Page 27 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

It takes an absurd amount of time, but their laughter eventually does subside, oxygen returning to their lungs with slow, labored breaths. Cyrus pushes himself up with a low grunt that’s so old-man-ish that it about sets Alana off again. If she closed her eyes, she’d be able to imagine the stature of a far older version of the man beside her, cracking his back after a treacherous journey from one end of the lawn to the next. She’d tease him for it, if not for how her own knees pop when he guides her to standing. Gods, she really needs to add more squats to her workout routines.

“Sorry,” Cyrus says, though it lacks any true regret. With a chuckle, he dusts off her borrowed t-shirt with unexpected domesticity, then, shakes his head and runs a hand through his tousled hair as he looks at the skillet. It’s still smoking, but at least the threat of a fire is gone. “I swear I turned that burner down.”

Alana tuts with her arms crossed beneath the swell of her chest. “You really should know better than to get so distracted when you’re cooking, Cyrus. I mean, wow. Whatever were you thinking?”

The quickness with which he snaps his head to her cracks her façade. “Oh, is that what we’re doing?” he scoffs. “You’re pinnin’ this on me?” His smirk widens in the corner like he wants to pull her back in, kiss the sarcasm off her lips. Drag her back to the counter. And she wouldn’t fight him if he did.

A new noise rings through the air, interrupting them once more. An older gentleman in a staff uniform steps past the silver doors of the elevator. “I have a dry-cleaning delivery for,” he looks down at the name written on the card stapled to the bag of clothes. “Ms. Darling?”

Right. Somehow, she’d forgotten about her clothes. She’s about to thank him, about to step in the gentleman’s direction, only to realize she isn’t decent. Cyrus jogs over to retrieve the stack of neatly folded clothes while Alana remains with her lower half hidden behind the kitchen island.

“Thanks, Esteban.” Cyrus gives an appreciative nod, one that the man—Esteban—returns with a tip of his hat.

Ever the professional, his expression doesn’t falter much, but there’s the subtle curve of a knowing grin beneath Esteban’s dark mustache. One that mirrors the way the ladies in the hall had looked at her yesterday. Clearly, they were used to seeing Cyrus bring back house guests. They’re probably just as accustomed to watching them leave.

Heat blooms across the shell of Alana’s ears. “Um, thank you!” she calls as Esteban turns to make his exit.

He tips his hat to her. “My pleasure, ma’am. Hope to see you again soon.” With that, he disappears into the elevator, and Cyrus hands off her belongings.

“You’re free to shower, if you’d like.” He gestures to the bedroom. “There should be a washcloth and a towel waiting for you on the counter. Placed ‘em there in case you wanted to take one when you woke up.”

Alana should have been long gone already, but there’s an unpleasant pressure present between her thighs. Getting Cyrus off had riled her up more than she cares to admit. She’d been close to cumming, untouched, from the whimpers he tried to disguise, those half-lidded, lust-heavy eyes that looked down at her so needy and raw. Had she not worn out her welcome already, she’d be far more willing to coax him into resuming his position between her legs. Or, better yet, join her in the shower.

The image of a hand around her throat, breasts pressed against the foggy condensation of the glass, is one she finds far too appealing for her own good.

Alana mentally fans the thought away. “Thanks, I actually think I will.” She forces a polite smile and excuses herself.

By the time she emerges, sins of her day washed away, the storm has finally settled. Outside of the large bedroom windows, those dense, grey clouds have split apart, distancing themselves enough to allow pockets of sunlight through. The sight brings a sense of disappointment. With the storm having passed, there was even less of a reason to stick around.

It’s greedy to want anything more out of Cyrus after everything he’s already given. Her time with him has been nothing short of extraordinary, but it’s over now. His services have been rendered, their transaction complete. There’s a pull in her chest from the realization.

“The chilaquiles weren’t exactly salvageable, but I figured you can’t go wrong with egg and cheese sandwiches. Here, something for the road.” Cyrus extends a paper bag to Alana as she returns to the kitchen. She begs her heart to relax a little bit.

“Thank you, you’re very sweet.” Her compliment causes a berry color to spread across Cyrus’ cheek. Alana stands on the tips of her toes, pulling him down to meet her halfway so she can kiss where the shade is deepest. “Thanks for everything, actually.”

“It’s—it’s really nothin’,” Cyrus assures, his smile lopsided. Sometimes, Alana wonders if he knows how adorable he is or if he lives in blissful ignorance of it. “I had a real good time, Miss Alana.” He walks her to the elevator, where they linger for it to open.

Alana’s eyes brighten, and she tucks her purse under her arm. “Me too.”

She falls short on what to say next. What’s considered an appropriate farewell to a man that’s fucked the daylights out of you?

She bounces on the pads of her feet. “Oh, by the way, I know we didn’t really talk about it, but, um, do you prefer cash or…?” Payment arrangements, surprisingly enough, were one of the few things they hadn’t gone over.

Cyrus rubs the back of his neck as if he just remembered that little detail. “Oh. Right, uh, how about this—give me your number. I can invoice ya later.” He jogs to the bedroom and reappears later with his phone. He hands it off, and Alana types in her number and name with a heart next to it. She hands it back, and his expression brightens.

“Are you sure? If you have a payment app, I can send it to you now. I don’t want to dine and dash. Or whatever the sexual variation of that would be.”

Waving his hand with a laugh, Cyrus says, “It’s fine. If you try to run out on me, I’ll just come by the bakery and steal my weight in pastries till the debt is paid. We can call it even, then.” he winks. “I get my fill, and I get an excuse to see that pretty face of yours. Seems like a win-win.”

“You know what,” she says, grin widening. “Fine. It’s a deal.”

“So I’ll see you next time, then?” he asks, beaming. There’s a flirtatious lilt to his voice this time, one that has heat settling under her skin again.

Alana wants to question if he means at the bakery or his apartment, but she doesn’t. “Maybe, cowboy. I guess we’ll have to see.”

The elevator arrives with its signature ding, its steel doors sliding open upon arrival. Alana steps inside and waves as it begins to seal her away. The cowboy nods his farewell and returns the wave, and it’s so odd, this overwhelming flutter in Alana’s stomach when he finally closes out of view. Leaning against the wall, she slides to the floor and buries her face in her hands. She sees Cyrus’ smile when she does. Hears that infectious laughter, too. It’s like they’re tattooed in her mind now, etched where they’ll stay until she’s old and gray. When her memory starts to fray, and things become hard to remember, something tells her it won’t be hard to come back to this memory. To rich, unguarded laughter and shared breaths and golden eyes that looked at her so soft and intimate.

Alana’s head falls back to stare blankly at the ceiling. Oh, I’m so fucked.