His to Keep

Sasha

Disappointing.

That was the word circling inside my head as I lay beneath the pounding, sweating, moaning man.

And I’d had such high hopes. The guy was rugged and handsome, confident, obscenely rich. Every sign had suggested this man knew how to fuck. Those hopes had lasted right up until he slid two crooked fingers inside me and began what felt like a search for his keys inside my pussy.

I’d been looking for a man to help me let off some steam for a while. And by a while, I mean nine months since I’d last seen a dick. You can make an entire human in nine months. Get a spacecraft to Mars. Walk from New York to Los Angeles. I don’t know, people do things. I’d mostly made an ass-shaped dent in my couch and watched TikToks about places I could go if I ever left my apartment.

It got bad enough that I started considering hooking up with my project manager, Carl, who sends me a crying emoji if I don’t answer his Slack messages right away. That was when I knew I needed to get outside and get some action.

So I put on a slutty black strapless mini dress and red lipstick and went fishing for dick in one of those “speakeasy” bars that no one was supposed to know about, but that somehow had its own Instagram account.

In hindsight, I should have left when Spencer started licking my neck at the bar, and I felt not a tinge of arousal. But it was only nine p.m., and I’d already shaved my legs, so I wasn’t ready to give up that easily. I figured once I finally got laid, the curse would break and I’d feel alive again.

Wrong.

I stared at the ceiling while Spencer huffed and puffed on top of me, his rhythm getting more erratic by the second, like a washing machine with a shoe inside. He hadn’t looked at me in a while, so I let my eyes wander around the penthouse, trying to work out what a place like this cost. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the city, and beyond the glass doors was a terrace big enough to fit my entire apartment.

I wondered if I could find this place on Zillow.

Once I started estimating the room’s square footage, it was time to accept defeat. I sighed and tapped his shoulder.

“Yeah, girl. You love it, don’t you?”

“Actually, no.”

“What?”

He slowed, and I pressed both hands against his chest.

“Sorry, Spencer. This isn’t doing it for me. I’d better go.”

He mercifully slid out of me. I wriggled out from under him, climbed off the bed, and bent down to look for my panties. Where the hell were they?

“What? Sasha, where are you going?” He sat up and reached for my hand.

I straightened and stepped back before he could grab it. He stared at me, and I kept an eye on his hands, ready to knee him in the balls and run if I had to.

Rejecting a man without witnesses, in his own bedroom, could be... tricky. You never knew whether he’d start crying or choke the life out of you and drop you to the bottom of the lake.

To hell with the panties. I could buy more. I grabbed my tiny black dress and pulled it over my head.

“Sorry...” I stopped myself. I had nothing to be sorry for. “I suppose we’re just not compatible. These things happen.”

To his credit, he hadn’t tried to kill me. I know, I know, the bar is in hell.

He was still on the bed, slowly processing the news. For a Penn alumnus with what appeared to be a very successful career in finance, he was taking his time grasping the concept that a girl did not like him. Must be a first.

“Wait, Sasha. Let me try again. I can do better, I promise.” He reached toward me, palms up, eyes large and pleading.

Oh. That was sweet. Not my kink, though.

My eyes drifted to the floor-to-ceiling windows. A devastating loss. I’d be thinking about those for weeks.

“Spencer, you seem like a nice guy. You have a very nice penthouse.” I paused. “How about I introduce you to my friend Kate?”

Kate liked submissive men and telling people what to do. If he could take instruction, she could still make something of him.

He looked down at the sheets, then sighed.

“Sure. You have my number. Just... don’t tell anyone, please.” He sank back against the velvet pillows.

I gave him a thumbs-up and slipped into my shoes. Now, where the hell was my purse? The panties were expendable, but I was absolutely not leaving without my phone.

I must have left it in the kitchen. I hurried out, leaving Spencer alone to reflect on his life.

I made my way back through the enormous hallway, admiring the art on the walls. I didn’t know shit about paintings, but they looked expensive. Who exactly was Spencer? A hedge fund manager? The son of a hedge fund manager?

I should probably have asked more questions before losing my panties under his bed.

My purse was on the kitchen island. I checked that my phone was inside, then poured a glass of tap water.

Even the water tasted expensive.

Beyond the balcony doors, the city glittered, and I lingered with my purse over my shoulder, admiring the view. I really needed to leave, but I was having a hard time saying goodbye to the penthouse. Surely I could have one more look.

I stepped outside and walked over to the railing. Up here, the traffic had faded to a distant murmur, and as the cool air brushed my face, my shoulders finally relaxed. For a moment, I just stood there, looking out at the thousands of lit windows and wondering what it would be like to come home to this every night.

A noise from inside the apartment made me turn. Had Spencer gotten up? Fuck, I hoped he wasn’t coming to find me. I’d already said goodbye, and now I’d have to explain why I was still here.

I opened the balcony door and slipped back inside, easing it shut behind me. I was about to head for the front door when I heard his voice from the bedroom.

“No, no, please. I have money—”

Two muffled shots cut him off.

For a moment, I stood frozen, trying to convince myself I’d heard something other than gunshots. Then I heard footsteps coming down the corridor, and my stomach dropped.

I needed a weapon. There had to be knives in the kitchen... Jesus, Sasha, he has a gun. Hide.

My hand was still on the balcony door handle. I dropped to all fours, trembling with panic, trying to make myself small. This was when my fucking purse slid from my shoulder onto the floor with a dull thud.

The footsteps stopped.

I froze with my ass still in the air and my dress halfway up it. I couldn’t move or think, and my heart was slamming against my ribs.

This night is going to end up on a crime podcast after all.

All I could hear was my heart pounding. I held my breath, listening for footsteps, but nothing came.

Maybe he left. Please, God, let him have left.

The kitchen door slowly swung open, and a man in a black mask filled the doorway, his shoulders almost as wide as the frame. My eyes went straight to the gun in his hand.

For a second, he didn’t seem to notice me crouched beside the balcony door.

Then he looked down.