Page 23 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

No answer.

Alana’s brows furrow together, and she glances around in search of her clothes, which seem to have disappeared. She could have sworn her dress got tossed by the door. As she searches for them, the sight of a card on the nightstand catches her eye. Small and white, with her name written on it.

Figured you earned yourself some time to sleep in. Get comfy and meet me in the kitchen when you’re up. – Cy

Beneath the note, there’s a t-shirt and a pair of pajama shorts, each folded neatly on top of the other. With a shake of her head, Alana chuckles and brings the shirt to her nose. It must have been pulled fresh from the dryer. Still warm, with a lingering scent of fabric softener and something so distinctively Cyrus. Nakita’s and Lilith’s warning about being insatiable comes to mind. Just a whiff of Cyrus’ clothes has heat settling between her legs and heart beating faster? Gods.

The feeling is better than the twist of trepidation thinking about Nana causes, though. So, she holds onto it. Falling from her grandmother’s good graces is a future Alana problem.

She slips into the bathroom and changes into the borrowed clothes. The shorts fit fine, but the shirt swims on her; it slips down one shoulder, and the hem falls mid-thigh. Alana soaks in the sense of giddiness her reflection brings. A special kind of gusto induced solely by good dick. Claw marks claim different areas of her body, and her makeup is trashed; dried tears and streaks of mascara stain her cheeks, and her lipstick has been kissed off from hells and back, smeared across the side of her face. It’s the look of someone who’s been fucked within an inch of their life.

Alana smirks. I wear it well.

She snaps a selfie and sends it to her girls before promptly muting them. As the seconds pass, she swears she can hear their screams from miles away, but doesn’t check their responses yet. They’ll see her soon enough.

When she opens the bedroom door, the smell of something rich and smoky makes Alana’s stomach twist with greed. She stifles a groan, practically drooling as she follows the aroma with quiet steps. Cyrus is hovering over the stove with his back turned to her. His hips sway to the slow drone of country music flowing from the record player. He’s shirtless, because of course he is. The muscles along his shoulders ripple with every move, but what’s even more appealing are the sunspots and moles decorating the entirety of his back. They’re pretty, Alana thinks. It takes everything to resist walking over and tracing them with her fingers, see where they all lead.

“Um, morning,” Alana greets, making her presence known. A mistake, really. Because when Cyrus turns around, she’s met with a sight that nearly renders her stupid. Cyrus, bare-chested, with a thick happy trail that disappears into his grey sweatpants which leave very little to the imagination.

Call her easily impressed, but there’s something about a man in sweats that makes her eyes and heart want to bulge out from her body like some horny character in one of those old-timey cartoons that she used to watch before school.

“Mornin’.” Cyrus’ chuckle snaps Alana out of her thoughts. “Get some rest?”

She blushes at the smile he tosses her. It’s charmed, as if he sees right through the thoughts racking through her mind. “I, um, did. I really did. I’m pretty sure I was technically in a coma.” She offers a quiet laugh. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Mm, I’d say,” Cyrus glances at his watch. “About half past ten.”

Alana pales. “Oh, oh wow. I’m so sorry.” Was she supposed to leave before Cyrus woke up? It hadn’t been stated in their contract, but she should’ve at least woken up with him and left from there. In either case, she’s overstayed her welcome exponentially. “Have you seen my clothes? I can get out of your hair—”

“Hey now, sugar, relax.” Cyrus removes a few charred onions and tomatillos from his cast-iron skillet and drops them into a blender. “I got your dress sent off for dry cleaning, your shoes are over in the foyer, and you’re not goin’ anywhere just yet.” He nods to the window, where the wind and rain have picked up. It pelts violently against the glass. “I’m not letting you drive home in this, let alone walk to your car. The area is notorious for flash floods when the rain gets bad.”

Alana’s face warms at his kindness. She tells herself he’s just being hospitable, that this is common human decency and not something she should get attached to. She should save herself. Run before her heart messes her up. “That’s sweet of you, Cyrus, but, really, it’s not a big deal. I’m sure I can get home just fine?”

Cyrus stares at her with an intense, steely look that makes her feel like a stumbling fawn.

Her stomach does another somersault, and her argument dies. “Okay, okay. Yeah, I’ll, um, stay put. Thank you, Cyrus.”

And just like that, a switch flips. The man’s bright demeanor returns as though it never left, bearing a smile that could light up a room in the dark. “Good girl,” he praises. Alana chokes as the words hit like a surprise punch to the throat.

When Cyrus laughs at her for it, she glares at him.

“Shut up,” she mutters before padding to the kitchen island. She leans against it, lazily watching Cyrus hum to the music and busy himself by adding a few more ingredients to a blender. Chilies, garlic, salt, and lime juice.

Something tells her it’s not his first time in a kitchen. “What are you making?” Alana asks.

“Chilaquiles. My mama’s recipe,” he says with pride, pulling a carton of eggs and corn tortillas from the fridge. “She’d skin me for making her salsa without the family molcajete. Used to say it had a few generations of flavor in that thing, but unfortunately, that’s at the ranch.”

Alana clutches her hypothetical pearls. Oh, fuck this guy. Top-tier sex and chilaquiles the morning after? She would sooner sit naked on the hot New Mexico pavement during the peak of summer than ever propose to a man. But damn, if this didn’t make her want to reconsider. “Can I help at all?”

A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, and he hands her the tortillas and a knife, sharp end pointing down. “I don’t see why not. You’re the real chef outta the two of us.”

Alana grins. “Oh, I’m not too sure about that. Clearly you know a thing or two.”

Cyrus doesn’t disagree. He merely smirks, shouldering her in a lighthearted manner as he cracks a few eggs from his place right beside her. Together, they work in smooth tandem, naturally falling into quiet conversation. It’s oddly domestic, how they exist in each other’s space, void of the tension or awkwardness Alana had partially expected afterward. As if, once the intimacy was over, so were the pleasantries. That was her biggest worry about their situation—the idea of parting ways and being discarded. But even though this was a transaction, Cyrus made her feel like, well, a person. A friend.

They finish the prep work and move it aside, and Cyrus tosses the onion scraps in the trash, discarded shards of glass glinting within the waste. When he reaches for another ingredient from the fridge, Alana notices a bandage around his hand.

“Hey, are you okay?” She asks, recalling the crashing sound from earlier. “What happened?”