Page 34 of Valentine's Slave

“My treat,” Valentino says.

“You already paid for the lingerie,” I complain. “Didn’t you say, ‘See you at dinner,’ this morning?”

His eyes have that devilish gleam. “I also said that if I found you, I could do as I pleased with you.”

“And you really want to eat a bagel with me?”

I’m still not sure what his deal is. Is he trying to make this week like a date/live-in girlfriend situation who also happens to be a sex slave? It’s not about love, but whatisit?

“I do,” he says with a straight face.

“All right, then.”

All the shops are bursting with hearts and chocolates, red and pink and white. Valentino doesn’t seem to be much into the whole Valentine’s consumerism deal, but it is strange that he would choose this weekend to have his yearly sexcapades, which I do want to ask him more about. I’m not sure if talking is expected or not in our deal, but it’s worth a try.

When we’re seated, both of us with delectable toasted buttery bagels and coffee, I turn to Valentino.

“You know that’s not vegan, right?” I ask.

“I’m not vegan,” he says. “And I prefer to call it ‘plant-based’.”

I’m about to roll my eyes, when I remember his threat, which I’m not totally sure he meant or not, but knowing him, he would probably carry it out with vigour.

“Sure,” I say.

I bite into the warm, buttery goodness and close my eyes in silent bliss. The sex is amazing, I have to admit. But this bagel—this bagel is a close second.

“You really told the lady at Victoria’s Secret that I was your wife?” I ask since Valentino doesn’t seem to be much for talking. I’m not even sure why he’s here, to be honest. He’s eating his bagel very slowly, studying me, his black eyes fierce and unreadable.

“I did.”

“Why, because I’m practically playing kinky wifey for you at your place?” I ask with a grin, being careful not to say ‘home’ again.

“No, not at all. The women I’ve brought to my place are simply for sex.” His voice is so dismissive, he seems like an entirely different man from the sweetheart who slow-danced with me in the changeroom. But there it is. He just defined it. This arrangement and all the ones before it are ‘simply for sex’.

“Okay,” I say, backtracking. “I guess it would have sounded lewd to say that you had some slutty outfits for your sex slave.” I chuckle.

“That, as well.”

“Can I ask a question about your wife?” I ask.

Asking permission to ask a question is often a great way to get someone’s guard down. I used to do it as a young teenager, when I wanted to hear Dad’s stories of his wild past.

Valentino puts down his bagel and fixes his gaze on me. His eyes are warm and less distant than before. “What’s your question?”

I hesitate. The answer to the question doesn’t really matter, but I feel like knowing it will give me a glimpse into who Valentino is, and I’m very interested in that, since his actions have been nothing but confusing.

“What was she like?” I ask quietly.

The question doesn’t seem to make Valentino uncomfortable or even sad, for that matter.

“She was a firecracker,” he says. “As was I. Her name was Emilia, and we had what you might call a toxic relationship.”

That isn’t anything like what I was imagining.

“Toxic how?”

He shrugs. “We were both volatile, immature. We were children. We had no understanding of how to deal with conflict, let alone our own emotions.”

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