I wore the dress I could take off without a speech.
Black. No bra. A slip of a thing that showed the curve of my ass when I walked and did nothing to hide how hard my n*****s were in the back of the cab. I had spent the night with two fingers in the ass Andre had opened and his address burning a hole in my phone. Camille’s smile from the table would not leave me. I still went.
The house was quiet money. He opened the door in a black shirt, sleeves up, the ring still on. Camille was in the kitchen in silk again, pouring wine like I was a guest and not the girl her husband had bent over a sink.
“You came,” she said, and kissed my cheek. Her mouth was warm. Her hand stayed on my waist a second too long. “Good. He hates when I pick someone and they get shy.”
Dinner was a performance. Andre
