Page 20 of State of Ruin

Give me your mouth. Those kisses. I was not expecting kisses, but those were beyond. Crazy, desperate, ravenous kisses, like he was fucking me at both ends. Like he couldn’t get enough. My second orgasm, slamming into me as if he’d blown up my fucking womb.

And then: On your elbows. Thrusting into me. Taking everything he wanted, everything he’d paid for—inside my body.

Every time I replay a new moment, I think it’s my favorite.

Afterward was… interesting, too. He seemed as wrung out as I was. After he’d finished coming, he bundled me up against him again and we staggered backward to the bed like we were drunk. (I suppose we were.) He kind of collapsed onto the edge of the bed, which is when he slipped out of me and pulled me so I was sitting sideways on him, my arms around his neck. He found my mouth and started kissing me again, slower and more decadent than before, as he wrapped his arms around me so tightly that I couldn’t move. It wasn’t a cuddle, obviously—more of a mutual comedown. A what in the holy hell was that.

But it was hot. And… a welcome surprise, I guess? I wouldn’t have put it past a guy like that to pull out and leave me hanging there, even if I’m aware of Alchemy’s strict etiquette around aftercare. I definitely needed some form of human connection after a vulnerability shitshow like that.

My alarm goes off.

Whew. I need to press pause on reliving my own private porno and get a serious grip on this day. I turn off the alarm and throw back my covers, wincing as I sit on my poor, abused pussy. In the dim light, I look over at my sister, who’s stirring. I wish I could tell her—about the great sex. About the money. All of it. I can’t, obviously. But what I can do is discreetly pay off ten grand’s worth of outstanding bills later and hope she doesn’t notice for now.

I smile at her as I get to my feet, feeling like an arthritic (if horny) old lady. “Good morning, my love. Do you need to go to the bathroom?”

“You’re glowing,” my agent Olivia says as I pose for her on the High Line. The sun is hazy, giving us a good light without too many harsh shadows. Or so I hope.

I make a come on face. “Yeah, right.” In hindsight, it was stupid to schedule my night with Voss before an important day like today. Really stupid. My only defense was that the money from him was a given, and the chances of today amounting to anything are tiny. Even so, I’m surprised I don’t have burst blood vessels all over my face.

“No, seriously. You look totally luminous. It’s disgusting.” Olivia is as stylish as you’d imagine a model agent to be—think effortless chic in khaki coveralls and sky-high heels—while also being a decent human. She works hard, she expects the same from the girls on her books, and she’s a hustler. She doesn’t take no for an answer and she never sits around waiting for the phone to ring.

I laugh, and she stalks toward me, digital camera held up. “Just like that. No, let the breeze blow your hair. Keep smiling, and look over to your right. Stay like that, but in motion. Now look back toward me. So gorgeous, honey.”

The usual first step when a new job comes in is for the agent to send the client our portfolios, but apparently this client has requested close-up video footage, too.

“You sure you can’t tell me anything?” I ask, dropping the smile and adopting a more neutral expression as I do my thing. I turn slowly toward Olivia and let my lips part as I stare into the lens of her camera. I’m makeup free, nothing but a fresh application of SPF on my face.

“Oh my gosh, so beautiful. Girl. Those eyes.”

I wait until she stops filming.

She sighs. “Big U.S. house, new skincare line for them. Clean-girl look with a timeless French vibe, yada, yada, and they want a new face. A total unknown. Can’t tell you more than that. And honestly, you’d be perfect.” She lays a hand on my arm, and I look down at the pretty, super-fine gold bands on her fingers and thumbs twinkling in the sunlight. “I haven’t told you this, but you’re the only girl I’ve put forward. Once I saw the brief, I knew it was you or nobody. I mean, come on. French? It’s made for you.”

I give her a huge smile. I can’t help it. That’s incredible. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah. Well, now you do.” She winks. “There are a few more hoops to jump through. They want the short list to do a test shoot in house. You know the score. But the creative director is a gal pal of mine. She’s fabulous, and I know her taste inside out. I’m telling you, you’d be perfect. And this”—she shakes her phone at me—“is gorgeous. Gorgeous. If we pulled this off, it would be a career-making contract for you. No more catalogues.”

I laugh a little at that. I won’t let myself believe her, won’t let myself sip whatever Kool-Aid she’s on just yet. Because probabilities are probabilities, no matter how infectious her excitement is. And I can only hope the “big U.S. house” she referred to isn’t Sinclair’s family business, Voss. That would be a little too close for comfort.

Still, a week ago, I didn’t think I’d be ten grand less in debt and dealing with the very high-quality problem of a banged-up pussy.

Maybe, just maybe, my luck is changing.

For the first couple hours of my Alchemy shift, I’m jumpy as hell. I have no idea if Sinclair Voss will stop by tonight and no reason to think he will. What did Pixie say last week—that she hadn’t seen much of him lately? Well, I saw a whole lot of him last night, and I shouldn’t expect lightning to strike twice. Besides, his parting words last night, after he’d zipped himself up and laid me back against the pillows like a zombie, were I’ll see you. Not I’ll see you tomorrow.

If someone were to ask me if I even want to see him tonight, then I honestly wouldn’t know the answer. I have no clue if I do or don’t want to lay eyes on him after what went down. I think what I want is clarity? I would like to know for sure whether or not he’s stopping by, and ideally when, so I can either relax or psych myself up. I’m on tenterhooks here, and I hate it. I’m generally not the coolest person when it comes to seeing guys after I’ve slept with them, and I definitely have no game in the big leagues.

How the heck are you supposed to come face to face with a guy like him after sex like that? I was fine playing it cool when he was just another hot, rich guy hitting on me across the bar. No, Mr. Voss, I never go upstairs.

Yeah, not sure that line will work for me anymore.

A gaggle of women comes to the bar—all sleek Manhattanites with perfect blowouts and expensive dresses and even more expensive faces. It sounds bitchy, but it’s true. No shade on them, but they weren’t born with those faces, nor did they grow into them. They’re undeniably beautiful, yet every feature is intentional.

Pixie explained to me when I started here that the female members fall into two main groups: the professional women who work hard and come here looking for extreme and efficient forms of stress relief—which makes total sense—and the socialites. I’ve gotten pretty good at identifying who falls in which category, and it holds equally well for the guys, too: they’re mostly crazy successful in the business world or spending the hell out of a trust fund. Or both, if you’re Sinclair Voss or Felix Wolff or any of their buddies.

I study my current customers discreetly as I open a fresh bottle of Dom Perignon and pour them each a glass. There’s no way any of them spent the day on Wall Street. Do these glossy women, who seem terrified of breaking a nail or getting a hair out of place, all put out like I did? Do they relish having men strapping them to medieval torture devices and fucking the living daylights out of them? Or do they just pretend to enjoy it in the hope that it’s a means to a more official type of relationship? I must ask Pixie when she gets back from her break.

Alchemy is an effective and exclusive way to access the hottest, richest, most debauched men on this island, that’s for sure, but I can’t imagine many of the guys are here to score a wife.