Page 16 of Deeper

His words were heavy and I didn’t like how they made me feel. “What, do you write poetry too?”

“I enjoy art in all its forms, Bianka,” Zander said matter-of-factly. “I think next to music, fucking would be my favorite.”

“Sure you wouldn’t say ‘making love’?” I teased.

Zander shook his head, serious. “No. Fucking is just different. It can be raw, primal, aggressive, selfish—hard. It’s you taking paint and throwing it at the wall and not caring about boundaries or constraints. Not worrying about the picture being pretty.

“To make love, you have to see the image, gently coax it out of your creative places as you take your time. It’s art, too, but it’s not like fucking.”

Holy shit. “That was deep.”

Zander gave a lazy shrug. “Just how I see it.”

Seriously though. “I like that.”

He got this naughty smile on his face. “How deep can you take me?”

His words were laced in sheer innuendo and I was glad there was distance between us. If we were closer, my towel would be on the floor and he would be inside of me. I knew it, and so did he. I could practically feel his hands all over my body again, grabbing, squeezing, owning me. The object of his desire.

Zander released me generously. “Hold that thought. I’m going to go freshen up.”

He slipped into the bathroom, and because he clearly heard me before, he started singing the lyrics to “Wet the Bed.” He was taunting me, and a needy part of me wanted to be in that bathroom with him, or back in bed, going at it some more.

I struggled, but I snapped out of it and pulled myself together and quickly dressed. I was on my way to the front door when I heard him speak up behind me.

We were in the sitting room. The door was just across from me. My escape.

“Let me have Olson take you home if you’re determined to go,” Zander said.

“No, I’m going to get an Uber,” I said.

Zander accepted this. “Let me wire you some money to take care of the trip.”

“No,” I shot him down again.

Zander didn’t hide his disappointment in all my refusal. I knew, in a way, I was letting down all those female artists I listened to who advised you to take money from men, to “finesse” them. But my pride had always been too much to ever let the idea be okay with me. I guessed a woman in my position, about to go back home to a shitty, small outdated apartment, should’ve been willing to take the money, to maybe even suggest a much bigger amount, or even blackmail Zander into giving up more for my silence. But I had pride, and I could, and always had been capable of, take care of myself.

“It’s not that much,” I said, trying to let him down easier.

Zander let it go. “Can I have your number, to know you got home safe?”

This took me by surprise. Zander had a sweet side. “I’ll DM you on Instagram and let you know.”

Zander narrowed his eyes. “Humor me.”

If his driver took me home, he’d know where I lived. If he had my number, he could contact me. It was important to cut all ties now and forever, so that no one could know what we’d done.

“Give me your number and I’ll text you when I get in,” I suggested.

Defeat caused Zander’s shoulders to sag. He knew this tactic, this much more polite way of rejection. Still, he recited his number without missing a beat. “213-555-0112.”

Doing my part in this play we were in, where I was pretending I was going to go home and text him, I typed his number into my phone. “Thanks.” I looked up and caught Zander watching me, and I was glad he didn’t touch me or try to. If he could undo me just by looking at me, I knew I’d let him have me on the floor if he touched me.

Suddenly, I laughed, to lighten the mood. “This is so awkward. I don’t usually do this. I’ve never…donethisbefore.”

One-night stands were something I read about or watched in movies. I never was that adventurous in my life. I gave myself away in relationships only, something that made me an eternal “good girl” in Victoria’s eyes. Not that she wasn’t; her random romps weren’t many to write home about.

Zander’s lips twitched. “Me neither.”

---