Chapter 5: The Invitation and a New Game
The knock on his office door was too soft, almost apologetic. Aidan stared at it, his mind still half-trapped in the hum of the air conditioner and the ghost-sensation of warm water. It was three days since the villa. Three days of trying to recalibrate, of forcing his brain to follow the elegant logic of differential equations instead of the chaotic calculus of that night.
“Come in.”
She was not a student. She moved with a liquid grace his undergraduates lacked, dressed in a tailored sheath the colour of mint. Her heels were silent on the linoleum. She held a simple ivory envelope between two manicured fingers.
“Professor Walters.”
“Yes.”
She placed the envelope on the desk, atop a scatter of ungraded papers. “From Khun Vit. He hopes you are rested.” Her eyes were deep brown and held no judgment, only a detached, professional curiosity. They flickered over the faded equations on the board, then back to him. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. “He said you would appreciate the efficiency.”
She left as quietly as she came. The scent of gardenias lingered.
Aidan didn’t touch the envelope for a full minute. The hum of the fluorescent lights seemed to grow louder. Outside, a group of students laughed, their voices fading down the corridor. Finally, he slid a finger under the flap. No letter. Just a black key card for the Viangping Suite at the Dhara Dhevi, and a slip of thick paper with a handwritten note: The weekend is yours. My guests await. -V
The door clicked open again. Prae slipped inside, locking it behind her. She leaned against it, arms crossed, observing him. She wore denim cut-offs and a tight white tank top, her hair in a messy bun. She looked real, solid, amid the institutional grey.
“The messenger find you?” she asked.
He held up the card. “What is this?”
“An invitation. A very expensive one.” She pushed off the door and walked to the desk, hip-checking it gently. “Vit’s wife is in Monaco. His ‘guests’ are… friends. Their friends. Wives. Mistresses. The bored and the beautiful. They heard about the pool. Now they want a private viewing.”
A cold knot tightened in his stomach. “A viewing.”
“Don’t look so shocked. You’re a rare import. A limited edition.” She picked up the key card, twirling it. “The Dhara Dhevi. Very fancy. Jacuzzi on the balcony. Silk sheets. A minibar full of things you shouldn’t drink before a workout.” She dropped the card. It landed with a plastic slap. “They’ll come to you. One at a time, probably. Maybe two if they’re friends. Vit has arranged it. Discreetly. They’ll have the room number. They’ll knock.”
“And I just… let them in.”
“You just perform.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. She came around the desk, settling herself on the edge, one leg brushing his arm. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? The legend? The great farang mathematician with the magic cock?” Her tone wasn’t cruel, but it was stripped bare. “This is where the legend gets booked. Like a resort entertainment.”
He looked up at her. The raw connection he felt with her—the laughter, the sweat, the uncomplicated hunger—felt galaxies away from this cold transaction. “And you? What do you get out of this?”
Prae’s dark eyes held his. A flicker of something complex moved through them—affection, maybe, mixed with a sharp pragmatism. “I get to watch. I get to be the one who found you. I get… access.” She leaned down, her voice dropping to a whisper. “And I get you, after. When you’re drained and confused and need someone who doesn’t see a myth. I get the real thing.”
Her hand slid to his belt, fingers quick and practiced. He didn’t stop her. The anger, the humiliation, the thrilling dark pull of it—it all churned into a single, focused need.
The lock on the office door was flimsy. Anyone could try the handle. The blinds were open a crack. He didn’t care.
He pushed her back onto the desk. Papers fluttered to the floor like dying birds. Her deep laugh was throaty, triumphant. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts and panties, shimmying them down. The air conditioning vent above them rattled.
“See?” she gasped as he drove into her, the desk leg squeaking in protest against the linoleum. “You love it. You hate that you love it. But you love it.”
He did. The sheer physical truth of it was the only thing that made sense. Her tiny, tight cunt gripping him, banishing the cold precision of the key card, the clinical note. This was heat and noise and Prae’s nails scoring his back through his shirt. This was real.
He came inside her with a gritted-teeth groan, his forehead against her shoulder. The rhythmic thud of their bodies slowed, replaced by the relentless, buzzing hum of the lights.
She held him for a moment, her fingers in his hair. Then she patted his flank. “Up. We’ll be late.”
“Late?”
She wriggled out from under him, pulling her clothes back on with swift efficiency. “Your first guest is at seven. We need to get you to the hotel. You need to shower. You smell like me and cheap office cleaner.”
He righted himself, tucking his shirt in, feeling spent and strangely hollow again. The performance was already beginning, and he hadn’t even left campus.
Prae straightened a stack of fallen papers, her businesslike demeanor returned. “Vit keeps a list, you know,” she said casually, not looking at him. “Not a written one. A mental one. Who’s sampled the merchandise. Their… reviews. Your reputation is currency now. It’s growing. Be nice to them. Be impressive. The more impressed they are, the more valuable you become.”
Aidan looked at the key card, still lying on his desk. It looked like a razor blade.
“What happens when the currency devalues?”
Prae finally met his gaze. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Then the legend ends. And you’re just another tall, lonely farang in an ugly shirt, grading papers in a quiet office.” She picked up the card and pressed it into his palm. Her hand was warm. “So don’t let it end.”
The drive to the hotel was silent. She dropped him at the sweeping, traditional entrance, all carved teak and orchids. “Room 341. Good luck.”
He stood there, the key card digging into his palm. The hotel loomed, beautiful and silent. A gilded cage for the weekend.
At exactly seven PM, a knock came. Not timid. Firm, expectant.
Aidan stood in the centre of the lavish suite, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, untouched. He was clean, showered, wearing one of the hotel’s plush robes. He felt like a prop arranged on a set.
He opened the door.
She was older than he expected, perhaps forty-five, impeccably dressed in a grey silk pantsuit. Her hair was cut in a severe, elegant bob. She carried a Prada handbag. Her eyes swept over him, from his face down to the robe’s sash, with the appraising coolness of someone selecting fruit at a market.
“Professor,” she said, her English polished. She didn’t wait for an invitation. She stepped past him into the room, her perfume a cloud of neroli and sandalwood. She set her bag on a side table, its click against the wood final.
She turned, looking at the sprawling bed, the balcony overlooking the lit gardens, then back at him. “I am told you are a man who appreciates…” she paused, seeking the word, “…directness.”
She unbuttoned her jacket, slipped it off. She wasn’t wearing a blouse underneath, just a lace bra. Her movements were economical, unhurried. “My husband is at a board meeting. He thinks I am at a spa.” She stepped out of her trousers, folded them neatly over a chair. “We have two hours. Vit says you have the stamina for three. I would like to test that claim.”
Aidan just stood there, watching her. The robe felt absurd. He untied the sash and let it fall.
Her eyes widened, just for a fraction of a second. A slight, professional inhale. The first crack in her composure. Then the cool mask returned, edged now with a focused hunger.
“Ah,” she said, a small, satisfied sound. “I see the rumors were not exaggerated.” She walked towards him, stopping just within reach. “Shall we begin?”
The knock at the door had been the starter’s pistol. The weekend had begun. He was no longer Aidan Walters, professor. He was a function.A service. A living, breathing proof of a theorem written in gossip and desire.
And as he followed her to the bed, he knew Prae was right. He hated it. And a dark, hidden part of him, the part that had floated emptily on that pool mattress, loved it more than anything.