One Night

Chapter 4: One Night

Leah

I sat in the passenger seat with my arms crossed, trying very hard not to look impressed and failing spectacularly.

“So,” I said, watching another luxury tower slide past the window, “this ‘place’ of yours… is it by any chance a cardboard box under a bridge that you’ve decorated with fairy lights and lies?”

He glanced at me, one corner of his mouth lifting. “You’ll see.”

I did see.

Twenty minutes later we pulled into an underground garage that looked like it charged rent by the square inch. 

He parked the Ferrari between a matte-black something that probably cost more than my entire bloodline and a silver car so shiny I could see my own exhausted face in the door. 

Then he led me to a private elevator that required a keycard, a fingerprint, and possibly a blood sacrifice.

The doors opened directly into a penthouse. I stepped out, stopped dead, and stared.

Floor-to-ceiling windows. The entire city glittering below like someone had spilled diamonds across pure black velvet. A living room big enough to host a small war. White marble. Black leather. Art that looked like it came with its own security detail. A kitchen that could feed a small country and still look untouched.

I turned in a slow circle. “What the actual fuck.”

He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair like the chair hadn’t cost more than my yearly rent. “Drink?”

“No. Explanation. Start talking. Because the last time I checked, male escorts did not live in places that required a private elevator and a trust fund.”

He walked to a glass bar cart and poured two glasses of something amber. “It’s a client’s place,” he said easily. “Long-term arrangement. She travels a lot. Lets me use it when she’s out of the country. Perks of the job.”

I narrowed my eyes. “A client just… hands you the keys to a penthouse that looks like this?”

“Some clients are very generous.” He handed me a glass. “Especially the ones who value my services.”

I took the drink because my nerves were still vibrating from the wedding and the alternative was screaming. The first sip burned in the best way.

“And the Ferrari?” I asked.

“Same client.”

“The bowing guards?”

“Building staff. They’re trained to treat every guest like royalty. It’s part of the branding.”

I stared at him. He stared back, completely unbothered, like inventing an entire fictional sugar-mommy client on the spot was a normal Tuesday skill.

“You’re full of shit,” I said.

“Possibly.” He clinked his glass lightly against mine. “But the alcohol is real. Drink.”

I drank.

We ended up on the massive sectional that faced the windows. The city lights blurred a little as the whiskey settled into my bloodstream. I kicked off my heels and curled my legs under me, dress riding up in a way that would have made the old Leah tug it down. 

Tonight’s Leah did not care.

“You’re quiet,” he said after a while.

“I’m trying to decide whether I’m more embarrassed that I cried in a parking lot or that I spent my life savings on a man who apparently moonlights in billionaire real estate.”

He smiled into his glass. “The crying was honest. I prefer honest.”

I snorted. “Honest got me three years of free-loading, cheating, and a public invitation to watch my ex marry the woman he fucked in my bed. Honesty is overrated.”

He didn’t argue. He just watched me with that same calm, assessing look he’d had all night. Like he was reading the fine print of my soul and finding the parts I’d tried to black out.

I finished the drink faster than was wise, my throat practically on fire. He poured another without asking. I didn’t stop him. 

By the third glass the sharp edges of the night had softened. The humiliation at the jewelry store, the vows, Bryce’s smirk, Greta’s laugh—they all felt slightly farther away. Not gone. Just… muffled.

I set the glass down and looked at him.

“I don’t want to think anymore,” I said bluntly. “I don’t want to feel like the girl who got called a dead fish in bed and low-class and boring. I want to feel like someone actually wants me. Even if it’s only because I paid for it.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Not pity. “Leah—”

“I’m serious.” I stood up, a little unsteady, and stepped between his knees. “One night. No extra charges. No weird agency forms. Just… make me forget for a few hours. Can you do that? It'll be our little secret. The agency doesn't have to know.”

He looked up at me for a long moment. Then he set his own glass aside, hands settling lightly on the backs of my thighs.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I can do that.” Then he kissed me. 

The first kiss was slow. Like he was giving me every chance to change my mind. I didn’t. 

I kissed him back harder, climbing into his lap, fingers sliding into his hair. He tasted like expensive whiskey and mint. 

When his hands slid up under my dress I made a sound I didn’t recognize. 

He stood immediately, lifting me with him, and carried me down a hallway that felt longer than necessary. The bedroom was more of the same absurd luxury—king-sized bed, more windows, soft lighting that made everything look expensive and out of my league.

He set me on my feet and unzipped my dress. The fabric pooled at my ankles. I stood there in my plain cotton underwear, heart hammering, waiting for the moment he looked at me the way Bryce had looked at me. 

Worst lay of my entire life. I remembered his words and the scene clearly. Bryce naked, pointing at my forehead, voice dripping contempt. Greta laughing from the bed, sheets clutched to her chest, eyes full of pure mean girl triumph.

Bryce had never taken his time. Sex with him had been a rushed, one-sided transaction. 

It was always him pushing in before I was ready, finishing in under five minutes, then rolling over like the act of touching me had been a chore he’d completed. 

He’d never asked if I came. He’d never cared. The few times I’d tried to guide his hand or tell him what felt good, he’d gotten irritated, like I was criticizing his technique. Eventually I stopped trying. It was easier to fake it and let him believe he was adequate.

The memory slammed into me so hard I flinched.

Boring. Unsexy. Low class. You should be grateful I even touched you.

I must have made a sound because his hands stilled on my waist.

“Hey.” His voice was low. “Stay with me.”

I forced a laugh that came out shaky. “Sorry. Just… ghost of ex-boyfriends past. He wasn't exactly… attentive.” 

He cupped my face, thumbs brushing under my eyes. “He’s not here. I am. And I am very much interested in every single part of you he’s too stupid to value.”

I nodded.

He kissed me again, deeper this time, and walked me backward until the backs of my knees hit the bed. We went down together. His mouth traced a slow path down my throat, across my collarbone, between my breasts. Every place Bryce had made me feel inadequate, this man touched like it was sacred. 

When his tongue circled one nipple, then the other, I arched with a broken sound that would have embarrassed me with Bryce.

When he peeled my underwear down my legs I had another flash—Greta’s voice, sharp and delighted.

It looks cheap and dull. Just like her.

I tensed.

He noticed immediately. He braced himself above me, dark eyes searching mine. “Tell me to stop and I stop,” he said. “No questions. No judgment.”

I shook my head. “Don’t stop. Please. Just… make it loud enough that I can’t hear them anymore.”

Something protective flashed across his face. Then he lowered his head and put his mouth on me.

I arched off the bed with a broken sound. He was relentless and patient at the same time, like he had all night and intended to use every second of it rewriting whatever lies still lived under my skin. 

His tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes, then faster, then slower again whenever I got close, keeping me right on the edge until I was gripping the sheets and whispering things I didn’t even recognize.

When the first orgasm hit, it was so sudden and intense I blacked out through it, half-sobbing, half-euphoric. 

He licked me clean,hungrily taking everything I had to give. “Yummy.” He murmured in between my legs. “You're a lot sweeter than I imagined.” 

Bryce had never made me come with his mouth. He’d never even tried for longer than thirty seconds before declaring himself bored. He said he hated how I tasted down there. 

But here another man was, boldly admitting he'd imagined going down on me. Even before I let him. 

He crawled back up my body, kissing my stomach, my ribs, the underside of my breast, until we were face to face again.

“Still with me?” he murmured.

“Barely,” I panted. “You’re very good at your job.”

He smiled against my mouth. “You have no idea.”

When he finally pushed inside me it was slow, deliberate, giving me time to adjust. The stretch was perfect—full without being painful. I could feel myself adjusting to accommodate all of him. 

With Bryce, I barely felt anything. 

I wrapped my legs around him and held on. Every thrust felt like an argument against every cruel word I’d been carrying. 

He whispered things against my ear—how good I felt, how beautiful I looked under him, how perfect this moment was—not like the empty praises Bryce used to throw around when he wanted something. 

These words landed. They stayed. They were genuine. 

The memories tried to surface again. For a second I was back in that bedroom, Bryce’s contemptuous face above me, the sheets still warm from another woman’s body. My mind started to drift, the pleasure dimming under the weight of old shame.

He felt it the moment it happened.

His rhythm slowed. One hand slid between us, fingers finding the exact spot that made my hips jerk. He circled it with precise pressure while his other hand cupped my breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak in the same rhythm.

“Stay with me,” he said, voice rough against my ear. “Right here. Feel this.”

The dual stimulation pulled me back like a physical force. The shame cracked. Pleasure flooded in so hard my vision blurred. I dug my nails into his shoulders as he kept working those exact spots, refusing to let my mind escape again.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Just feel how good you are. How wet you are for me. How perfectly you take me.”

No one had ever talked to me like that during sex. Bryce had grunted, finished, and reached for his phone. This man made every thrust, every touch, every low word feel like it was designed specifically for my body.

Another orgasm built fast and hot. When it hit, it was deeper than the first—rolling through me in waves that left me shaking and breathless. 

He followed soon after, forehead pressed to mine, breath harsh, body trembling above me like he’d actually felt something too.

We stayed like that for a long time. Skin sticky. Hearts slamming. 

Eventually he rolled to the side and pulled me with him. I ended up half on his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart while the whiskey and the orgasms and the exhaustion finally caught up.

For a little while I let myself pretend.

Pretend this was real. Pretend a man this beautiful and this attentive could want the girl who’d been called boring and low-class and dead in bed. 

Pretend the way he’d looked at me when he was inside me—when he’d noticed my mind wandering and deliberately pulled me back with the exact touches I needed—meant something more than a very expensive transaction.

It was, without question, the most wonderful sex I had ever had in my entire life. 

Not because of how skilled he was (though he was exceptionally skilled). Not because the penthouse was ridiculous (though it was). 

But because for the first time in my life, someone had paid attention. Someone had noticed when I drifted and brought me back. Someone had treated my pleasure like it mattered as much as his own.

The warmth started to fade around the edges when the pathetic reality crept back in. 

I had paid for this.

Every soft word, every careful touch, every orgasm—I’d bought them with the last of my savings. 

Tomorrow he would be someone else’s escort, or whatever the hell he actually was, and I would be the woman who spent her emergency fund on one night of feeling desired.

One night. That was all this was ever going to be. I had known that from the beginning.

It still hurt.