by Vivian Wood
I moan softly into my pillow at the memory and heat ripples up my body. This is bad. Sleeping with Misha is just work, it’s not real, and I shouldn’t let him occupy my thoughts or indulge in fantasies about him. I have to keep a clear head while I’m around him and that means not becoming muddled by feelings or lust. I won’t touch myself while thinking about him. I won’t.
It takes hours, but exhaustion finally wins out and I fall asleep.
At midday the next day I arrive at the bistro in Mayfair, telling myself that I look calm and professional and I’m going to be calm and professional. No tears today. I took pains over my appearance, choosing the cropped trousers and the black silk blouse and putting my hair up into a sleek ponytail.
Misha is already at the table and he gets up to meet me, kissing my cheek. He’s frowning deeply but I’m learning that Misha’s default setting is serious and I can feel from the way he holds my waist that he’s pleased to see me. I feel my heart turn over, because I’m happy about this. Professionally happy.
While we eat we chat about current events and I tell him about the human rights biography I’m reading. To my surprise, he’s read it too.
“I read in bed at night. I can’t sleep otherwise,” he explains to his steak tartare. I cover a smile with my napkin. He seems so shy today, catching my eye briefly only to look away again. It’s rather endearing, seeing such a hard, powerful man made bashful by a broke twenty-two-year-old who usually lazes about in frayed jeans.
When we finish our meals I edge my hand forward and stroke my finger over his knuckles. It seems to be the lifeline he’s been waiting for as he takes my hand and holds on tightly.
“I’m sorry that it was in the car,” he says quietly, frowning at our linked hands. His thumb massages my palm and it makes my heart pound hard, as if he was touching more intimate places.
His eyes dart up to mine. “It wasn’t a statement on how much I value you. I got carried away.”
I thought I’d feel embarrassed, talking about sex in public, especially with a client, but I whisper, “We both got carried away, but I don’t regret it. Oh, except that I’m sorry for your driver.”
Misha’s mouth quirks on one side. “I apologized and gave the man a bonus. He told me he didn’t see or hear a thing because he got out to smoke a cigarette. Lots of cigarettes.”
I get the giggles, picturing the poor man standing on the quiet London street for forty-five minutes while Misha and I carry on like a couple of horny teenagers.
Misha smiles broadly, watching me laugh. Then he grows serious again. “Next time I would like it to be someplace better, where we can take our time.”
“I’d like that too,” I say, threading my fingers more tightly through his. I don’t even have to think about it before I do it. I hope this means my sugar baby instincts are excellent.
“There’s a Chanel store near here. I want to take you there.”
“Oh?” He doesn’t need to buy me anything else. He’s already been ridiculously generous.
He doesn’t meet my gaze as he says, “I would like to buy you something, in return for a favor.”
My body tenses. So, we’re coming to it at last, what all Misha’s money and thoughtfulness have been buttering me up for. He must want something totally bizarre or demanding if he’s willing to pay me thirty grand a month. What could it be? I’m not into it, but I could pee on him if he wanted that. I would happily go to town on him with a riding crop as long as he didn’t expect to do the same to me. In fact, I could probably consent to doing most kinky things to him, and doing them without laughing, but I draw the line at letting him do the same back to me. I’m not letting a man flog me for money.
How do I say no, though, when I’ve already taken his money? Shit. I’m not as clever as I thought I was.
I try and keep my voice steady and smile. “But you’re already supporting me generously. There’s no need for you to give me anything else. Unless what you’re asking for is particularly…unusual?”
What if it has something to do with those alien dildos that deposit eggs inside of you? I don’t think I could wield one with a straight face.
“I would like you to go to class tomorrow,” he says. “And the next day. And the day after that. Complete the semester. Complete the degree. Will you do that for me?”
I stare at Misha. I thought he would ask for something for himself. Is this because of our conversation last night, when we talked about the things we do and why we enjoy them? I’m touched that he realized how important it is to me to do well professionally.
The waiter appears with the bill and I reluctantly let go of Misha’s hand so he can pay. I remember reading social media posts about how sugar daddies like to feel as if they’re mentoring you as well as enjoying your company, but I thought that would come way down on their list of priorities.
When we’re alone again, I say, “Yes, I can do that. Thank you, Misha, for caring about my education.” I don’t have to make myself look or sound grateful, either, because I mean what I’m saying. With all my heart.
He tucks his wallet back into his jacket pocket. “It’s what you wanted before your life got too hectic for study, I assume. Now that your life is perhaps settling down a little it seems like a good time for you to go back.”
It does actually, and I did think last night after a day spent doing not much other than shopping that I was starting to feel unchallenged. “But how do you know I haven’t been going to classes?”
He gives me a faint smile. “I guessed. Am I right?”
“Yes. I went on the first day of class last week but then…life kind of took over.”
“That is understandable. But you should make time now. I would like to know my girl is getting her education.”
His girl. A warm feeling fizzes through me. I probably shouldn’t enjoy him saying that, but I do. I really enjoy it. “All right, Misha.”
He fixes me with stern eyes. “If I ask to see you and you have class or you need to study, I want you to tell me no, all right?”
I melt a little bit more under his fierce gaze. “Yes. All right.”
I see another hint of a smile as stands up and straightens his suit jacket. “Good girl. Now, Chanel.”
We walk through Berkeley Square together, lined with white Georgian townhouses, the garden in the middle of the square drenched in sunshine. I watch couples holding hands or sitting on the grass eating lunch, and they seem so carefree. Somehow I can’t picture Misha sitting on the ground. He could take my hand. But he doesn’t.
The store is on New Bond Street, large and triple-fronted, with sleek salespeople and an aggressively fashionable atmosphere.
“Please help the young lady to whatever she wants,” Misha says to the first person who greets us. Then he goes and sits on a sofa and takes out his phone, waving away offers of champagne and sparkling water.
When I’m offered champagne, I say yes. I may as well enjoy myself. I intend to choose a few heavily branded items that I can sell later, but then I see a pair of patent and suede leather high heels and I’m easily persuaded to try them on. The salesperson passes me the matching handbag, and then she’s helping me into a short boucle jacket that looks lovely with the black blouse I’m wearing. Everything looks lovely, actually.
I glance over to where Misha is reading emails on his phone. Should I ask his permission before saying yes to any of this? As I watch he takes a call, gazing out the window as he talks, his mind clearly on other things. I turn back to the mirror. I’d look ridiculous showing up to university like this but I do need things I can wear around Misha. If he’s going to go about in tailored suits then I have to look smart, too.
They’re not part of my life, they’re part of his. I’m going home to a box-room with faded wallpaper.
I turn to the salesperson. “All of them, please.”
She collects my chosen items and I realize I’m not needed anymore, so I go back to Misha and sit down on the sofa next to him.
&
nbsp; “What did you get?” he murmurs, slipping an arm around my waist and hooking me against him. His proximity sends golden stars shooting through my body.
I nestle against his side and place a hand on his chest, feeling the strong thump of his heart beneath my fingers. He’s like a designer handbag, luxurious and unattainable for someone like me in ordinary circumstances.
“Oh, everything,” I say airily.
“Good girl.” Before he gets up to pay he kisses me behind the ear and I smile at him. But it’s not because of the presents he’s buying me.
Outside, Misha gets a car for me and helps me put my purchases in the trunk. Then I turned to him, uncertain, wondering what the etiquette is here. I don’t know how he feels about public displays of affection, or how much gratitude I should show. Is it cheap to say something flirty now, or would he expect that? In the end I can’t think of anything cute to say, so I just express my gratitude with a smile.
“Thank you for lunch and the shopping.”
“Of course, ljubica.”
Ljubica. That’s what he called me while we were having sex, and again when I was crying. It sounds Eastern European or Russian, and I guess that Misha must have been born elsewhere because every so often I hear something foreign in his accent. “What does that mean, “lyoo-bit-za”?”
He frowns and looks away. “Nothing. Just a Slovenian pet name. It’s not important.”
“Please tell me.”
He clears his throat. “It means ‘sweetheart.’”
I put my hand on his chest, stroking the silk of his tie, not sure what to say but wanting to show him that I like it, that I hope he will still call me by that endearment. It’s so pretty, ljubica, and it seems to come easily to his lips. “That’s lovely,” I whisper.
Misha slides his hands around my waist and pulls me against him. I love how possessive his hands feel, here in the street and in Chanel. I tilt my face up to his, waiting to see what he’ll do next. I like it when he takes charge.
His eyes flick to my lips and he kisses me, firm and demanding. The kiss brings a rush of heat to my face and my lips part in surprise and desire. I can feel every spot where my body is touching his. Misha kisses like he means it.
His tongue caresses mine briefly, a promise of more later, when we have more time. When we’re alone and have a bed and hours before us to explore each other thoroughly.
He breaks the kiss and his face is close to mine. “I have to go to Croatia for business this Thursday, to check progress on a development. I’ll be away for a few days.”
I feel a flash of disappointment. I suppose he’s telling me so I know he won’t be asking to see me.
“I would like you to come with me. That is, if you don’t have class or too much study to catch up on.”
I immediately brighten. Croatia. Thursday. Amid the surprise of his question and the distraction of his arms around me, I try to remember when my classes are.
“That works with my schedule. I have class until midday and Friday off.” I actually have class until eleven but getting ready to meet up with Misha takes a stupid amount of time and I need a buffer. “If I can bring some reading with me and study during the day when you have meetings…?”
Misha nods. “A very good idea. I’ll have my PA contact you with the arrangements.”
I haven’t had a holiday in two years and Croatia at this time of year will be beautiful. Sunshine. Azure sea. Wherever Misha will be staying is sure to be gorgeous. When I was researching being a sugar baby, going on business trips with your daddy seemed to be part of the deal. I find I quite like the idea, too.
His arms around me tighten and he closes his eyes briefly, his face very near mine. I look at the strong line of his nose, his furrowed brow, and I wonder what he’s thinking.
Maybe he’s not thinking at all. Maybe he’s just feeling, and showing me that he’s grateful that I’m coming with him. Maybe this is the only way he knows how, by holding me or giving me money.
He takes one breath, two, and then he releases me. He keeps one hand on my lower back as he helps me into the car, and as the car pulls away I wave out the window at my sugar daddy, and there’s a smile on his face. I think his difficulty on our first date was probably more than just being a sugar-beginner. He might not have been close to a woman in some time. Or maybe he’s just never been close to one.
He’s trying, though. And the fact that he’s trying, for me, makes my heart ache sweetly.
Chapter Twelve
Ciara
At home I carry my shopping into the house. My housemate is in the living room and he eyes my attire and the Chanel branding on the bags, but doesn’t say anything. I know what he’s thinking. That I’m living it up on my non-existent inheritance. The idea that I would do that makes my skin crawl, but there’s nothing I can do about it because I can’t tell him the truth.
After taking off my makeup I change into my sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt and make a plan of attack for my schoolwork, feeling so happy about delving back into my studies. I’ve missed twelve hours of lectures and tutorials. I consult the online class guides and see that by next Monday I should have read nine chapters of various textbooks and seven journal articles. Doubtlessly there’ll be papers due soon with more reading and research required, but for now I just have to play catch-up.
I spend the afternoon reading the journal articles through the university library portal and making notes. Several of my professors have put their lectures up online and I watch those, too, grateful for the recordings.
I’m deep in thought about an article when my phone buzzes and I see I have an email from Misha’s assistant about the trip. She tells me that a car will meet me at my address (or at what Misha thinks is my address) at one p.m. on Thursday and return me home at midday on Sunday. We’ll be staying in Dubrovnik, and she’s booked two rooms at the Grand Imperial Hotel. I smile at that. Two rooms. Misha, always the gentleman.
I acknowledge the email and add, Is there anything your boss likes? I’d love to buy him a present in thanks for all his kindness to me.
Her reply comes through a few minutes later. Whatever you’re doing already, just keep it up. I feel like buying you a present because he’s been 1000000% percent less cranky lately. If I didn’t know he was seeing you I’d think one of the lizard people was wearing his skin.
I grin, trying to imagine the person who wrote this email. I think I like her.
I make myself a cheese and marmite sandwich for my dinner and eat it at my laptop while scrolling through the fashion website I ordered clothes from yesterday, planning my outfits for the trip. I still have a few dresses and heels from Sloane for the evenings, but I buy a silver mini dress as well, so I have something of my own; plus two skirts, one short and one long; a bikini; a couple of short-sleeved tops; and a pair of flats. It will be hot in Croatia, and Misha might want to do some sight-seeing on the weekend.
I still want to get him something as well and so I click through to the menswear section and scroll through the items. I got this idea from the other babies on social media, who said that giving small gifts can mean a lot to sugar daddies. It makes things seem like less of a one-way street, even if you’re using his money to buy the gift. And I just like the idea. Misha’s been so kind to me and so thoughtful about my studies.
I choose a tie that reminds me of the color his eyes and add it to my order, and arrange for everything to be delivered tomorrow afternoon when I get home from class.
On my way to university in the morning I go to Ravnikar Enterprises. It’s not exactly on my route but I feel like it’s a good idea to give Mr. Ravnikar money now before I leave the country for four days. My hands feel clammy and my stomach is tight with nerves as I approach the building, but I find the courage somehow to just keep going and not think about blood and blades too much.
The same receptionist from the other day is at the front desk and I stride up to her. This time I’m not giving anyone the chance to send me underground
to meet a knife-wielding maniac. I throw the envelope on the counter.
“This is for Mr. Ravnikar. Please give it to him. I’ll know if he doesn’t get it—all of it.”
I turn away and march out before the woman can reply, but not before I see the flare of offense in her eyes at the idea that she would take anything that didn’t belong to her. She can take all the offense she likes. I trust no one at this shitty corporation.
Forty-five minutes later and about ten tons of anxiety lighter, I arrive at university and see Sloane sitting forlornly by herself at our usual table at the café. I want to roll my eyes. She has other friends. Why must she be so dramatic.
I walk over to her. “Hey, loser.”
When Sloane sees me her eyes light up like a Christmas tree. Then she reins in her delight. “Oh, hi.” She sniffs and examines her nails. “Come back, have you?”
I wait, grinning, and a second later she jumps up and throws her arms around me. “Oh, thank god, I’ve missed you so much. Class is no fun when I’m not trying to beat you at everything. I thought your SD would take up all your time now.”
“Actually, it was his idea that I come back to class. He thinks it’s important that I get my education.”
Sloane leans back and raises her eyebrows. “Does he really? Well, shit, maybe there’s some good in him after all.”
“He’s a grump, but he can be thoughtful, too. Coffee?”
“I’ll get it. The usual?” She reaches for her purse but I put out a hand and stop her.
“No, let me. It’s the least I can do to thank you for all the help you’ve given me.” And all the questions you haven’t asked. I go to the till and order a tall hazelnut latte for me and a soy cappuccino for her. When I come back bearing two paper cups Sloane seems to have decided that it’s time to make up for all her reticence. There are questions written all over her pretty face.