He never texted her back.
Not for three days.
No thank you. No offer. No follow-up. Just silence.
Cleo tried to move on. She told herself it was just a gig. A one-night performance where she got paid to shut her mouth and open her body. She tried to pretend she didn’t wake up every morning aching between her thighs, her mouth tingling with the memory of his c**k, her chest tightening at the thought of his voice commanding her to crawl. She deleted the call log twice. Uninstalled the texting app. But on the fourth day, a new message appeared.
Come. Now. 8th and Bedford. Top floor. No clothes.
No name. No greeting. No question mark.
She didn’t even hesitate.
She stripped in her apartment and put on the long trench coat she hadn’t worn since college. Nothing underneath. No heels. No ma
