After he went bankrupt, I became his sugar mom

The ride to my SoHo apartment was silent except for the driver's soft jazz.

Ethan sat stiff beside me, still in his bar shirt, sleeves rolled, arms crossed tight over his chest like armor. Every few blocks the streetlights swept across his face—highlighting those sharp cheekbones, the faint bruises of exhaustion under his eyes, and that stubborn mouth.

He smelled like bourbon and lime.

Back at the apartment I kicked off my heels, padded barefoot across the reclaimed walnut floors, and flicked on the pendant light over the kitchen island.

Warm amber glow. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the glittering lights of lower Manhattan.

Ethan stood just inside the door, hands in his pockets, looking like he wanted to bolt.

“Shower,” I said. “Guest bathroom at the end of the hall. Clean towels on the shelf. Robe on the back of the door.”

He didn't move.

I tilted my head. “Problem?”

“You really think this works?” His voice was quiet, almost curious. “You buy me for a while, humiliate me, and then what? Novelty wears off and I disappear?”

I walked toward him, steps deliberate. I stopped close enough that he had to look down at me.

“Then I finally get everything I've wanted since sophomore year,” I said softly, “and you get enough cash to breathe until you figure out your next move. Win-win.”

Ethan was gorgeous. Even though we couldn't stand each other, I had to admit it.

The first time I saw him sophomore year, I'd wanted him.

Who knew I'd actually get the chance?

He must really be in debt.

Now it was mine.

Something strange flickered in those gray eyes—anger, shock, maybe both.

Without a word he turned and disappeared down the hall.

Twenty minutes later he came back wearing only the white robe, hair damp, smelling like my cedar-and-bergamot body wash.

The robe was too small on him; every movement stretched the fabric tight.

I was already curled on the couch with a glass of Pinot Noir.

“Drop it.”

He stopped mid-step, froze.

I set the glass down. “The robe. Take it off.”

His jaw worked. He stood there so long I thought he'd refuse.

“Not willing? Then give the money back,” I said with a cold smile.

Silence. Then Ethan reached for the belt and let the robe fall.

Jesus Christ.

Broad shoulders, defined pecs, abs so carved they looked Photoshopped.

A dark trail of hair disappearing under black boxer briefs that hid almost nothing.

Thick thighs from years of squats, calves cut clean. Even his feet were perfect.

He stood there, arms at his sides, letting me look, letting the humiliation burn through him.

I rose and circled him slowly. My fingertips traced his collarbone, down the center of his chest, over the ridges of his stomach. His muscles jumped at every touch.

“Bedroom,” I said, voice different now. “Now.”

He followed without protest.

I pushed him onto the king-size bed, climbed over him, straddled his hips. His hands stayed flat on the mattress like he didn't have permission to touch me.

I gripped his jaw, tilted his face up. “You know what a kept man does, right?”

His ears turned red. After a moment he rasped, “Yeah.”

“Then kiss me.” I dragged my index finger from his collarbone down the silk of my slip. “Start here. Don't stop until I say you can.”

He stared at the path I'd drawn. His breathing turned quick and shaky.

“What are you waiting for? Not willing?”

“No. I can.” He said it.

When he finally leaned in, his lips barely brushed my skin.

Then he got serious.

Slow, reverent kisses. Tongue tracing my collarbone, moving down my chest.

Unhurried, like he wanted to memorize every inch. One big hand gently cupped the back of my thigh; I felt his fingertips tremble.

He was good. Too good.

Before I could stop myself I grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. His pupils blew wide, lips wet, cheeks flushed.

“Enough,” I managed, voice shaking. “Today… that's it for now.”

One corner of his mouth twitched—just the tiniest flicker.

I couldn't tell if it was a smile or mockery.

“Whatever you say… Brooke.”