Page 47 of Thirst

“Yeah? I can't even imagine. I think I'm gonna have to find out about that.”

“I'm ready to show you whenever you're ready.”

“What if I'm ready now?”

His head tilts. “Then there's no need to finish dinner. All you have to do is take my hand.”

Amari’s smile is wicked as he brings his champagne glass to his lips. He drinks the rest of the amber liquid and clears his throat before standing up and offering me his hand.

Feeling like something important has just fallen right out of my head, I smile and take Amari’s hand to follow him into the dark.

Twenty-Eight

On the elevator ride up to the penthouse, my heart pounds like an 808. I remember how nervous I felt about seeing Amari tonight. All of the talk from Von and seeing Shawn show up at Fantasies had me feeling conflicted, worried that all of this was just too good to be true. But after talking to Amari at dinner, my worry has been replaced by something else entirely.

Desire.

Every time I look at Amari, he's staring directly at me. He embraces the eye contact, and when I see the look in his gaze, I can tell how much he wants me. He has said it from the beginning. He was never in this to be my friend. He wants me, and we’ve already spent so much time together and had so many conversations that I'm ready to take the next step. Hell, we haven't even kissed yet, and I feel a nearly insurmountable urge to step over to his side of the elevator and experience the feeling of his lips on mine. His eyes never move away from me, and just knowing how much he wants me makes me shake with unadulterated desire.

When the doors open, he turns to the left when I expect him to go to the bedroom on the right. I trail him, ready to let him lead me again. His presence does that to me. I want to jump all over him and lose my mind, but his personality is domineering. It makes me patient to see where he wants to go so that I can—dare I say—submit. I want to give myself to him and forget everything else. I don't want to think about Fantasies or any of the people working there. I don't want thoughts of my apartment, or rent money, or anything else in my mind. I want to simply be consumed by him.

I think that’s what men don't seem to understand anymore. Women are still willing to “submit,” but only to a man she can trust to take the reins without running us into a brick wall. Men these days want to be submitted to without knowing how to use the control they're given. As a result, women no longer want to cede control just to watch it be abused. The irresponsibility, the lack of ambition, the dwindling work ethic, the dying masculinity or toxicity of its corruption has made women harder. So men say we’re not soft anymore. Of course we aren't. You made us have to be hard. If we could trust you to lead, we wouldn't feel the need to. That has been my experience my entire life. But Amari presents something different. I'm still learning and figuring out how to navigate it, but I see the signs flashing in neon every time we’re together. He's a real one.

I walk behind him and watch him take off his velvet blazer. He folds it and lays it on the back of a chair near the bar. He walks into the kitchen and opens a cabinet that is more than meets the eyes. Where I expect to see bowls or cups, there’s a small refrigerator filled with wine bottles.

“Red or white tonight?” he asks over his shoulder.

“Red.”

Amari removes a bottle and grabs two glasses from the next cabinet over, carrying them both into the living room and handing one to me. He steps to the oversized black couch and sits down, his eyes shifting to the fireplace with bouncing blue flames as I take my seat next to him. He sips his wine and watches me sip mine, then leans back against a pillow and licks his lips.

“I want to ask you a question,” he begins, his face full of seriousness.

“Yes?”

“Have you slept with anyone since we met?”

My eyebrows raise as high as they can. “What? No. I'm not dating anyone.”

He nods and sips his wine again, clearly satisfied with my answer.

“What about you?”

“No. You occupy all of my interest.”

Ugh. I gave him a clear lane to shoot me with that compliment, and he didn't miss. He's too good at saying what I want to hear in a way that I don't expect to hear it. It’s a quality I never knew I’d appreciate so much.

“Explain your interest in me,” he demands.

I frown. “Huh?”

“I'm just curious whether or not you see your time with me the way I see mine with you. I guess I'm wondering whether this is purely financial to you. I'm not saying you have to want me more than you naturally do. I don't want you to force anything. I just want to know so I can try to adjust my own feelings accordingly. There's a lot at stake when it comes to feelings.”

I sip my wine as confusion makes my forehead wrinkle. I thought we came up to do the blood play thing again. But now Amari has switched it up. He seems focused in a different way than I expected, and it’s a little off putting.

Or maybe I just don't like being forced to think about my feelings for him. I know I like Amari. I think he's gorgeous in every sense of the word, and I know he can do things with that mouth that make my toes curl and my eyes squeeze shut. Our conversations are fantastic and I love talking to him, but it would be a lie to say I'm not affected by the money. Is that what he wants to hear? That I'm not interested in the money at all?

“I want to know what matters more,” he says, as if he can hear everything I'm thinking. How does he keep doing that? “Paying someone twenty-five-hundred dollars after every meeting will surely make them think about the money. You could use it to buy whatever you want. You said yourself that painting has always been your biggest passion, and I know money could help you make that dream a reality. Supplies aren’t cheap. I get that. But is your interest in me solely financial? I've paid you after every conversation we’ve ever had. So, forgive me for being a little … curious.”