After he went bankrupt, I became his sugar mom

Even though I was in a hurry to keep Ethan, I had zero actual bedroom experience. None.

I never expected his teasing skills to be that lethal. Just kissing almost made me scream.

This could not happen.

I had to show Ethan who was in charge. I was the one paying!

The next morning I found him in the living room folding my dry-cleaning.

I leaned against the doorframe. “Why are you wearing so many clothes in my house? Don't want me to look?”

He paused, holding one of my silk camisoles.

I crossed my arms. “House rule number one: no shirts indoors. Ever.”

His brows drew together, anger flashing.

“Brooke!”

I smiled.

“Don't like it? Door's right there. I can send the money back to your account.”

His teeth clicked together. He set the hanger down and reached for his pants.

“Wait,” I called, “leave those on for now.”

He exhaled through his nose—half scoff, half laugh. He turned to the kitchen and started coffee. Every muscle in his back was tight, like he was holding rage inside.

I followed, hopped onto the quartz island, and watched. Watched the light play across his shoulders, watched his biceps flex as he poured oat milk into my favorite mug.

So damn tempting.

Like he was deliberately teasing me!

“Rule number two,” I said. “You cook, you clean, you look pretty, and you do whatever I tell you. No attitude.”

He set the mug in front of me without meeting my eyes. “Got it.”

“Good boy.”

His knuckles went white on the counter edge.

“Come here so I can touch you.”

He went instantly wary.

Before he could react I threatened, “Not willing? Refund…”

He gave me a complicated look. Resigned, he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth again, and turned to face me.

I nodded, satisfied. The second my fingers met his chest I felt the tiny tremor run through him.

Firm. Warm.

So good to touch.

Ignoring his expression, I slid my hand lower.

The lower I went, the redder his face got. His whole body shook with anger, breathing fast.

By the time I was kneading and exploring further he actually let out a muffled groan.

“Brooke…”

I pressed two fingers to his lips. “You can't keep calling your sugar daddy by name.”

“Then what do I call you?”

“Hmm… call me Mistress.”

“…”

In the end Ethan never said it.

I didn't push. I wasn't into that anyway; I was just messing with him.

I sipped my coffee, enjoying the view and the thick tension in the air.

That afternoon my friend Riley showed up uninvited with bagels and gossip.

When she saw Ethan in nothing but gray Nike basketball shorts and an apron, vacuuming, she froze in the doorway.

“Brooke,” she hissed, dragging me into the pantry. “You have Ethan Hayes doing your chores?”

“He's broke,” I shrugged. “What else is he supposed to do?”

“Girl, men like him don't stay broke. They bounce back. They reinvent. They get even more powerful.”

I peeked through the crack. Ethan was on his knees scrubbing the baseboards, head down, every line of his body radiating controlled humiliation.

“He's finished,” I told her. “Trust me.”

Later I made him say it out loud.

“Ethan, come here.”

He walked over, still wearing the apron, abs gleaming under the recessed lights.

“Tell Riley exactly what you are to me.”

His throat worked. Shame, anger, resignation crossed his face.

Eyes lowered, voice low and rough: “I'm her… kept man.”

Riley's jaw literally dropped.

After he went back to cleaning she stared at me. “I still can't believe he agreed. What exactly have you made him do?”

My cheeks heated. “Mostly… aesthetic labor.”