12. Olivier

While Drew sleeps on my couch, I do some googling. First, I look up sex choking—"breath play" apparently—just to make sure he's not going to kill me or crush my trachea or something. I find so many horror stories, I quickly type in a new search: "how do I know if I'm gay?"

Reddit is full of answers, and the consensus is—I have to decide for myself. Great.

One of the answers someone gave was if I want to lick his nutsack, I'm gay. That one gave me pause for thought, but the majority of the answers were that I get to choose how I identify, which is supremely unhelpful. Maybe what I wanted to read was that this happens to everyone at some point. But no one said that.

The last thing I need at twenty-four is a fucking identity crisis.

After the orgasm from this morning wears off and I'm capable of getting hard again, I take a shower and attempt masturbating to my memories of the night with Elise and Sierra, which had been super hot. Them together—them with me. Their scissored legs—licking their perfumed pussies…

I do get off.

Granted, not as hard as I did with Drew earlier, but solo work always produces a weaker result unless you're Harry Styles. So I'm not gay.

Am I bi?

Later in the afternoon, I look up "Hot Men" on Pinterest. Aside from an eyebrow raise I give a particularly flattering photo of Henry Cavill, nothing stirs my dick. I don't want to lick Henry's nutsack. So I don't know what the fuck I am. Unless Drew's right, and I'm just a needy perv.

Which, not gonna lie, fits.

I am pretty needy right now. With my parents pretending I don't exist and my friends shunning me, and Elodie—ugh—I'm a little attention starved. Maybe more than a little.

I may have downplayed it, but I was delighted when Drew was too spent to refuse my offer to let him crash on the couch. Just knowing I'm not all alone in my penthouse is comforting in a way I didn't know I needed.

Around two, I call my mother, hoping she'll take my call. I figure I've got a better shot with her than my dad. I want to give him at least another week to calm down.

"Hello, darling, how's my sweet boy?"

I practically wilt with relief at the sound of her voice. "I miss you," I pout.

She makes a sympathetic noise. "How are you and Elodie getting along?"

"She's terrifying, Mom."

My mother laughs softly. "What in the world…?"

"You'll have to take my word for it. Is there anything—and I seriously mean anything, community service, rehab, moving to Australia that I can do instead of getting engaged to her? Please, Mom."

"Oh, darling…"

"Don't sound like that," I whine. "Don't make it sound hopeless. There has to be some other way."

"Of course there are other ways, my love, but this is by far the best way. And the fastest to get us all back to normal. What's so bad about Elodie?"

"She's just—she's like—I mean, she's not my type. At all."

"I wasn't aware you have a type."

"I wasn't aware I did either, but she's not it. I'd like to be more specific, but trust me, I'm trying to protect you."

"Oh dear," she says, sounding appropriately scandalized.

I walk to the top step and take a peek downstairs, relieved to find Drew still passed out. I don't think he's moved a muscle. Besides the top of his head, his right arm is the only part of his body not covered with the blanket. He has these bands tattooed around that forearm that are so fucking sexy I've decided I want some too. My cheeks get a little hot staring, and I try to remember where I just left off with my mom.

"Will it really mess with Dad's business if he doesn't partner up with the Lafayettes?"

"You'd have to ask him that."

"He still won't return my texts. Can you talk to him?"

"You know how it is—he and I don't talk business."

"But it's not business, Mom—it's me. Your only son who made one mistake. It's the rest of my life."

She sighs. "Ollie… You and I both know it wasn't just one mistake. But it was the worst possible mistake. The only thing worse would have been if you'd been in the car with a male porn star."

My hand shakes slightly, and I gulp against a suddenly dry throat. "Oh," I barely whisper.

She laughs, though. "We'd have had to have you married to Elodie the next day."

"Right," I say. "Speaking of, I need to take a shower. We're seeing each other tonight again."

"Where are you going?"

"Out. I have to go. I'll talk to you soon."

"Remember, Ollie. It's all going to work out for the best."

"Okay. I love you, Mom. Bye."

I hang up and plop down on my bed in shock, defeat, and disgust at my mother's homophobic remark. Maybe it's just that it never came up before because I never showed a preference for anyone besides women, or maybe it's because they don't accept me as I am after all, which tracks, given the current situation I'm in where they're finally exerting their massive influence on my life.

Granted, the trouble I got into was extreme, but these measures to rein me in are arguably more extreme. Medieval, even.

I hear a deep cough, and I jump at the sound. Is he up? Should I check?

I don't want him to leave without talking to him. This morning was intense, and I swear to God, I'll have a full-on nervous breakdown if we don't tie it up with a neat little bow. I take my phone in hand and creep back over to the stairs where I find Drew shifting around, but still asleep.

I sit where I can see him and wait.

And wait.

Eventually I text Elodie to cancel our sex date for tonight. I won't be able to focus. I feign illness. She's pissed and asks me for a new date. I throw Tuesday out there since that seems like a long time from now, and she's satisfied.

I take one break from watching Drew to empty my bladder, but it isn't until after four that he begins to stir more frequently.

When I'm sure he's close to waking up, I make my way downstairs and into the kitchen, futzing around, trying to look busy until he finally sits up, yawns, stretches, and looks around.

Inevitably, his gaze lands on me, and I give him a nod.

"What time is it?" he asks through another yawn.

I make a show of checking my watch—similar to the watch he's wearing in function—and say, "Four-forty-five."

"Oh. Good." He blows out a long breath and whips off the blanket.

Rediscovering that there's not a single stitch of clothing on his body, he covers right back up, struggles to his feet, and heads off to the powder room.

His suit should be back from the cleaners soon, but I don't really have anything for him to wear, unless he can squeeze that ass into a size medium pair of briefs, which I doubt. His quads alone would rip the seams.

He's got my dream body—the kind of body I'd always wanted to have before I topped out at 5'11 and discovered I'd inherited my mother's bird bones. I do what I can, but I'll never have a lean, ripped physique like that. I wonder if I know anyone who's looking for beach-body type models for some new line they're doing?

I wonder if they'd even take my call.

Drew emerges a few minutes later with the blanket wrapping him up like a cloak. "Where are my clothes?"

"I sent them out. They should be here soon."

"How soon?"

"Before six?"

He sighs, giving me a glare like it's my fault dry cleaners keep the kind of schedule they do.

"You have anything I could put on while I wait?"

"I don't think so," I answer honestly. My clothes—even down to my sweatpants and t-shirts—are custom fit to my body. I refuse to tell him that, though. I'd rather he think I'm being a dick than know I have my undershirts tailored. "Are you hungry? I could call for some food."

His sigh is deep and long-suffering. "Fine."

"What do you like?"

"Surprise me."

My stomach flutters. It's anxiety. I've been having enough of it lately to recognize it. "Can I have a hint?"

"Chinese," he says.

"Oh. Perfect. There's a great place…" I trail off and pull up the app on my phone. "What do you want?"

"Beef and broccoli. I don't need rice."

I punch his order into the screen and add an order of chicken lo mein for myself.

"Done," I say, setting the phone back on the counter.

"Good," he says. "We need to talk."

"We do?" I mean, I know we do. I just thought I was going to have to be the one to bring it up.

"Don't fucking argue with me," he grumbles, taking a seat on one of the barstools across the island.

"I wasn't." I snap.

"Look," he says, ignoring me, "I'm in a relationship. I'm going through some shit right now, and I don't really know how much longer I'm even gonna be able to live in this city. I don't like you. You represent literally everything I hate. But you know all that, right?"

My mouth is tense, so I nod.

"However…"

I lift a brow. This should be interesting.

"I slept really well today."

What?

"I had this whole ‘never again' plan because I don't necessarily like what I turn into in this place, but this morning…"

I cock my head. I'm listening.

"I fucking needed that," he finally says.

Wow. His honesty is both raw and refreshing.

"I'm not gay—I'm not looking for anything here, so, if you think I'm trying to get money or something out of you, don't worry. I wouldn't take it if you stuffed it down my throat. But I do like the way you suck my dick. It's better than decent."

I bite my lip. I'm not trying to be coy or anything, it's a muscle memory thing again. The memory of my lips moving up and down a hard cock slick with my spit. "I don't mind doing it."

"And what about…?" One of his hands makes a brief appearance to wave in the general direction of my neck.

I touch the bruises lightly with my fingertips, and his eyes follow the motion. "My favorite part, you mean?"

"You really are a freak, you know?"

"Oh please, like it doesn't get you off, too."

We have a brief glaring match before he finally grates out a single word. "Fine."

It's an admission, and it gets me instantly hard. I'm glad I'm behind the counter.

"You have to promise not to kill me, though," I say.

"I'll read up on it," he says, with a slight quirk of his mouth.

"Legit sources," I insist. "Not like—kinky novels."

He scowls. "Do I look like I read kink?"

"What do you read?" I can't help but ask.

He shrugs. "Self-help mostly."

A short laugh rumbles out of me.

"You should try it sometime," he says, and it's a whole touché moment that shuts me up.

"So, just to clarify," I say, "You're saying we're doing this. We can keep—" What is the word for what we're doing anyway? "Hooking up?"

"For now. As long as we both agree it doesn't mean anything."

Believe me, he and I are both on the same page about that. "Deal," I say.

"So," he says with a new tone signaling a subject change. "You don't wanna have sex with your fiancée, huh?"

My shoulders immediately tense. "I don't wanna talk about her."

"I've got no advice to offer in terms of the mess you've made of your charmed life, but I don't mind slapping you around a little bit to help take the edge off."

I do my best to look annoyed. "I appreciate that."

"As long as you don't slack off with the good head."

I huff. "As if."

After a brief silence, I ask, "What about your girlfriend?"

He gives me a silencing glare. "That's not your problem, Peach. Just do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it, and you'll get what you need."

I ask the only question I'm scared of the answer to. "What if what I need changes?"

He squints at me like he's trying to read the fine print. "Like how? I'm not gonna fuck you if that's what you're asking."

I recoil in pure horror. "Jesus Christ, no."

"Then what?" Drew asks.

"Literally all I meant is that sometimes it might feel good if you like—did the jerking."

"You want me to touch your cock?"

"I sucked yours, didn't I? By force, if I'm remembering ri?—"

"Fine. Maybe. One time."

I can't tell if I'm getting a bad deal here or not. I'm also not quite sure what I'm about to agree to. Am I'm offering to be his sex toy or something?

"Are you even attracted to me?" I ask.

He stares long and hard at me. So long that my cheeks heat, my bowels twist, and my cock thickens. It's awful. "Yeah, I guess. Not as a person, but yeah. You're… attractive. I guess," he says again.

"Does the fact that I have a dick disgust you at all?"

"I'm trying not to think too hard about it," he says. "Why? Does mine disgust you?"

"No," I say in the softest, most submissive voice I've ever heard exit my mouth.

"Then how 'bout you blow me again before the food gets here."

I've never gotten down on my knees so fast in my life.