Thirteen

CORA

I look away from Everett and face the mirror. He appears behind me, keeping his distance and hugging the wall. Our eyes meet in the reflection.

“Oh, look at that,” I comment. “You do have a reflection. I owe Valeria fifty dollars.”

“I usually don’t, but the dark energy radiating out of the empty space where your heart should be is fueling me.” Everett moves forward and puts his hands on the sink, bracketing me. “Panties off, princess.”

His expensive cologne wraps itself around me, and the warmth from his big body emanates across the sparse inches separating us. My skin prickles under my sweater. I glare at him.

This guy is so gorgeous that it borders on evil.

Even underneath the harsh overhead lights of a coffee shop bathroom, he looks like he was born to be the most powerful man in the world. Maybe he was. Maybe he will be. He leans down, head canted, inimitable gaze locked on mine. A lock of his hair tumbles over his forehead, and he doesn’t release his grip on the sink to fix it. He inhales, nose close to my ear, and when he speaks, his breath grazes my skin. “Panties off.”

Unhurried, I put my hands under my short skirt, watching for reactions. His eyes don’t leave mine, but his hand flexes in my periphery, tightening on the porcelain. His breaths have picked up, and when I lift the hem, Everett groans like he’s been suffocating the sound for months.

I tug my panties down until they’re a heap of barely-there lace around my ankles. “There you go,” I murmur, lifting my chin. “If you want them so badly, go get them.”

For the first time today, he hesitates. It’s the same hesitation he showed in my kitchen—disbelief that anyone would ask the pride of the Logan family to take a knee.

He stares at me in the mirror. I wait.

After a beat, his hand shifts on the sink. It’s slight. The motion would be almost imperceptible if his thumb didn’t graze my pinky.

“Go get them, Everett,” I whisper, moving my pinky over and touching his skin. “Unless you don’t want them as badly as you say.”

The upturned corner of his lips is the only warning I get before he whispers, “You have no idea how badly I want it.”

It. Not them, the panties, but it —my pussy.

Slowly, he releases the sink and lowers until I’m alone in the mirror with a man at my feet.

And just like that, Everett Logan is on a knee on a bathroom floor, wrapping his hand around my ankle to raise my foot. Right first, then left. “Your legs are amazing,” he whispers, dragging his fingers—no, my panties—up the back of my calf before he says, “I’m sorry.”

Confused, I crane over my shoulder to look at him.

“This is what you meant in your kitchen. Begging on my knees.” He looks up at me, gaze earnest. “I’m sorry. I’m so unbelievably sorry.”

He looks so good down there, and I find myself saying, “Thank you, Everett.”

Moments later, he stands and towers over me again, tall and refined—and holding my panties. His hand is raised, dangling them from the tip of his middle finger, and his chest presses against my back. “Look at you,” he whispers, connecting our gazes in the mirror’s reflection and lowering my panties until the lace skims my shoulder. “Look at your body , princess.”

I nod—and it’s so unlike me to just nod, but I don’t know what to say.

Not only did Everett Logan ask for forgiveness on one knee, but he just complimented me— again .

He moves in once more, wicked mouth back by my ear. “Talented,” he continues. “You were made for this shit, weren’t you?”

“Camming?”

“Camming,” he agrees. “Teasing. Stripping. All of it. You’re intelligent. You have a way with words. But my god you’re good at fucking yourself like a...” When he trails off, we both know exactly what word should come next.

A whore .

He can do it. I want him to do it. Beyond my degradation kink, I’ve always loved how those vile words beg for complexity—the complexity of self-empowerment, of having rejected all convention to make money off my body. A whore. A slut. Those words can’t hurt me; they’re a part of me. I don’t hide who I am anymore.

Three years ago, I made a choice to become a sex worker. I own that choice. I love that choice.

Everett needs to prove he can love it too, and I think he could. Maybe he, of all people, could be what I’ve been waiting for.

“I’m good at fucking myself like a whore,” I fill in, emphasizing the words. “Good at showing off my pussy for money.”

When Everett doesn’t immediately respond, I rotate and face him.

“Say it,” I order. “Pick up where you left off last night. Give me what I need, Everett.”

“You’re good at fucking yourself like a whore,” Everett parrots without hesitation this time. “Not just good but exceptional.”

My body reacts immediately, aching to feel his hands on me. I bite my lower lip, doing everything I can to hold back, but the words are sinful on his elegant lips. “Keep going. Tell me you’re comfortable knowing countless men have paid me, and so many more will.”

“Why do you think,” he begins, putting his face near mine, “that I give a shit about anyone else? I know I’m the only one you want.”

“You’re delusional.”

“I’m the only person you’d let kiss you right now.” His eyes zero in on my mouth, bright with hunger. “I’d barely have to move. You’d take it.” He shifts forward. “Tell me to stop.”

“Stop,” I order, placing my hand on his chest.

He wasn’t expecting it, I can tell, but the corner of his mouth rises. “Just a kiss, princess. Give me a taste.”

“You know what you have to do.” I press harder against his chest. “Be a good boy. I know your version of good is most people’s definition of an apocalypse, but try.”

Everett wets his lips while still focusing on mine. “Do you want me to tell you how much I like what you do? How I’m damn near feral knowing what you’ll do for money?”

“Only if it’s the truth.”

Everett exhales slowly and his eyes rise until they meet mine. He whispers, “I love it,” while pressing his tongue against his top teeth, enunciating the L in love . “I loved watching you control all those men who wanted to shove their pathetic cocks into your dripping pussy. I loved how their tips made you smile. I love how you spread your wet cunt, teasing them with what they can’t have—what they can’t afford .”

Everett’s hand rests on my hip and I find myself leaning into his firm touch.

“I could afford it. Any price you name, I’ll pay. Let me buy you. Let me fuck my fat cock into you on a bed covered in cash. Let me make you my spoiled little whore.” He moves his hand from my hip to my ass and groans when he grips my cheek. “It’s so damn tight . This body makes you money, doesn’t it?”

“So much.”

He grins and squeezes my ass with his entire hand now. “Tell me what to do.”

I run my hand through his hair. It’s soft and thick, and I like when it’s messy against his forehead like this. I take a step away, breaking his grip. “Put them in your mouth.”

His eyebrow shoots up. “My mouth.”

I nod. “Good boys get rewards. Put my panties in your mouth, and I’ll give you something in return.”

He’s going to say no. He’s definitely going to say no. Kneeling is one thing, but putting my used thong in his mouth is different. I bet the tackiest thing Everett has ever put in his mouth is—

“I told you how bad I want it,” he replies before he works my underwear between his lips.

Holy shit.

His green eyes are blazing, and I bet he would be smiling if he didn’t have a mouthful of lace. When he takes a step closer, I know what he wants: the reward I promised—the reward he earned.

He lifts me onto the sink, and I let him—I even part my thighs for him.

This time, Everett groans so loudly that I can feel the vibrations in my own throat.

With my legs spread, he has a clear view of my pussy and its four piercings: one on my hood, one on each of my inner labia, and a fourchette at my entrance.

The seconds that pass under his gaze are the heaviest I’ve experienced in a long time, and I’ve never wanted to understand Everett more. I want to know what he thinks of it. I want to know if the other pussies he’s seen were delicate and pink, instead of pierced and brown like mine. I want to know if delicate and pink is what he likes—what he prefers.

He answers all those questions when his fingertips rise and go straight to my fourchette. His middle finger grazes the curved barbell piercing reverently, tracing the jewelry end to end, barely touching my skin. He moves to one of the small hoops in my inner labia next.

And one by one, he touches all four of my piercings, careful to only make contact with the metal. He’s silent, mouth stuffed with my panties, but he keeps glancing at me, eyes crinkled at the corners.

I hate how much his approval satisfies me, but at the same time, I want to show him more of me. Bet he’d like it.

Validation is my crutch, but she’s also my mistress.

I grab Everett’s wrist and press his entire palm against my pussy. The first contact between his skin and my arousal is invigorating, like a sudden burst of oxygen after swimming underwater. I gasp when he works his middle finger into me like he knew I was wet and ready.

He adds his ring finger, and his pace becomes deliberate. Forceful. His fingers are divine and unexpected—although I should have seen it coming. Everett is precise. He’s methodical. He knows exactly how to hook his two—wait, three —thick fingers inside me to make my eyes water, and when a moan spills over my lips, I realize I’m going to come fast.

His fingers pump, squelching crudely, and I gasp when his thumb moves to my clit. As if he researched how to use it, he presses his thumb right below my piercing, and all the dignity in my body resigns without notice.

“Everett,” I urge shamelessly. “Like that. Like that. Where the fuck did you come from? ”

He can’t speak, but his eyes meet mine and even his gaze is too cocky.

“You’re so annoying,” I blurt out.

My words make him push on my sensitive clit, and the surge of pleasure makes my back arch. I grip the sink, reveling in the imminent rise of my climax—

Right then, someone jiggles the doorknob.

Tension washes over me like one of those unexpected DC rainfalls, speckling my skin, heightening the absurdity of what we’re doing. I’m thrumming—both from his touch and the threat of being caught. It collides and builds into a storm of overwhelming pleasure, and I part my lips. I moan, I cry out—

—and Everett clasps his hand over my mouth, shutting me up as my orgasm washes over me.

The scale of the pleasure hits me out of nowhere in a swell of tingles rushing through my limbs. It sweeps me up like a riptide. He’s pushing on my g-spot, fingers hooked, and I knew it before: I am so utterly fucked. So much of his hand is already nestled in my pussy, and I want more—I want everything—but this is a start.

This is such a good start.

My comedown is blurry until Everett takes his fingers out. The sudden absence of him—and the unprecedented longing I experience—might be the most surprising part of this entire tryst until he bends down.

He kisses the spot on my naked hip where I stowed his tip last night.

And then Everett takes a step back. I don’t bother covering myself. He can look. He can look all he wants.

His eyes rake over my sprawled body, my spread legs, and my wet pussy. It takes me a moment too long to realize he’s not just admiring me, but his handiwork too: My pussy looks well and truly used—swollen and glistening—and he didn’t even put his cock in me.

What the fuck.

Finally, he tugs my panties out of his mouth and tucks them into his pants pocket before he moves in to kiss me.

I stop his face an inch from mine. “I can’t,” I lament, layering a sigh under my words. “This was a mistake.”

Confused at first, Everett pulls back and the look passing over his face is devastated—until I grin.

“Eat me, Flores,” he replies, grinning back. Before I can retort, he reaches into his pocket for his wallet. He takes out one, two, three, four of the crispest hundred dollar bills I’ve ever seen and raises the hem of my sweater to tuck them into the band of my skirt.

“Your tip for being such a good whore for me,” he explains before he wets his lips with his tongue, and asks, “Are you going to let me fuck you now?”

“Not a chance,” I reply before I hop off the sink, brush past Everett, and go to the door.

And as I head back into the café—down a pair of panties and four hundred dollars richer—I’m nursing a profound realization: After performing for thousands of men, I may have finally met my match in that motherfucker who insulted me in a bar seven months ago.

And I don’t totally hate it.