Page 91 of Country Contract

While Harlow showers, I finish setting everything up and then tidy up my own shit. I’m sitting and scrolling through new tack when she finally emerges, towel wrapped around her, wrap holding her hair. Her skin looks flushed and dewy. Those fucking collarbones are highlighted as if she put moisturizer specifically on them. Her neck is pink and begging for me to kiss and nip at it. Her eyes widen at the sight of her bed.

“Ah, Harlow, you made it just in time. Your appointment was five minutes ago.” I fake what I think is a good city accent, but it sounds a little British.

She smiles brightly at me.

“Is this one of those places that gives massages with happy endings?”

I act as if I am appalled by her suggestion.

“My dear, no! You were penciled in for a pedicure.”

Harlow laughs loudly, and I smile at how beautiful she is. I grab her new robe and open it for her. Once she has it on and tied, she reaches under and pulls the towel from her. I swallow hard, wondering if there is a tiny piece of fabric under there or if she’s completely bare.

“Please, lie down.” I open my arms dramatically to the bed, and she saunters over.

I massage her feet, place a toe separator in between her toes, and pull out two bottles of nail polish.

“Which one do you want, dear?” I show them to her, and her laughter booms through the room.

The bottles of polish are by two different brands—one called Midnight and the other called Licorice. She quiets herself and then taps on her lips for only a moment before speaking.

“I’ll take the Midnight on the left and Licorice on the right.”

“Lovely choice.”

I pay close attention as I paint and blow on each toe. Harlow’s eyes are on me, and I love being her point of focus. We talk a little bit, just light conversation that isn’t really about anything at all. It just flows.

She asks me about some high school memories, and I share them.

I ask her about the first book she edited, and she knows every detail.

We talk about the movies we’ve been watching.

When I finish both of her feet, I hold them in my hands by her heel and admire them.

“I swear I’m not weird?—”

“Says weird people,” she interrupts.

I give a flirty glare and push on. “Your feet are beautiful, just like the restof you.”

“I knew it,” she says definitively, and I look at in her in question.

“You have a foot fetish.” She is so fucking proud of herself.

“I do not!” I say with a barking laugh. “Why do you think that?”

“Ummm, because you are always holding my feet. Always rubbing and touching them. You put them in your lap . . . on your dick. I know it, even if you don’t yet.”

I laugh even harder.

“Harlow, I do not have a foot fetish. I don’t have any fetishes.”

“Oh yes, you do. Feet. Praise. Domination and submission. You have kinks. If I was making out with you and then stopped and went to the other side of the couch and rubbed your dick with my feet, would you tell me to stop?”

I have tears in my eyes from the laughter.

“No man would.”

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