Page 28 of Bite
My mouth goes dry again. The page is filled with lined columns and checkboxes listing every imaginable fantasy and fetish, every type of pleasure and pain. Some are familiar, someI’ve never done, and some I’ve never eventhoughtabout doing. Many of them are checked. A few are highlighted. All part of the deal.
Francesca clears her throat. “Mr. Devereaux stipulated that this portion of the contract is required, but the specifics are somewhat negotiable.”
I can barely hear her over the blood pounding in my ears. Part of me wants to slam the folder shut and run, but another part– the reckless, foolish part that has made way too many questionable decisions lately– can’t stop reading. Because some of the things on this list, I might actuallywant.
Not just in theory, but withhim.
“I…” I start, my throat suddenly too tight. “I need to think about it.”
“Of course,” Francesca says gently, not seeming disappointed in the slightest. “This is a significant offer, so please, take your time to think it over. I’ll send an electronic copy of the contract over to you through the app so you can review the entire document at your leisure.”
“Thanks,” I breathe, somewhat relieved that I don’t have to decide here and now. The fact that I’m even considering it is fucking insane, but so is that payout figure.
Half. A Million. Dollars.
“But don’t take too long,” she adds, snapping the folder closed and pulling it back in front of her. “Mr. Devereaux isn’t known for extending second invitations, let alone third.”
She rises gracefully, reaching across the desk to clasp my hand as I follow suit. Her shake is firm, confident, like she already knows I’ll be back.
“I’ll wait to hear from you,” she says with that same calm, knowing smile.
I walk out of her office in a daze, my muted footsteps echoing too loud in the sleek, sterile hallway. By the time I ride theelevator down and step back outside, the city air feels different– thinner, harder to breathe.
Because this is more than a job now. It’s a door being held open into a world I swore I wouldn’t enter, an offer I can’t unsee from a man I don’t understand.
And I’m not sure what scares me more– the idea of saying no… or how tempted I am to say yes.
Chapter
Ten
This bar reeks of cheap cologne, stale cigarette smoke, and spilled opportunity, but they’ve got the best margaritas in the city. Whatever they put in their secret recipe– a little sour, a little sweet, and strong as hell– has kept Bex and me coming back for years.
The vibes of this place are also on point. It’s a perfect mix of chaos and camouflage: crowded enough to disappear into the background, but not so loud you can’t carry on a conversation. Plus, there’s never a shortage of men eager to flex their generosity by supplying drinks. Most of the time, all it takes to keep our glasses full is a little bit of eye contact and a flirty smile.
Bex and I are tucked into a high-top booth near the back of the room, bathed in red neon light from a busted exit sign. We’re surrounded by Saturday night chaos– laughter, clinking glasses, the low thump of a bass-heavy playlist– but my mind is a million miles away, preoccupied with thoughts of castles and contracts and a pair of frosty blue eyes that have stalked every corner of my brain since the first moment they found me.
Bex lounges on her side of the booth like she owns the place, one arm stretched across the cracked leather backrest and a straw pinned between her glossed lips. Her gaze sweeps over thecrowd like she’s hunting, the sharp curl of her grin indicating that she’s spotted something promising.
“Two o’clock,” she murmurs, nodding discreetly to our left while keeping her eyes pinned on mine. “Tall, bearded, wearing a shirt two sizes too small. He’s already looked over here twice. I give him five minutes before he offers to buy us our next round.”
I glance over, catching sight of a jacked mountain man who’s failing miserably at pretending not to stare. He’s so damn huge that he looks like he could bench-press the table if he wanted to. “Is that your type now?” I ask as I swing my gaze back to Bex, arching a brow.
“My type is anyone who can afford these,” she replies, shaking the ice in her empty glass with a wicked little grin.
Ironically, tonight’s one of the rare times we could actually cover our own tab, but old habits die hard. For years, we’ve treated this like a sport– see who can reel in free drinks first, tally wins on the walk home, laugh about the sleazeballs who thought they stood a chance. It’s not about the drinks; it’s about the game. The easy thrill of watching men trip over themselves for just a sliver of our attention.
Andgod, I need that kind of easy, mindless fun tonight. After all the craziness in my life lately, I’ve promised myself a long, drama-free evening with my best friend and the illusion of normalcy. My phone sits face down on the sticky lacquered tabletop, vibrating at regular intervals, but I refuse to touch it. If I ignore the outside world, I can almost pretend it doesn’t exist.
Sure enough, beard bro doesn’t even last a full sixty seconds before veering toward us. He’s got the swagger of someone who spends way too much time admiring himself in gym mirrors, paired with a sloppy grin that tells me he pre-gamed harder than he should have.
He doesn’t even make it all the way to the booth before Bex nails him withthe look– the subtle tilt of her chin, lashes low,lips barely curved. It’s the kind that sayssure, you’ve got a shot, but only if you make this interesting.
He fumbles through a few arrogant, half-slurred lines, but he’s nice enough to not raise any red flags. The man’s like a golden retriever– clumsy, eager, and harmless. When he offers another round of top-shelf margaritas, we happily accept.
Lucky for us, a bachelorette party at the bar steals his attention the second the drinks hit the table. He drifts toward the sparkle of tiaras and feather boas without so much as a goodbye, while Bex just shrugs, raising her glass in a mock salute.
“God bless drunk men with terrible priorities,” she says with a chuckle, taking a victorious sip of her margarita before turning her sharp gaze back on me. “Okay.” Her voice drops low, expression turning serious. “We’re now officially three drinks in. Time to spill.”
