Page 34 of Trailer Trash

Harlow and I watch a documentary. I hate documentaries. I lied. Big surprise.

But she gets comfortable and settles into the couch. Her short legs curl beneath her, those round hips begging to be spanked.

I want to touch her. I want to trace my fingertip along her soft curves and—

“What?” she says, having caught me staring.

I grab the bowl of popcorn and shrug, forcing myself to look at the television.

“Nothing,” I murmur.

She doesn’t call out my bullshit.

This is a good job for her, anyway. Watch TV. Follow me around. Pretend I’m dangerous when she’s sitting there with an ass like that.

“Why are you staring at me?” she huffs.

Ah, fuck. I did it again. Hell with it.

“How come you don’t do Onlyfans with a shelf like that?”

She blinks several times. “You mean my ass?”

“Yeah. I have a friend. Meghan. She became a millionaire camming. You should see her house. I was shocked she went from poor to filthy rich just for getting railed online.”

“Oh my God, Killian. Did you ever think I have self-respect?”

“That’s harsh. Judging sex workers like that.”

She balks and sits up. “No! I mean! If that’s what they want to do, it’s fine. I’m not judging women for—”

I laugh, pleased I made her squirm so bad. I pull out my phone to bring up a video. “I’ve done porn. Once with Meghan and her friend. Wanna see it?”

“Ew! No!” she practically shouts.

I cock my head. Lightly, I graze my thumb over the stitches. “I get I have a scars, but I’m not that disgusting. What’s your deal?”

“I don’t...” she stammers, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t want to see you fucking other women.”

“Jealous?”

“What? No! I just...” She sighs heavily. “Listen, I think that sex is special, okay? People should love each other if they sleep together. I’m sorry if that makes me judgemental.”

Oh, no.

She’s a goddamn romantic.

“I only cammed once,” I grumble.

I don’t know how to separate her from this idea that I’m just a screwed-up patient. She takes it too seriously. She follows me into the kitchen every time I refill my drink. When I change into comfortable clothes, she’s in my shadow.

Although, she turns away right as I drop my pants. I wish she wouldn’t. I want her to see me. No, I want her to want to see me.

“Go to sleep,” she says at three in the morning. “You look tired.”

I am.

My face hurts, I’m not myself without cocaine, and watching what she likes would put anyone to sleep.