Chapter 2: The Asexual Arrangement
Izzy arrives with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, her eyebrow piercing glinting under the chandelier as Ron circles her like a shark, his eyes raking over her petite frame—she doesn’t blush, doesn’t fidget, just meets his gaze and says flatly, 'Buddy told me the rules. Fuck me when you want. I'm on the pill. I don’t care.'
Her words hung in the air between us, dry and factual as a receipt. I stopped circling, letting my gaze linger on the sharp line of her collarbone above a faded band t-shirt she’d cut into a crop top. The fabric was strained tight across her small breasts.
“Buddy gave you the full tour, then,” I said, my voice casual. I moved to the bar cart, the crystal decanter clinking softly as I poured two fingers of bourbon. The amber liquid caught the late afternoon light filtering through the windows.
She shrugged, the duffel bag dropping to the polished floor with a thud. “He said you like it raw, and you like to finish inside. He said you test clean every month for your… projects.” Her tone wasn’t challenging, just informational. Her hazel eyes, framed by that glinting silver bar through her eyebrow, held mine without a flicker. “I get tested every month anyway. For my own peace of mind.”
I took a slow sip, the burn smooth and familiar down my throat. “And the ‘don’t care’ part?”
“Means what it says.” She finally moved, walking past me to run a hand over the back of the leather sofa. Her shorts were indeed very short, hugging the compact curves of her ass. “I don’t get anything out of it, but I don’t dislike it. It’s a physical process. Like getting a flu shot, but with more… friction.”
I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped me. It was the most clinical description of sex I’d ever heard. “A flu shot. Right.”
“You can laugh.” She turned, leaning against the sofa. “But it simplifies things. No performance, no fake moaning. I’ll be present, I’ll participate, but the emotional weather report is clear skies. Always.”
I set my glass down, the base clicking against the mahogany. The distance between us felt charged, but not with the usual electric anticipation I got from Tiffany or the others. This was colder, more intriguing. A puzzle made of flesh.
“Present and participating covers a lot of ground,” I said, stepping closer. The scent of her was different—unscented soap and a faint, clean sweat. “What’s your preference? Bedroom, couch, right here on the floor?”
She didn’t look away. “The floor’s fine. Less laundry.”
Her utter practicality was a bizarre turn-on. My pulse, which had been steady, began a low, insistent drumbeat. I reached out and hooked a finger in the frayed hem of her cutoff tee, tugging it up slightly. Her stomach was flat, pale, with a small, silver navel ring.
“Now?” she asked, as if confirming a dentist appointment.
“Unless you had other plans.”
“My plans were to unpack and maybe raid your fridge. This is faster.” Her hands went to the button of her shorts, popping it open with efficient snaps. She pushed them down her hips, stepping out of them without a trace of seduction. She wasn’t shy; she was just getting undressed.
I watched her, my own arousal a thick, heavy feeling. She stood before me in just her crop top and plain cotton panties, her pubic hair a dark shadow against the fabric. I closed the last of the distance, my hands settling on her hips. She was petite, my fingers nearly spanning her waist.
I bent my head, my mouth finding the skin of her neck. She didn’t gasp or arch into me. She tilted her head to the side, granting better access, a gesture of utility. I kissed along her jawline, my tongue tasting salt. My cock, already hard from her bluntness, strained against my jeans.
“Should I lie down?” Her voice was close to my ear, calm.
“Yes.”
She lowered herself to the Persian rug, the intricate patterns weaving around her. The golden light from the window painted a stripe across her thighs. She looked up at me, waiting. I undid my belt, the leather sliding free with a hiss, then shoved my jeans and boxers down.
Her eyes dropped, registering the sight. No appreciative murmur, no widened eyes. Just observation. “Buddy wasn’t exaggerating about the girth,” she noted.
I knelt between her legs, pushing her thighs apart with my knees. Her panties were a simple barrier; I hooked my thumbs in the sides and pulled them down. She lifted her hips to help. Then she was bare, open, and completely still.
I positioned myself, the broad head of my cock pressing against her entrance. She was dry. I reached down, spitting into my palm, slicking myself roughly. She watched the process, her expression neutral.
“Ready?” I asked, the word feeling absurd.
“Go ahead.”
I pushed in. The resistance was immediate and tight, a hot, clenching pressure that made my breath catch. She was small, and she wasn’t aroused, so every inch was a deliberate, stretching conquest. Her breath hitched once, a short, sharp inhale through her nose.
“Okay?” I grunted, pausing when I was fully seated. The feeling was incredible—a vise-like, uncompromising heat.
“It’s fine. You can move.”
I began to thrust, a slow, deep rhythm. The sound was wet now, filling the sunlit room. Her body accommodated me, but it didn’t welcome me. There was no answering roll of her hips, no clutch of her hands on my back. Her arms were at her sides, palms flat on the rug. Her face was turned toward the window, watching the clouds drift past the hills.
I fucked her with a focused intensity, chasing the coiled pleasure in my own groin. The detachment was strangely potent. It was all me, my power, my use of her. I gripped her hip, my fingers digging in, setting a harder pace. Her tee had ridden up, and I watched our joined bodies, the vivid contrast of my tan against her pallor.
“Look at me,” I said, my voice rough.
She turned her head, her gaze meeting mine. It was clear, empty of passion but fully aware. I drove into her, over and over, the pressure building to a breaking point. My balls tightened, the familiar surge gathering at the base of my spine.
“I’m going to come,” I warned her, my rhythm fragmenting.
“I know.” Her voice was even. “Do it.”
The permission, so flatly given, unleashed it. I slammed deep, holding myself there as the orgasm ripped through me. It was a blinding, solitary explosion. I groaned, pulsing into her, flooding that tight, neutral space with everything I had. It seemed to last forever, just like with Tiffany, but the context was a sterile void.
I collapsed forward, catching my weight on my elbows, my forehead damp against her shoulder. I could feel the rapid beat of her heart, a physiological response and nothing more. After a moment, I slipped out of her.
She immediately sat up, reaching for her discarded panties. She blotted herself between her legs with the cotton fabric, a pragmatic gesture. “That was sufficient,” she stated, pulling the panties back on.
I sat back on my heels, watching her dress. My mind was a jumble of satisfaction and profound weirdness. She stood, adjusting her crop top.
“Which room is mine?” she asked, as if we’d just concluded a brief meeting.
“Down the hall, last door on the left.” My voice felt raw.
She nodded, picking up her duffel bag. She took two steps toward the hallway, then paused, glancing back. “Oh. I prefer if you don’t come in my hair. It’s just been dyed this violet shade, and semen is a bitch to wash out.”
Then she walked away, the soft click of her footsteps fading. I remained on the rug, the smell of sex and bourbon in the air, the city humming its distant song below. The transaction was complete, and for the first time, I felt the exact weight of what I’d just bought.