Page 11 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

By the time Alana returns home, her arms sag from the plethora of bags she’s accumulated over the course of several hours. Her walk has a little more sway, and there’s an eagerness to her stride as she bounces up the steps leading to her apartment. She likes this; the way her heart flutters and her stomach churns. It’s exhilarating, almost. Like standing at the edge of a cliff, watching waves crash against the bay. The water is deep and dark and cold, but even then, Alana knows she wants to take that leap.

When she steps inside, shimmying through the narrow doorway with her bags, Alana kicks the door shut behind her and promptly falls into her ever-welcoming couch. Her smile hasn’t left, permanently etched as she thinks about what’s to come within the next few days. For years, there’s been this self-imposed limitation that she’s never quite been able to escape. It shackled her, weighed her down in ways she hadn’t realized until now.

Sex is supposed to be fun. A gateway into exploration and learning about the very thing that makes her, and so many like her, human. Or, at least she thought. But somewhere along the line, it became something more—a task she couldn’t mark off unless it were perfect.

It’s hard not to let the resentment curl around her heart for why that is.

Nana.

Her father had grown up with the far more abrasive parts of her. So much so, that by the time he was an adult, he’d decided he didn’t want to involve himself in her religious teachings. And while her Mom was a spiritual-leaning woman, she was adamant about allowing Alana to explore and discover what she wanted to do on her own, rather than forcing her into any predestined box.

But Nana? That was a different story. Her visitations included church every Sunday and stories of faith wherever she could sneak them in when her parents weren’t looking. Alana can still picture the disgust and recoil on her grandmother’s features whenever sex became a topic of conversation. She can’t recall how old she was when she first started talking about it, but she remembers Nana pulling her aside with that look in her eyes that made her wonder if she’d said something wrong.

She put her hands on Alana’s shoulders, her powdery perfume wafting from her ironed-out church dress, and told her that sex was something sacred. Something that morally correct girls waited to do until they were married and in love and ready to multiply the earth, or however the hells that scripture went. She remembers those words so vividly, and the piercing, cold twist of her insides that came with them. Their jagged edges had cut Alana in ways she hadn’t realized, leaving behind a deep-rooted wound that’s been left open to bleed out ever since. Because Nana’s pride had been her everything.

But nothing in life comes for free, and unconditional love is never truly unconditional with some people.

There were terms and conditions when it came to keeping under her good graces, and Alana had been so painfully deter‐mined to remain on the pedestal Nana had built for her. Who was Alana Darling, if not a source of her grandmother’s pride and accomplishments? The treasured first-born granddaughter.

The hard worker.

The honor student.

The good girl.

With age came maturity, and as she grew older, Alana quickly realized that her grandmother’s religion wasn’t her own. The expectations she held for herself loosened in some areas, but sex had always remained stigmatized despite her best efforts. She had decided years ago that she wasn’t going to wait until marriage to explore her sexuality, but there was an expectation that sex, at least the first time she had it, needed to be something special. Something that would end in a happily ever after so that she could say it was all worth it. Because she had to make it worth it. If she didn’t, she would spend the rest of her life regretting the decision.

Then, her grandmother would be proven right. And all her cold, hardened disappointment would be for nothing.

She would be nothing.

Alana takes a breath, allowing air to fill her lungs until it becomes uncomfortable, then releases a slow exhale. She’s letting all that go now. The lingerie, the sexy dress, it isn’t just for her hookup. It’s for her. For the girl who wasted years waiting for the perfect love story that has yet to knock on her door, and for the woman she’s become.

The woman who’s no longer willing to hold herself back from what she wants.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ALANA

The days leading up to the weekend go by in the blink of an eye. Before Alana realizes it, it’s Saturday, and the buzz of anticipation that’s been dancing beneath the surface of her skin all week has manifested in the form of sweaty palms and a hopelessly distracted mind.

“Shit,” she mutters. Where’s her phone? Did she have her keys? Was she supposed to bring her own condoms?

She rummages through her purse a few extra times just to triple-check that its contents didn’t mysteriously disappear since she last looked just five minutes ago. She may be a lot of things, but under prepared will not be one of them. In fact, over the course of the last few days, she’s done nothing but prepare herself. She managed a few more rounds of practice on her toy; she’s been trimmed and plucked. She even got everything set up for the entire weekend, in terms of stock and online orders, to ensure her crew’s good to go. Meanwhile, Citlalli has been put in charge and knows not to call her unless it’s an absolute emergency, even though she prays there won’t be any. It’s hard to imagine the shop can’t go at least a couple of days without burning down in her absence.

Taking a deep breath, Alana glances down at her phone: 4:45 pm. Those numbers sit like an anchor on her chest, a weighted reminder of what’s waiting for her in less than half an hour.

She’s getting fucked tonight.

Something electric thrums inside her, a live current that travels down every nerve before bouncing back to her heart. It beats so rapidly that Alana half-wonders if it’ll go bursting through her chest like something out of an Alien movie—all blood and sinew and cracking ribs. Something about that situation seems less terrifying than this, somehow. And, gods, that feels so pathetic to say. Had she really lived such a boring, derivative life that planned sex felt so daunting?

Alana takes another breath then tucks her phone into her purse. She holds it close as she makes her way over to the bathroom to give herself a quick once-over in the mirror, checking her makeup and admiring her perfectly sculpted edges. Lilith had helped her settle on a dress for the evening: a caramel colored linen ensemble with a sweetheart neckline that flared out slightly at her hips. She looks, well, really fucking good. More importantly, she feels it. Pleased by what she sees, she smiles at her reflection and dusts the nothing off from her clothes before returning to the bakery floor.

“Okay, Citlalli. How do I look?”

Alana waits for her shifter friend to turn her attention from the register before doing a little spin.

Citlalli’s face lights up with a feline look of intrigue, eyes dilated, pointed ears twitching. “Damn. You look good enough to eat. Fuck whoever you’re seeing tonight. I cook and clean; give me a chance.”