to.
Not the real him.
Not the man who bought me books about mutual emotional labor and cooked vegan dinners on date night. Not the man who never raised his voice, or his hand, or his expectations of me.
Trevor had been safe. Thoughtful. Soft in all the ways a “good man” was supposed to be. The kind that got applause from my friends and nods of approval from my mother. The kind that posted #FeministFridays and listened to women talk about their trauma like it was his spiritual practice.
But he never wanted me in a way that made my body ache.
And maybe that was my fault.
Maybe I’d been picking men like Trevor all along—men who worshiped me like a figurehead but never saw the animal underneath. Men who kept their distance under the guise of respect. Who told me I was powerful, but only if that power stayed rhetorical.
I’d dated poets, activists, therapists, gentle-souled professors who smelled like bergamot and wore rings made of recycled copper. And I’d told myself I was fulfilled. That I didn’t need anything more than alignedvalues and deep conversation and slow, affirming sex with a man who called me goddess.
But deep down?
I wanted to be ravaged.
Not convinced. Not negotiated with. Not treated like a loaded topic at a dinner party.
I wanted a man who didn’t flinch when I pushed, because he could push back harder.
Someone who could see through the sharp words and well-argued points to the craving buried beneath.
Someone who wouldn’t just let me have my darkness?—
But meet me in it.
Trevor never had.
He was the kind of man who thought passion was pulling the sheets back carefully and asking, “Is this okay?” in a whisper every time he moved. The kind who only ever wanted missionary, like any other position might bruise his sense of moral superiority. He never gave oral—not once in the entire time we were together. Said it made him feel “too exposed,” like his masculinity might shrivel if he put his mouth anywhere near what he couldn’t control.
I used to joke that he probably thought a clit was a government conspiracy.
In hindsight, maybe he was just disgusted by desire itself. Or by mine, anyway.
Hell, maybe he was gay. Or maybe he just liked the idea of fucking a feminist more than the act itself—like it proved something, politically or otherwise.
All I knew was that every time we had sex, I ended up feeling lonelier afterward than I did before.
“Goodnight, Trevor.”
I hung up on him and placed the phone on thenightstand like it had dirtied the air. Then I lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as the silence thickened around me again.
And for the second time that night, I wondered what I’d done when I sent that email to Alpha Mail.
What kind of man reads a message like that … and decides to show up?
What kind of man wants a woman like me?
And what happens when I open the door?
