Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Christian’s mouth twisted to the side a little, as if he had to suppress a smile. I could tell that the expression meant that he was going to name a film I would certainly have seen, or at least heard of, but when he spoke I had no need to fake my wide-eyed, openmouthed reaction.
“Did you see Moonglider?”
“Really?” I gasped, much too loud. Christian nodded, the full smile breaking out on his lips. “Only like a hundred times—twice in the theater, even.”
“A movie like that,” he said, “has a lot of producers, but I was the guy that put the deal together. You liked it?”
I couldn’t help giggling. The way he asked the question said that he knew the answer, and it didn’t matter at all, because he had of course made so much money from Moonglider that my opinion was utterly meaningless—and yet he did care what I thought of the best movie of the past decade.
“Well, yeah,” I told him.
“That’s great,” he said, his smile making my heart pound. I had no idea how he could possibly mean it, but I knew that he did. He wanted the girl he had watched getting her picture taken naked to like his incredibly successful movie.
The drinks arrived. Christian raised his bourbon. Tentatively, I followed suit with the elegant champagne flute. I had drunk cheap beer and rotgut wine with scofflaw friends, had gotten drunk, had thought I knew about alcohol. The smell of the champagne, mingling with the scent of bourbon, made me realize I knew nothing.
“To our story,” Christian said, and touched his glass to mine.
CHAPTER 11
Leah
I sipped the champagne. It tasted somehow like adulthood: a flavor without sugary sweetness but that somehow had something light, and indeed sweet in some other way, about it. As I swallowed I thought about the toast.
Our story.
Had he heard Mary the photographer talking about my story?
Of course he heard that. Why would Selecta let him watch the shameful photoshoot if they didn’t let him hear the equally shameful sounds of it?
For the first time, the full implications of what the app had so casually told me—that Christian G had watched my session with the photographer, including my very first time playing with myself and my very first orgasm—came into focus for me. I had known that my apartment didn’t really belong to me, but that represented a given—even a regular apartment in any given ordinary building didn’t belong to the tenant, right? But to have my home belong to Selecta—that obviously meant something different.
I had supposed it would just allow my sponsor to open the door, as if I had given him a key… a little anxiety-inducing, but really just what a young woman might do for a steady boyfriend. In those thousands of unread words on the contract I had signed, though, must lurk my granting of permission to qualified platinum-level sponsors to watch me any time—or at least whenever Selecta decided it would turn a profit.
I looked into Christian’s eyes, and I swallowed hard at how his handsome features seemed to combine themselves in my mind with this realization about his potential power over me. Dismayingly, I found that I didn’t feel the way I knew I should, about the surveillance and this arrogant man’s knowledge of my intimate secrets. I should get up and walk away. I should block Christian G on the SA app. I had shown up for this date, and so my subsidy was safe for the moment. I should reassess and, if I decided I had to, I should get ready to save as much of my money as I could and get the hell out of LA.
I didn’t want to do any of that, though. I wanted to see what Christian would do next.
No, I realized, that wasn’t right. A big part of me didn’t want that at all.
I needed to see what this gorgeous, wealthy man would do next.
He only kept me waiting a moment.
“Did you buy yourself something pretty?” he asked, smiling gently, though his eyes seemed to have a glint that carried a darker message.
My cheeks blazed into new heat, but I understood at the same time that the question didn’t have to mean anything about my underwear—any more than his toast to ‘our story’ had to convey any recollection of my humiliating photoshoot. I put the brightest smile I could manage onto my face.
“This romper,” I told him. “Thank you! I love it!”
I studied his eyes, searching for the sign I expected, some flash of annoyance that I hadn’t told him about some piece of lingerie. Christian didn’t show any such reaction. His smile got wider.
“You’re very welcome,” he replied. “You look gorgeous in it.”
To my astonishment, I found I had to swallow hard. Worse, I squirmed again in my seat, because his simple compliment had made my pussy clench, and that had reawakened the strange, embarrassing feeling of wearing a lacy thong over my newly bare private parts.