Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Idealistic. Unrealistic.
But it was a nice thought, nonetheless.
“They’re beautiful,” he murmured, hugging Vic tighter for a moment. “But something like that could bankrupt you. It could cost billions.”
Vic turned his head, lips hot against Amani’s cheek. “Is it weird that I’m okay with that?”
“No,” Amani said, as he leaned in to capture that beckoning mouth. “That’s not weird at all.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
ONE HUNDRED AND TEN THOUSAND dollars.
Amani slumped back in his seat in the lecture hall for his Film Studies class and stared at the Chase Bank app on his phone. He’d just been transferring funds from PayPal routinely and trying not to think too hard about it or he’d start spinning, but his mother had texted him asking if they had enough to sneak repairs in on the house the landlord kept ignoring and he’d defiantly thought she should have her own house.
And so he’d made himself look, made himself take in the entirety of that number that had accumulated over the past few weeks of Vic on his knees, Vic falling asleep with his head pillowed on Amani’s stomach, Vic begging for a half-second of release from torturous pleasure with his hands cuffed behind his back, unable to touch and desperate to be touched. As long as Amani didn’t think about the money, it was easy to sink into the pleasure of finding new ways to make Vic beg, to show Vic new things he could enjoy about submission, about relinquishing control.
But now that number was staring him in the face, and he was about to hyperventilate in the middle of class.
What was he supposed to do with all of that? His tuition was covered. Hell, he could probably even afford to go to grad school, but it felt…selfish. Selfish to suddenly have this much and hoard it for himself and only think about his own needs, his mother’s, when it had come to him so easily. It didn’t sit right with him, and he was pondering sending it all back to Vic and breaking it off when his phone vibrated in his hand, letting out a piercing trill, and Obnoxious Prick flashed up on the screen.
Damn it. He’d forgotten to put himself on DND, and the entire class turned to stare at him, and even as he muted the ringtone the professor trailed off, giving him a rather dirty look.
“Is something more important than my lecture, Mr. Idrissi?” he bit off in freezing tones.
Amani flushed, sinking down in his chair—and then just squirming out of it and standing, grabbing his bag and throwing it over his shoulder. “Sorry,” he said, already heading for the door. “I have to take this.”
What am I doing?
He didn’t know. He didn’t know why his heart was leaping, either, as he ducked out into the corridor outside the lecture hall and caught the call on the last silenced vibration.
“Why are you calling me while I’m in class?” he hissed.
“Because you never told me what your exact class schedule was,” Vic answered smoothly. “Sorry, did I get you in trouble?”
“Yes. Only a little, but yes.” Amani pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. I forgot I didn’t—I—why are you calling me?”
“You always ask me that. Can’t I call you just to talk to you?”
“Vic. Why.”
That earned a burst of rumbling laughter, and despite himself Amani caught himself smiling as he leaned against the wall next to the lecture hall’s double doors, glancing toward windows lit up in midmorning light, milky pale and promising winter soon.
“All right,” Vic said. “You caught me. I have an ulterior motive. I might be changing our plans for tonight, but that depends on you.”
Amani raised a brow. “What’s on your mind?”
“So…I know I said I wouldn’t Richard Gere this thing, but I have a charity function this weekend and could really use someone on my arm.”
With an amused snort, Amani teased, “To ward off the social climbers?”
“To ward off the social climbers.” The smile in Vic’s voice was palpable. “And I wouldn’t mind having a little company who doesn’t expect me to be Mr. Newcomb.” He dropped his voice to an exaggerated stage whisper. “These charity galas are boring, and people always whisper about me.”
“And you don’t think they’ll whisper when you show up with a man on your arm?”
“It’s the twenty-first century. If that trips them up, they’re the problem.”
“Mm.” Amani drummed his fingertips against his thigh. Was he really considering this? “If you’re going to Richard Gere this thing, you have to buy me a dress.”
“You’re going…to wear a dress?” Vic asked faintly.
“Is that a problem?”
A long pause…and when Vic spoke again, his voice rumbled rough with heat, anticipation. “Not at all.”
Amani smiled to himself. Sometimes, his pet was so easy. “Do you have any ideas where I can get an appropriately formal caftan gown, or a takchita?”