I Paid a Stranger Fifteen Hundred Dollars to Be My Boyfriend for My Father's Birthday Weekend, and He Obeyed Every Order I Gave novel · Chapter 18 of 24

Chapter 18: The Scarf

"Sit against the headboard," I said. "Close your eyes."

Ben sat, and closed them.

The lamp was the only light in the guest room, and it laid a gold stripe across his chest.

Outside the window the fire on the lawn had died down to coals, and one by one the lights had gone out in the house below.

I had waited for the last footsteps on the stairs.

I had waited for my mother's door to close.

Now I took a scarf out of the pink bag, a long grey silk one my aunt had given me for Christmas and I had never once worn.

"I'm going to cover your eyes," I said.

"Okay."

"You don't get to see anything until I say."

"Okay."

I folded the silk in half and in half again and laid it across his eyes, and tied it behind his head in a knot.

He sat there blind, with his lips parted.

He looked like a man at the top of a very tall slide.

"Now your hands," I said. "Behind your back. Between the slats."

He reached back, and I heard the wood creak.

I took his belt from the floor and slid it through the slat and around his wrists and pulled it snug.

I checked it with two fingers.

It was tight enough to hold and loose enough to breathe.

I leaned in and kissed the pulse in his wrist where it lay against the leather.

"Pull."

He pulled, and the slat creaked, and the belt held.

"Good," I said. "Now don't."

"I won't."

I sat back on my heels and looked at him.

He was in his jeans and nothing else, with his arms pulled back and his chest lifted.

His face was a blank soft shape under the grey silk.

I had never in my life seen anything I wanted more.

"Tell me one true thing," I said.

"Now?"

"Now."

He thought.

"I hum when I hang a door," he said. "Every one. I don't know I'm doing it. The homeowners always ask what the song is."

"What's the song?"

"I don't know."

I laughed, and put my mouth against the corner of his, and he turned his head, hunting for it.

"No," I said. "Not yet."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Another one."

"I've never been the one anybody was waiting for."

I stopped breathing for a second.

Then I kissed him, long and slow, and he kissed me back as far as the belt would let him.

I unbuttoned his jeans.

I drew them down, and he lifted his hips, and I took them off him and dropped them on the floor.

He was hard, and flushed, and wet at the tip.

I didn't touch him.

I undressed instead, slowly, in the lamplight, an inch at a time, letting each piece of clothing fall where he could hear it.

The sweater.

The bra.

The jeans, with a rasp of denim.

"I can hear you," he said, hoarse.

"Good."

"I can't see anything."

"That's the idea."

"I can hear you breathing."

"Count my breaths."

"What?"

"I said count them."

He was quiet.

Then, "One," he said, as I drew in.

"Two."

I climbed onto the bed and knelt over his thighs, not touching him, with my hands on the headboard on either side of his head.

"Three," he said, and his voice cracked.

I reached down into the pink bag at my knee and found the second thing I had never told him about.

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