6. Olivier

It's official. I hate Elodie.

I also hate Trip and Becca and Dom. None of whom will acknowledge my DMs or texts. Leaving me on read, pretending they've never heard of me probably. I'm an outcast, and I'm stuck with this red-lipped lunatic who is still trying to move in with me.

Look, I get she doesn't want to be under lock and key at her parents' house, but that's her problem. Not mine. Not yet.

I refuse to fold her into my life until the last possible second, which, I'm still hoping my parents will reconsider. It's not like any of the times they grounded me ever lasted for the whole week. I just have to be the angel they remember from my childhood. Their perfect little boy. The one who was impossible to stay angry with.

But our daily brunches have been suspended. Maybe they just need a minute to cool off.

The problem with Elodie is that she seems to be buying into the lie. Part of what we do to make our interest in each other known is we go out and have dinner and drinks in public. She talks, and I listen, and my job is to sit there and look charmed, adoring maybe. I'm not sure she doesn't realize the expressions on my face are for literally everyone but her.

She's all in, and I can't help but wonder if maybe this is why she's been throwing herself at every available man on the Upper East Side since high school—she wants to be married. She wants the family merger—the wealth and the security. Maybe she's been out here looking for "the one" all along.

But it's not me.

I mean, I like my women slutty and everything, but some of the shit Elodie hints at in hushed tones over cocktails makes my hair stand on end. Golden showers are one thing, but toe sucking? Armpit licking? Strap-ons? Nope. No thank you. She's a full-on fetish fest, and I'm just a dude who likes to fuck.

And be choked apparently.

No. Nope. I am not thinking about that again.

Waking up in a jail cell is a low point, but jerking off in front of one's doorman while coked out of my mind is a rung somehow far below rock bottom.

The cocaine has now left the building. I would have sold it to Trip, but oh well. His loss. It went to the sewers instead.

Drew hasn't opened the door for me, punched an elevator button, or so much as met my eyes for four nights now.

Not that I blame him. I doubt he wants to see the lingering bruises on my neck that I don't even bother hiding when I'm coming and going from the building. I wear a scarf once I'm outside and find myself slightly disappointed each morning that I can see the marks he left less and less.

I wouldn't go so far as to say we shared a moment or anything—it definitely wasn't that—but it was different and surprisingly erotic. I've never been overpowered before. I've never been helpless before. I've never had my life in anyone else's hands before. He really could have killed me, and there was something about that edge I found thrilling in a way that both terrified and excited me.

There's something there. Something I'm curious to explore. I can't say for sure whether it's sexual or not, though most things that interest me are. It's more likely I'm bored, but he really fucking hated me. Like—what was that about? Was I right about him being from Cleveland? Is being from Cleveland really that bad?

"Ollie—you're not listening again," Elodie snaps.

"I am. June bride. Oscar de la Renta gown. Honeymoon in Fiji. Noted. All. Fucking. Noted."

"You have to at least be excited about Fiji. I bet you get freckles, don't you?"

I glare at her but fix my face immediately.

"Do you have any freckles on your ass?" she asks. And then with a wink adds, "I could lick and see."

I laugh the fakest laugh. "No fucking way."

"If you don't fuck me by the end of the week, Ollie, I'm telling my dad."

"And what?"

"Daddy wants me happy. You don't want him backing out of the deal, do you?"

"The deal didn't involve that."

She lays both palms on the white tablecloth and takes a steadying breath. "I. Have. Needs."

Fuck my life.

"Fine," I say.

"Tonight?"

"No," I say quickly, perhaps a bit harshly. "Next Saturday."

She gasps. "What?"

"It's called a compromise, dear. This week's not good for me."

"What am I supposed to do in the meantime?"

"Whatever you've been doing."

She pouts, a cute frown on her face as she stares down at her plate.

I feel compelled to add to my "compromise." "And look, it's just gonna be sex. I'll make you come, but that's it."

"Ollie…"

"That's it," I say more firmly.

She makes an exasperated noise. "Fine. But it better be epic."

I get a notification on my phone and make sure it's what I expect.

Details of your FedEx delivery. Package accepted by D. Riley.

I grin at the phone. Excellent.

Funny he doesn't mentionit.

I let it go at first, at least until the elevator doors open.

"Jack?" I call around the corner to my brooding doorman.

He doesn't say a word.

"If you won't give it to me now, you'll just have to bring it up in the morning."

Still nothing.

I grimace and force myself not to say more. I'm both disappointed and annoyed, but I get on the elevator before I have to wait another awkward five minutes for it to open again. Once upstairs, I'm restless. Confused, even. I watch some very basic porn to get some of Elodie's fetishes out of my head. I jerk off to it, but my orgasm is anemic at best. Honestly, I haven't had a good orgasm since the choking incident. They've all been like this. Hard-fought and disappointing, barely taking the edge off my near-constant agitation.

It's probably because I quit snorting coke. Cocaine makes me horny as hell, and everything feels better when I'm high. There's probably a whole process my body has to go through to get used to living without it. Which, whatever. It's not like I have anything to look forward to except fucking my future fiancée, but if cocaine's out of the picture, I might have to pop a Viagra to get it up for her.

I fall asleep naked on the couch and wake up around dawn with porn still streaming on the television. The one playing is girl on girl, and it perks up my dick. But the knock on the door has me instantly rigid.

He came.

Hmm…

I can't use the scissor excuse again to get him inside. It barely worked the last time. But maybe answering the door with a boner will be enough to piss him off.

"Jack," I say, revealing myself in all my morning glory. "You shouldn't have."

His handsome face twists into a grimace, a sneer on his lips. He's…attractive, I guess? I don't know. What makes a man attractive anyway? He's wearing his uniform which is kind of ridiculous to be honest, even if it fits him well. A polo shirt with a jacket and tie? I mean—come on.

Feminine moans erupt from the sound system, along with a high-pitched refrain of "Oh my god, I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come…"

I grin, wrapping my hand around my cock and giving it a long, slow stroke. "Can you put that on the table? My hands are full."

His jaw twitches, and it's kinda sexy, I guess. Kinda what I wish I looked like when my jaw twitches.

He shoves past me, and I mean shoves so hard, he knocks me against the foyer wall and storms to the dining table opposite the living room. He slams the FedEx package down and turns on his heel to glare at me. "Will there be anything else this morning?"

He's now facing me and the porn, but his gaze hasn't drifted from my face. I've still got a hand on my dick, leisurely stroking it to the mewling sounds of a woman coming. My balls thump. Why is this so hot? "Not unless you want to open the box for me."

He's not moving. He's spoiling for something.

I keep my eyes on him, like I can keep him here with my stare.

"You've got a lot of fucking nerve, kid."

I let a slow grin bend half my mouth. "Where's yours? You like delivering my packages by hand like you're my house boy?"

His bright blue eyes go glacial. "Watch yourself."

"Or what?" I ask.

There's a pause long enough to make his next words feel intensely meaningful.

"You know what."

My breath quickens. The artery on the right side of his neck catches the sunlight glinting through the windows, and it's bounding. He wants another fight—I can feel it. I shouldn't want that. He nearly gave me a concussion Sunday morning, and yet, I'm too curious to know whether the outcome of another thrashing will be the same without cocaine. I don't know what's happening here, but I do know it's not boring.

"Open it," I challenge him, nodding to the package as one porn ends and another begins. A cacophony of fucking sounds signaling an intro sequence fills the room, adding another layer of filth.

"Take your hand off your cock and open it yourself, you lazy, spoiled fuck."

"Ooo…ouch. That stings, Jack. It makes you almost sound…jealous?"

He stalks toward me, shoving up his jacket sleeves. He ignores my jerking hand, the porn, everything but my eyes. I raise my gaze to meet the barely contained rage in his.

"I wanna fucking hurt you," he growls.

"Why?" I ask softly.

"Because you're begging for it, rich boy."

"I'm just enjoying myself in the privacy of my own home, Jack."

He cocks his head slightly. "What's my name again?"

"Jack. Doorman. Blue-collar bitch," I breathe.

That does it.

His hand wraps around my throat and squeezes, knocking my head against the wall hard enough to make me see stars.

With the hand that's not on my cock, I dig my nails into his straining, tattooed forearm, shocked at how hard and unyielding it is. So I scrape. Viciously enough to draw blood and leave some marks of my own.

"Get off me," I rasp, not meaning it. In fact, I find myself wanting him to hurt me worse.

"Make me."

I pull up my knee, intending a strike to his balls, but he backs away just in time, and I connect with his gut instead. He closes in on me, chest pressed to mine, yanking my head off the wall only to slam it back again, the pressure on my throat doubling. Yes.

Dizziness fogs my brain, and I lose my balance before I scramble to get my leg planted beneath me again. One thing I don't falter on—one thing I refuse to lose a grip on—is my dick.

It's a burning, leaking spike while everything else around me goes fuzzy. The need to come vibrates my cells.

"Stop fucking touching yourself," he growls. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Can't stop, won't stop… This is better than cocaine. Way, way better. He's right. I am fucked up.

He slaps me—a white-hot crack across my face. My cheek lights up with heat, my head lolls, and a noise erupts from my throat that doesn't sound human. I'm not even sure it was me—it sounded more like a dying animal. Precum spurts from my tip, dribbling over my hand, and I lose my hearing. I'm about to fucking pass out.

Oh fuck, I need to come, I need to come…

He shouts—the sound of pure, frustrated rage. His palm connects with my face again, but suddenly air rushes into my lungs, and a surge of adrenaline shakes me to my fucking core—and I come.

"Ffffuuuckkk…oooohhhh…fffuuuuckk…"

I slide down the wall as my dick explodes with cum. I jerk myself with increasing speed making the orgasm feels endless—like a fucking resurrection. I'm born again. I'm flying.

I'm coming so hard it burns.

I'm still working through it, still milking my cock and riding the rough waves of it when he takes me by the chin and turns my face. Bending down, he spits on me again, but this time, it doesn't land on my nose and cheek. It lands on my parted lips, and I suck them into my mouth, groaning with the sensation of being alive. I'm a fucking survivor.

I taste him on my tongue. Wintergreen and something darker. All my senses are heightened, allowing me to feel the indentation of his fingerprints on my jaw, hear the air whooshing in and out of his lungs.

"Not so perfect now, are you, sir?" His lips are so close to my ear, his words vibrate my skull.

He shoves my face aside. The slam of the door startles me, and I stare down at myself, splotchy, blue hands and feet, cum-drenched crotch. My dick is still hard and bright red.

It's possible I've been too judgmental about Elodie's…preferences.

I lie down on my side and shut my eyes, the cool marble floor a balm to everything Drew set on fire. The next thing I know, it's dark again.