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𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔫𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔢𝔦𝔤𝔫.
"We need to talk about the conditions."
To talk is not the same as to put them into ink, but she does not want a contract, hasn't wanted one from the start. For every other thing – every sponsorship, every appearance, every minute detail, she wants a contract, but in this instance, it would make her feel cheap. Sold, even if she is the seller. Perhaps this would be a good moment for regret, but regret does not come easily to her, and this is no exception. Her father would rage, if he knew she did not mean to get anything in writing, but, and it bolsters her resolve, her father would rage as well. Casimir Zarek is closer to his age than her own.
This isn't, she reckons, all that unusual for people like them. Both the situation and the age gap, but mostly the situation – what was the name of that actor, the one from the cult? Rumour him and his ex-wife, or at least one of them, did it on some kind of contract, too. Hell, it's probably more common now, where anyone could get famous on social media and numbers were everything. It will be good for both of their brands: she has missed out on the health craze, she has never posted pictures of herself exercising or eating clean or sipping juice cleanses, though she has done it all, because her body is as much, if not more, an asset than her mind is on some days. It would give her a boost, as would that hint of a scandal, the talk and the drama. Those who come only to see more of him, too.
He will get a new slew of followers as well: men who believe he'll get them a girlfriend half his age, then a number of her own followers, more deals for his own brand. It'll be worth every second in gold.
So here she is, in his minimalist haven, sipping one of his teas and finding herself enjoying the taste and view alike. If it must be anyone, she thinks, it might as well be someone as attractive as Casimir Zarek.
To talk is not the same as to put them into ink, but she does not want a contract, hasn't wanted one from the start. For every other thing – every sponsorship, every appearance, every minute detail, she wants a contract, but in this instance, it would make her feel cheap. Sold, even if she is the seller. Perhaps this would be a good moment for regret, but regret does not come easily to her, and this is no exception. Her father would rage, if he knew she did not mean to get anything in writing, but, and it bolsters her resolve, her father would rage as well. Casimir Zarek is closer to his age than her own.
This isn't, she reckons, all that unusual for people like them. Both the situation and the age gap, but mostly the situation – what was the name of that actor, the one from the cult? Rumour him and his ex-wife, or at least one of them, did it on some kind of contract, too. Hell, it's probably more common now, where anyone could get famous on social media and numbers were everything. It will be good for both of their brands: she has missed out on the health craze, she has never posted pictures of herself exercising or eating clean or sipping juice cleanses, though she has done it all, because her body is as much, if not more, an asset than her mind is on some days. It would give her a boost, as would that hint of a scandal, the talk and the drama. Those who come only to see more of him, too.
He will get a new slew of followers as well: men who believe he'll get them a girlfriend half his age, then a number of her own followers, more deals for his own brand. It'll be worth every second in gold.
So here she is, in his minimalist haven, sipping one of his teas and finding herself enjoying the taste and view alike. If it must be anyone, she thinks, it might as well be someone as attractive as Casimir Zarek.
no subject
He nips at her ear; she moans her response, until her shirt is torn open and she can hear the tell-tale clutter of buttons falling to the floor. It's nothing compared to the sudden impact, the roughness with which he's shoved her into place, and perhaps part of her response means to restore some sort of balance in power. "You'll replace that," she hisses, and bites back another hungry sound from her throat. No rewards for manhandling her, she thinks, for about as long as it takes for her to grab at the hand at her thigh, meaning to finally force him to touch her where she needs him most. In spite of her sudden lurch in frustration with him, she is wet and waiting between her thighs, and her fingers dig sharp nails into his hand where she means to take some semblance of charge, even as he has her pinned and half-bared.
no subject
"I can afford it," he assures her, and the smirk is as clear in his tone as it is on his face; a joke with himself, a smug reassurance of how little he need care about such petty things. She drags his hand higher, and he can feel in the slick, smooth heat of her cunt just how little she actually minds this frustration. He can be kind, too, he decides, and takes her clear demand, pressing manicured fingers against her entrance and seeking out, with the pad of his thumb, the hood of her clit. His mouth wanders down again, teeth scraping the hollow of her collarbone, his fingers kneading roughly against the soft weight of her breast.