Page 64 of The Toy Collector

I watch her collect herself, straightening her spine, adjusting her choker so the ribbons hang properly once more. The transformation is fascinating—from wanton on her knees to composed in the span of moments.

She may look presentable again. But I know better. Her throat’s raw, her cunt’s dripping, and her lipstick’s still stamped on my shaft.

Chapter 23

Piper

Thanksgiving break looms like a finish line, and those of us still here are the stragglers, the ones with one more paper to submit, one more deadline to meet. Mine is part of my thesis, and I’ll have to defend it in front of my class before Christmas.

Lena walks beside me, her backpack slung over one shoulder. Two orange streaks frame her face—her personal celebration of Thanksgiving—and they catch the weak November sunlight like warning flares.

“Professor Donovan actually asked for a printed copy. With a staple,” I say, shaking my head as we cross Red Square, dodging the few remaining students hurrying toward freedom.

“Mine wanted three copies. Three.” Lena raises her fingers for emphasis. “Said his dog ate one last semester, so now he needs backups.”

“That’s not even a good lie.”

Relief blooms in my chest, loosening something that’s been tight for weeks. With the paper submitted, the pressure valve is released. There’s something about finishing a project that feels like taking off shoes that have been too tight all day.

Lena nudges my shoulder with hers. “Let’s go off campus for coffee. I need to be around people who aren’t obsessing over exams, papers, and anything else remotely intellectual.”

The café she chooses is three blocks away, a little place wedged between a bookstore and a vintage clothing shop. Inside, it’s warm and fragrant with spices; cinnamon, nutmeg, and clove. The holy trinity of fall. Most of the tables are empty; the rest of Georgetown seems to have already fled for break.

While I secure us a place to sit, Lena orders for both of us. She returns to our table with two oversized mugs of pumpkin spicelattes and a single slice of pumpkin pie with two forks.

“I got whipped cream on yours,” she says, sliding my mug toward me.

“Thank you.” I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my fingers.

Lena tilts her head, those orange streaks falling across her face. She wears gold hoop earrings that catch the light when she moves, and a loose-knit sweater dress in burnt orange that somehow makes her look both disheveled and perfectly put together.

“So.” She leans forward, elbows on the table. “We haven’t really talked in, what, two weeks? Three? I know I’ve been MIA, but so have you.” She stabs her fork in my direction in an accusatory motion.

“I’ve been busy.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either.

But I have been busy with papers, classes, and my internship. I’ve also been pretty preoccupied on my knees for hours at a time, getting intimately acquainted with the carpet in Enzo’s office, and the marks it leaves on my skin.

“Mhmm.” Lena takes a sip of her latte, leaving a crescent of foam on her upper lip. “Busy with school, or busy with something else? Maybesomeoneelse?”

Heat creeps up my neck. I reach for the pie, then the coffee, doing anything but looking at her, using the mug to hide my smile. “It’s nothing like that.”

“You’re lying,” she states. “Your left eyebrow does this little twitch when you lie. And right now, it’s dancing the Fandango.”

I touch my eyebrow automatically. “It does not.”

“Does too. You’re also avoiding eye contact.” She pauses, then grins as she leans even closer, her voice dropping to a stage whisper. “And you’ve been walking like your soul’s been rearranged.”

The coffee stops halfway to my mouth. “Shut up.”

“Oh, my God, Pipes.” Her eyes widen, fork clattering against the plate. “I was just teasing. But… there totally is someone. Spill it!”

“Lee!” I glance around, but no one’s paying attention to us. The barista is scrolling on her phone, and the only other customers are an elderly couple by the window.

I take a long sip of coffee, using the mug to hide my smile.

“Are you seeing someone or not?” Lena asks directly, her playfulness giving way to genuine curiosity.

“Yes,” I say before I can think better of it. The word hangs between us like a confession.

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