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harlot, charlatan

explicit 🔞 | sylus/reader | 11.8k summary: for the last year of your life, you've been sugaring for sylus: an impossibly wealthy man who is far too old for you. now, your arrangement has reached its breaking point. tags: sugar daddy au, lovers to enemies to lovers, age gap, ages kept vague but sylus is at least in his 50s and mc is at least in her 20s, fake dating, hurt/comfort, break-up sex, switch!sylusmc, 69, praise kink, choking, vaginal sex, miscommunication author's note: for #sylusbday2026 day 4: sugar daddy, as hosted by @aliciascanvas ! this fic can also be read on ao3!

Under the crystal chandelier, everything dazzles in the chic ballroom made host to the lavish gala you're attending. From floor to ceiling, the extravagant architecture and styling whispers sophistication, and screams wealth. After over a year of attending these events at Sylus' side, you would think you'd be accustomed to such opulence, but even now you still can't seem to tear your eyes away from the glamour and luxury before you.

It's one of the many reasons why you'll never belong here.

No one else ogles the decor. To the elite, it's all part of the background; details unworthy of their attention. This is the only setting they know. Where else would you host a charity auction? These people don't meet where the innocent eyes of common folk can perceive them. All except you, of course.

You've had to learn how to camouflage yourself into their world. To look like them, act like them, even think like them. All in the name of blending in seamlessly, as if you're just another furnishing among the scenery. That's your job, isn't it? To be the perfect little plaything hanging off Sylus' arm.

These are the unspoken parameters of your arrangement. You have a role to play—the beautiful, well-behaved girlfriend to the handsome billionaire over twice your age.

You despise it.

Sylus' arm curls around your waist, his deep voice dropping to a whisper as the two of you make your way to your table. "Try and enjoy yourself, kitten. You're already grimacing."

"And if I don't?" You plaster on an overtly fake grin, lips spreading wide to show off your teeth, like an ape threatening violence.

He sighs, ringed fingers smoothing along your stomach. To onlookers, the two of you must look like a picture-perfect couple. He's as handsome as you are beautiful; that silver hair and matching stubble a compliment to his age as much as your youth is. Tonight, Sylus has dressed you in an archival gown you have no business wearing, and you take notice of the gawking looks from the more fashion-forward that must recognize the piece.

For all that showing off, he's greedy with his touches. Hardly ever does he take his hands off of you; always possessive, laying his claim. You lean into his hold like a real girlfriend would, as if the two of you were an actual couple. Even when you're in a bad mood, there are some parts of the performance too deeply ingrained in muscle memory for you to let up. Your facial expressions, however, have always been more difficult to rein in.

Sylus does a much better job of it than you; smiling courteously to his wealthy acquaintances as you pass through the ballroom, even as his words come with bite under his breath. "You act like I'm holding you hostage. I want you to have fun."

"Please, you just want more jewelry for your collection."

"Well, I won't deny that," he agrees. "There's one particular piece I can't wait to see you in."

"Right." Another gift, another payment for your service.

"But more importantly, the mayor is here tonight." Ah, there it is. These events are never really about the auction, and even less about the charity they're supposedly supporting. Elites only flock together for the games of power, the leveraging, the off-record negotiations. The rest is all pretense, and Sylus always has an angle—he couldn't mastermind a globe-spanning infrastructure and real estate group without one. "There's this particular zoning issue I think she can speed along for me, so I may have to leave you for a moment after dinner."

"Because God forbid your whore is present for you talking politics."

His hold tightens around you. There's only so much venom he can manage to suppress in his hushed tone. "Untrue, and you know I hate it when you refer to yourself like that, sweetie."

You don't bother with suppression. "Sorry, your sex worker."

Sylus stops suddenly, and you would have tripped in your heels if it weren't for his arm tugging you into him until you're pressed to his chest. His other hand cups your face, thumb rubbing lightly across your cheek, holding you in place before he dips down to kiss you. It's quick, almost chaste, and his lips linger against yours when he speaks. "That would imply we're having sex."

An apt point. Despite the realm your relationship inhabits, the two of you aren't actually sleeping together—not since you were added to his payroll, at least. There's been roaming touches, tension and innuendo, kisses for both present and absent audiences that have left you heaving into each other's mouths, but sex is a line you haven't crossed. It doesn't change anything. You know your place. You don't need to be in bed together for it to be true.

"Do you have a better word for it?" you whisper, still grazing his lips.

He hums. "Partner? Lover?"

This time, you kiss him—a little dirtier, a little less concerned for time and place—until he's forced to pull away. Your hand curls around the back of his neck so he can't get too far from you. "That would imply we're in love."

Sylus smiles. "It would, wouldn't it?"

It wasn't always so tenuous between the two of you. At first, you enjoyed all the gifts Sylus would send you in his relentless pursuit of your affection, the power you had in rejecting his advances, and the money he'd spend to try and change your mind. You knew how badly he wanted you. Back then, maybe you even wanted him too. It was a different sort of game you played—cat and mouse, though who was the cat and who was the mouse was up for debate. The fun was in seeing just how far you could push each other until one of you finally capitulated.

Then came his offer, and everything changed. How could you have said no when he presented you with an allowance worth more than you could have possibly hoped to make so early into your career? Within months, you could pay off your debt. And all you had to do was play the part of his girlfriend; attend galas, vacations, and public events at his side.

It sounded too good to be true—a beautiful man old enough to be your father promising to spoil you beyond your wildest dreams. You didn't think it would make you so miserable.

At first, awe helped to mask just how out of place you felt in his world. Quickly, however, it became impossible to ignore. Maybe it would be different, if you were actually with Sylus in the way you pretend to be. But the charade only serves to exacerbate the canyon of class between the two of you. You can never be one of them—you're just an accessory. Every day, it becomes harder to bear just how much you hate your role in his life.

You're not so unaware as to believe your malice comes from a place of righteousness. You love the money, and would happily embrace the title of gold digger if pressed. No, it has nothing to do with a disdain for the wealthy and their opulence. The ugly truth is that you want to be a part of this world. Of Sylus' world. Worthy just like everyone else; an equal in their eyes and his.

For so long, you've watched the way they move. How a whisper in the ear of the right person can sway elections, how an off-hand comment can send tremors through entire economies, how a handshake can determine the future of millions of jobs. It's insidious. It's addictive. And you want to know what it feels like to have that power. For Sylus to watch as you topple empires with a smile just as he does.

Instead, you'll always be an outsider to them, and to Sylus, you'll be just another expense.

You've grown tired of pretending you're anything but the over-glorified escort that you are. Sugar baby feels too sanitized from your reality, and sugar daddy is too kind for how you feel towards Sylus anymore. This isn't a fun little cat and mouse game. This is a job, and one where every day your care for the reputation of your employer dwindles.

The two of you are seated at your table with two other couples. You don't recognize them as being particularly important figures, and Sylus confirms this for you when he graces them with only shallow small-talk. He tends to save the true strength of his charm for bigger fish. Apéritifs come and go ceremoniously and the auction is held with all the self-congratulatory fanfare you've come to expect of those who posture tax evasion as charity work.

One thing you can delight in this evening, is watching Sylus lose. Oh, how you love that scowl when he's outbid, and relish in the foul aura that radiates from him all throughout dinner. Then there's the way he grips your thigh beneath the table, hand sneaking under the slit in your gown in response to the stress, and you feel lightening shoot through your core at the contact.

You can't help smiling as you lean in to whisper in his ear. "I thought you were going to win me that necklace?"

"Its value was overstated," Sylus mutters under his breath, and that tone of his fills you with wonderful schadenfreude.

After so long together, you know how to hit him where it hurts. "I think you're just being cheap."

His fingers tighten, and his eyebrow twitches. "Cheap? That's very funny, kitten. Do you have any idea how much it cost to get you in that dress?"

"I know how much it cost to get me in this room." The transfer hit your bank account this morning. A generous sum, as always.

"Are you asking for more?"

"I'm always asking for more."

Sylus chuckles, and now it's his turn to dip next to your ear. Close as he is, each word reverberates through you, and you fight off a shudder. "And what do I get in return?"

"What else could you possibly need?"

"I think you know what I want, kitten." His touch strays, those large fingers of his trailing inside your thigh until you can feel the heat of them radiate next to your cunt. If you let yourself shift ever so slightly, if you squeezed your legs together just so, you could grind against them. You almost do just that.

Unfortunately for him, you've had a year to master your restraint. You latch onto his wrist, preventing him from moving any further. "And here I thought you didn't want me to be your whore."

He places a kiss to your neck, muffling his speech into your skin. "You know that's not what I'm talking about."

Before you can wrack your brain for what on earth he could want more than sex, servers come to whisk away your plates and take orders for digestifs. Sylus breaks from you to get himself his whiskey, and you your sherry. When drinks arrive, guests begin to rise and mingle. It's then that Sylus finally excuses himself to speak with the mayor, and you're left to stew at the table.

One sherry turns to two, turns to three, and on your fourth Sylus still hasn't finished his politicking. All you can do is sit and glare with your drink in hand as he schmoozes. The mayor is a beautiful woman, and much closer in age to Sylus than you are. You watch as she laughs herself into his personal space, at the manicured nails that curl around his bicep. The two of them look like a proper couple, and you wonder if that's what everyone else is thinking too. You can only imagine the kind of scandal they'd get themselves into with his wealth and her power. Maybe that's exactly what he's interested in. Zoning issue, he said. Oh, please. You're not an idiot.

"I have to know how you got your hands on that dress," comes a woman's voice, jolting you from your thoughts and you nearly drop your glass in surprise.

You look to see one of your table-mates has scooted closer to you. Her husband and the other couple have gone to mingle and left just the two of you alone together, though you hadn't noticed until now. Usually, no one bothers you with small-talk unless they have something to gain. You wonder exactly what her angle is.

"I have no idea," you say. Too much to drink leaves you unable to cushion your speech. "I assume Sylus just threw enough money at it like he does everything else."

She laughs as if you told a joke. "You two are so sweet together."

You nearly choke on your wine. "Sweet?"

"The way he looks at you, how you can't keep your hands off each other. Whispering to yourselves all through dinner. It's sweet."

Now you know she's angling for something. "I'm sure."

"So," she begins, then pauses for a moment. The hesitation says that she's unsure if your guard is down enough to get at what she actually wants from you. "How did you two meet?"

Ah, yes—gossip, pure and simple. Was it the age difference that made her curious? Sylus' wealth and reputation? Or maybe she can just tell that you don't belong here.

Usually, when faced with this question, you default to the easy lie. Mutual friends, you'd say, as rehearsed. It's just vague enough not to raise questions, to allow the conversation to fade into other rambling minutiae. It gives you the grace of innocence and saves Sylus the shame.

His ego, however, has become less and less of your concern.

There's always the more honest explanation that lingers in the back of your mind. You could tell her about how you really met at an exclusive resort where you were just as out of place as you are here. It was chance that the person you were interning for at the time was on some sort of business there, dragging you along as more of a personal assistant than the actual job you were supposed to be doing. Not that you had a problem with that, aside from the pay you were clearly owed, and you happily took the pseudo-vacation. At that point, the resort was the nicest place you'd ever been. These days, it pales in comparison to the myriad of adventures Sylus has taken you on.

Still, you were awestruck by the luxury and nervous, then, to bask in it. You thought it was rebellious to sneak out to the vibrantly lit hot tubs late into the night, expecting to have it all to yourself at such a ludicrous hour.

But there he was—an old fashioned curled in his hand, silver hair slicked back, an air of sophistication to him even when so relaxed. His age was obvious in the wrinkles on his forehead, the crow's feet at his eyes and the smile lines chiselled deep into his cheeks—but it'd be a lie to say you weren't more attracted to him because of it. You still like to pretend you don't have a thing for older men, but certain patterns in your love life beg to differ. None of them have ever been as handsome as Sylus, however. Certainly none as rich.

His aura alone intimidated you, and if you weren't so frozen by your nerves, maybe you would have been quicker to turn and leave. But red eyes met yours, and he waved you over with a suggestive smirk. Hopelessly, you were drawn into his orbit. Or maybe he was drawn to yours, and you simply brought him in when you answered his beckoning.

Slowly, still anticipating a rejection, you stepped into the hot tub until no such rejection came, and you sat opposite him, chest-deep in the water. He didn't try to hide his ogling. You didn't mind.

"Can I get you something to drink?" he asked, and already, you were gone for that deep voice of his.

"But the bar's closed," you pointed out, eyebrow raised.

He smirked, and with a wave of his hand, an attendant came to greet him as if summoned from the ether. Soon enough, you had your wine and Sylus had his whiskey.

You talked into the night, and with every beat of conversation you drifted closer and closer together until close just wasn't enough, and you ended up in his lap. His hands curled around your waist. You dragged yourself against him. Talking turned to kissing. Kissing turned to your hand around his throat, his fingers over your clit. Every time you whimpered you felt his cock jump beneath you, and only after he made you come twice for him did he take you back to his room where he fucked you until the sun rose.

Logic told you that it would be nothing more than a one night stand, but before you left, he insisted on getting your number. Then he flew out to see you. When he was too busy, he sent gifts. When you told him you couldn't drop all responsibility to jet set with a man you barely knew, the gifts escalated in value. And when that persuasion wasn't enough, when you rejected him over and over again, he made you an offer.

Would things be different between you, if you had said no?

A stupid thought. There is no world where you are his equal. You're not a billionaire. You're not a politician. You're half his age.

Right now, he's flirting with another woman who, on all counts, would be so much better for him. Hell, with his status, he has his pick of any one of the rich and beautiful people in this ballroom. You're just a trophy he can show off before he leaves you for someone more fitting.

You decide that you don't care for his reputation anymore. "I'm his whore."

The woman's jaw drops, eyes blinking wide. After a moment of shock, she tries to soften your blow. "Come again? I think I misheard you."

But it feels far too good to finally come clean. "He's paying me to be with him. I'm his prostitute. Sex worker. Escort. Is that so difficult to understand?"

"I'm… sorry?"

"What are you apologizing for? You asked for a reason. Don't act like you weren't already thinking it," you mock, rolling your eyes. "Why else would he be dating a woman so much younger than him? Or do people like you think that's normal?"

There's a hand at your shoulder, and a voice you know too well interrupts your tirade. "What's going on here?"

You turn to Sylus, grinning. "I'm just telling this lovely woman about how I'm a gold digging slut and you're a pathetic scumbag who's paying me to be your arm candy."

He grimaces, and you pride yourself in getting under his skin so easily. "Such delightful conversation. Let's go dance, kitten."

"I don't want to. Oh, wait, I don't have a choice, do I?"

"Kitten."

As you stand from your seat, you give one last parting remark to the dumbstruck woman at the table. "It was a pleasure chatting. I need to go service my client now."

Sylus doesn't whisk you away to the dance floor. Instead, he walks with you arm in arm through to the lobby and your shoes echo loudly with each hurried step across the marble floor. As soon as you're outside, he's rubbing his hands over your arms soothingly.

"Are you alright?" he asks, far too softly for the kind of adrenaline high you're riding.

"Alright?" You swat him away. "I'm perfectly fine. In fact, I feel like a weight has been lifted."

This doesn't seem to lessen his misplaced concern, but now it comes with a sigh of exhaustion. "What happened?"

"She asked how we met and I told her exactly why we're together. Do I have to lie every single time?"

"That's not—" He cuts himself off with a huff, taking out his phone from his back pocket and sending off a text before returning to you. He cups your jaw, fighting off your squirming with his other hand at your hip. There's a moment of evaluation while searching for something in your eyes, tilting your head back and forth in the clutch of his large hand. Whatever investigation he was up to comes to a straight-forward conclusion: "You're drunk."

"I am not drunk," you spit. The gall of this man. If you weren't in public, you'd strangle him. Actually, you still might.

"Fine, you're perfectly sober. I think it's time we head back to the hotel regardless," Sylus sighs, then releases you from his touch.

When he turns to the street, you grab onto his arm. "What? You don't have a zoning issue to resolve anymore?"

"That's not my priority right now." His eyes narrow into that look of annoyance you've read on his face many times before.

"You’re treating me like a child."

“And why is that, I wonder?” he replies, firm. An end to the conversation on account of you being unable to reply with anything more than an indignant huff. Sylus then takes your hand in his, and helps you into the sleek black sedan that pulls up to the curb.

You languish in weighted silence the entire way to the hotel. It's a short drive, a few minutes away only because Sylus hates the hotel hosting the gala for the petty reasoning of it belonging to a competitor of his. So in lieu of a long car ride, you continue your silent treatment up the elevator ride to a penthouse suite on the top floor.

It's a beautiful room—floor to ceiling windows and art deco decor all styled perfectly in Sylus' brand. Expensive, of course, as if that would matter. You like it well enough, except for the fact that Sylus is insistent on only reserving suites with a single bedroom. He likes to cuddle. You only pretend to mind. The lone bed serves as an excuse for you both. But tonight, you can't stand the thought of laying next to him.

“I’m taking the bedroom. You can sleep on the couch." You don't bother to look at him as you say it, taking off your shoes.

He audibly scoffs. “You seem to be forgetting about my bad back.”

Here we go again. There's always something to whine about. Your fault for getting yourself involved with an old man. “Get another room, then.”

“I like this one.”

“I don’t care.”

“You’re acting like it’s your name on the reservation, sweetie.” All his playfulness from earlier in the night has vanished, leaving only that snide attitude that drives you insane. In these moments, he's always so quick to point out exactly what he's paid for, like that alone gives him leverage in the argument. Asshole.

You turn to him at last, arms crossed over your chest. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

“Then what do you want, Sylus?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, closing his eyes. With his brows furrowed like this, the wrinkles on his forehead bunch together, and you think he's never looked as old as he does now. There's a long beat, and he takes a deep breath in. “I think we should continue this conversation in the morning.”

Bullshit. You're not letting him get away with avoiding you when he's acting like this. “Whatever it is you want to say to me in the morning, you can say right now.”

“I’d rather wait.”

“I’d rather not.”

Sylus leans against the back of the long sofa. For a moment, all he does is stare at his shoes, fingers strumming against the leather anxiously. You almost go to lambaste him again, but then he turns to you, and you don't think you've ever seen him so serious. Those red eyes cut into you, his expression drawn tight. He speaks with finality. “I think we should end our arrangement.”

Your heart drops to your stomach. “What?”

He doesn't waiver. “I won’t cancel the deposits unless you ask me to, but you won’t need to accompany me anymore. No strings. No fine print. The money is yours. You’re welcome to forget I exist entirely.”

This has to be some sick attempt at winning the fight. “You can’t be serious. You’re breaking up with me?”

“Breaking up would imply we were dating, kitten."

“Oh my God. You actually mean it.” Not once did you think that it would be Sylus who ends things with you. He's always been the more desperate one. You're needy for his cash, he's needy for your affection. Why else would he be paying you exorbitant amounts just to hang off his arm? Because he wants you there. He wants you. How can he just throw you away like this?

“I told you that I’d rather discuss this in the morning,” he says. Still, he sounds so certain.

“So what? Now I’m not good enough for you?” Sure, maybe you acted out tonight. But it's no different from any other night, is it? That's just your dynamic—permanently in opposition to the other as you plaster on loving smiles for the audience. There must be another reason.

“That is not what I’m trying to say.”

“It’s what I’m hearing. What is it, then? Couldn’t handle me telling one single person the truth of our relationship? Oh, boo-hoo. Your poor reputation. Get over it," you spit, but he doesn't seem shaken in the slightest, so you score the line deeper. "Or is it that I’m just too young for you? No, wait. I get it. I’m actually too old. One little dimple and I’ve aged out of your twisted fantasy, so now I’m useless for showing off to all your perverted friends. You’re really disgusting, you know that?”

“It has nothing to do—“

“I don’t want to hear it.”

His eyebrow twitches, and he pushes off from the sofa to tower over you. “Maybe it'll help if you do.”

Oh, there he goes condescending to you. “Don’t act like you know what’s best for me. I’m a person, not a pet.”

“I’m also a person. Do I not get the same grace of speaking for myself?”

Like you care what he has to say when he's breaking up with you. You're so sick of him and his damn posturing. “God, you are so frustrating.”

He almost laughs in your face. “You've taken the words right out of my mouth, sweetie.”

“Fuck you.” You pick up your shoes and throw them into his chest, turning to stomp into the bedroom before they've even hit the floor.

The door slams behind you, and immediately, you pick up a decorative cushion from the neighbouring armchair to scream into it. You hate him. You truly fucking hate him. Where does he get off ending things with you only to continue to degrade you with his money? And the worst part is that you won't say no. He gets to leave you, and you'll be forever indebted to him. Fucking asshole.

You'll miss these galas just as much as you hate them. You'll miss the auctions. You'll miss the gossip and the glamour. You'll miss commiserating with Sylus. You'll miss leading him on. You'll miss his arm around you. You'll miss the end of the night, where you pretend to be asleep when he pulls you into his chest and nuzzles into your hair.

Shiny things are bound to lose their lustre, and it was always going to end sooner or later. Both of you were just so miserable. What kind of a man suffers through that for the sake of a whore? At least you had the money to motivate you. Sylus had so many better options. The mayor, for example.

Whatever. What he does with his life is not your concern anymore. It's over, and you're so tired.

But as you go to ready for bed, you realize there's just one problem. You can't get out of this dress on your own.

The zipper sits just out of reach, your nails too long for precision, and your breath catches at any slight stretching of the delicate fabric as you try and grab for it. This isn't a normal gown. It's archival. Fashion history. You don't care how much it cost or what strings were pulled to get your hands on it, but you do care about returning it in perfect condition.

Sylus helped you into it. There's only one option for getting you out.

Fuck.

You stand their stewing for who knows how long before you finally set aside what's left of your pride to call for him.

"Sylus?" There's no answer, not at first, and you feel so pathetic calling his name again, louder. Nothing stirs. Maybe he's already left you, and all of this is for naught. You don't know why you even expected him to stay out there. Then, after too long, just before you go to scream, the door opens.

Sylus' bow-tie is pulled loose, dangling around his neck and over his shirt. His jacket is gone, and his hair is ruffled into disarray. It's a habit of his to run his hands through it when he's stressed. You almost smile at the thought.

The tension hangs between you in a different way—more simmering, less explosive. When you look to him now, you feel as though you're meeting as exes of whatever you were before. He goes to say something, but you get the first word in. "I can't reach the zipper."

"Is that so?" he says, and his tone comes gentler than it did earlier, still mocking, but not as stinging.

"Just get on with it." You turn your back to him, staring at the desk ahead of you.

You're left to stand there foolishly for a moment, and you almost go to shoot him a glare over your shoulder when you feel him approach. He moves in close, closer than he needs to, his fingers softly grazing the exposed skin on your back. You prickle at the proximity, gooseflesh raising at the barely-there touch. You shiver when he leans in next to your ear.

"Why don't you say it, kitten?" he whispers.

"Say what?"

He draws his fingers between your shoulder blades. "That you want my help."

"Don't get so high and mighty."

"All you have to do is ask nicely." He lets out a breathless sort of laugh, less perturbed by your hostility now than before. How easily the tide shifts when you're vulnerable like this.

"I don't want to," you huff.

"Always so stubborn." His hand smooths down your back, across your bare skin and dipping below your dress to feel you there as well. Strategically, he avoids the zipper in his exploration, drawing his hand out and then over the fabric, curving around your waist, then back up, across your shoulder and down your arm.

You hate that you melt into his intimacy, leaning into his chest out of pure instinct until you're head is flush with his shoulder. Logically, you know you need to get this over with before you do something you'll regret, like forgive him. Your arrangement is over. You can't forget that.

"Please unzip me, Sylus," you say, capitulating. If that's what it takes to hurry this along.

He hums against your ear, and you feel him smile. "As you wish."

Finally, that touch breaks from the bare of your skin and to the zipper instead. But Sylus moves at a torturous pace, the teeth parting ever so slowly, one pair at a time. All the while you feel his breath at the back of your neck, his other hand holding you steady at the waist. Down, down, the zipper is drawn. By the time he reaches the bottom, you're not quite sure whether or not you wanted it to end.

Sylus' fingers drag back up your spine, causing you to arch with a hitch of your breath, until he settles around the back of your neck. "Is that all?"

"For now." You don't know why you say something so open-ended; it's more of an invitation than you mean to give. Rage still simmers under your skin, hurt burns along with it, but his touch brings another heat you can't find the will to deny.

Then that touch is gone, and you can hear him step away from you. He doesn't, however, make for the door. Instead, you look over your shoulder to see him sat at the end of the large bed. His legs are spread apart as he leans back on his elbows, and that dishevelled look of his suddenly becomes far too appetizing. You recognize that look in his eyes, and you're pulled under a wave of déjà vu. It's just like that night you met, where he lounged in that hot tub and you were paralyzed by his wanton stare. This time, however, he doesn't beckon for you. The play is all yours.

Moments ago, you fought so explosively that Sylus felt the need to end things between you two. And now here he is, ire set aside as if nothing happened. He's not offering an apology, nor is he asking for one. This room became a liminal space the second you called for him. No man's land, so long as you don't address it.

It's as much an act of cruelty as it is an act of charity to strip in front of him. But even so, you don't want him to look away. You want him to watch as you bring the straps over your shoulders, as the neckline falls over your breasts, as you slip it carefully down your hips, as it pools at your ankles. His eyes burn into you when you step out of the dress, left in nothing but the set of lingerie he chose, he paid for. You feel him still as you bend over to pick it up from the floor, as you drape it gently over the back of a chair.

You walk over to where he sits, and watch his fingers flex into fists. A voice in the back of your mind screams at you to remember your fight, but the thought of the end of your arrangement only spurs you forward, as if its absence brings with it a permission.

In mirror of that night so long ago, you plant a knee on either side of him, straddling his hips until you're seated in his lap. Your hand curls around the nape of his neck. His hands settle onto your waist. All you can hear is the thudding of your heart in your ears.

His orbit, your orbit, who can say which one is drawn into the other?

A pressure valve releases, the steam whistles, and your lips are on his before you can second guess it. You can't help but moan into his mouth as he groans into yours. He tugs you closer, and you pull him forward, until every part of you melds into every part of him. Your hips grind down as your tongue entangles with his, an entire year's worth of tension flowing between you.

Your fingers scramble for the buttons on his shirt with none of the hesitancy he showed for your dress. When you get annoyed with how long it's taking, you simple rip it open instead, uncaring for gentleness when you feel so desperate to get at his skin. Sylus doesn't seem to mind, releasing you just long enough for you to shuck off the shirt, then returning his grip to your ass. You moan as his fingers dig into your flesh, as he raises a knee to settle between your legs and give you something to grind against.

With his torso now bare, you paw at the soft give of his stomach, the hair on his chest, and relish in a body well-suited for his age. God, you really like that he's so much older than you.

You break from his lips and he chases after you, and to punish his greed, you push his chest until he's forced flat against the bed, allowing you to look down on him. "I like you beneath me. It's a nice change of pace."

"You could have always had me at your mercy, kitten." Sylus smiles wickedly, his hands still guiding your hips as you grind.

"It's harder from the other end of the leash." Your fingers carefully wrap around his throat, both in want of the act and in want of his shutting up.

Sylus doesn't look displeased in the slightest. In fact, he smirks as your fingers tighten, as his breath hitches with the pressure. It satisfies you just as much to have him beholden to you like this, and you bite your lip as you squeeze, as his hips cant beneath you and you're rocked on his thigh.

Just like that, you choke and release, choke and release, rhythmic to your core grinding down on him. His Adam's apple undulates under your palm, and the firm press of his leg against your cunt sends bolts of pleasure through you. The fabric of your panties suddenly feels like too much of a barrier, and you release him to quickly shuck them off, lace ripping in your thoughtlessness.

"So careless. I spent good money on those," Sylus teases even with his voice hoarse, heaving with newly open airways.

You laugh, sitting back on his thighs. "Dirty money, you mean."

He hums in agreement, his hands groping up your sides until they land over your breasts and the sheer lace of your bra. "You know I love dressing you, kitten."

You're well aware. Still, you enjoy hearing him admit it. "Like with that gown tonight?"

"Of course, but I should know better than to put you in something precious. It was a test of will not to tear it off of you just as soon as you put it on. Especially when I knew what was underneath." To emphasize his point, his fingers make quick work of the clasp on your bra, and you allow him the honor of taking it off.

"As if you'd be so lucky."

Even when he's pinned beneath you, the red impressions of your fingers around his neck, he peers up to you with a look of victory. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Bastard. Fine then, he can have you now, but you resolve yourself to be sure it doesn't go further than tonight. He's the one who ended things with you, after all. This is just a parting gift for yourself to mark the end of your arrangement. One last curtain call before you exit stage right.

In this moment, however, you don't want to think further ahead than his cock inside of you. Quickly, you make for his pants, undoing the button and dragging down his own zipper until ease of access is granted. When you take them off, you notice one glaring issue. For all you've gotten up to so far, his large cock sits only semi-erect in front of you.

"Are you serious? How are you not hard?" Quite frankly, it's insulting.

"I'm not as young as I used to be, kitten." Sylus takes your hand in his, guiding it to wrap around his cock. "Why don't you be a good girl and help me along?"

Instinctively, you begin to stroke him, even as you glare. "Oh, please. You think I'm just going to get on my knees and call you daddy?"

His cock twitches in your hold. "I wouldn't mind."

"You're a pig."

"We wouldn't be here if I wasn't, sweetie."

"Someone needs to teach you to shut that smug mouth of yours," you retort. It's then that you twist around, crawling backwards to plant a knee on either side of his head until you're face-to-face with his cock and he's face-to-face with your cunt.

You feel his hot breath against you, and somehow that alone has your insides fluttering. Unlike him, you're already dripping just from grinding against his thigh, and you almost have the thought to be embarrassed by it. Almost, because too quickly do his hands wrap around your thighs and pull you onto his face. Your brain stutters to a halt as his mouth meets your entrance, eager tongue licking into you, his stubble brushing against your skin with a delightful roughness that has you mewling.

Unwilling to be left behind in the pace he's set, you take his cock into your mouth just as his nose buries into your cunt. You moan around him, hollowing your cheeks as you bob along the length, and with every suck you feel him harden in your mouth. The harder he gets, the less you can take, your lips stretched more and more by the minute. His hips kick up, forcing his cock deeper into your throat, enough that you nearly choke and spit drools out of your mouth as he fucks into you. Your nails dig into his thighs, both in warning and to steady yourself as you gag around him.

Your focus is lost as he sucks around your clit, nerves set alight, impossible now not to grind down against his face. You clench even with your emptiness and nearly collapse as he continues his feast. Not once do you fear smothering him—if anything, he continues to hold you against him tighter and tighter, like he's happy to lose air in exchange for the carnal pleasure of eating you out so ravenously. Your cunt grinds against his nose, clit caught between his lips, stubble chaffing against your skin, and you're suddenly the one desperate to catch your breath as you come. His cock falls from your mouth when you rock into his, thighs squeezing his head as you ride his face through the waves of ecstasy that ravage up through your spine and set everything ablaze in their path.

"Fuck," you groan, panting. His huge cock rests against your face, now proudly erect, and even in your post-orgasm haze you can't help kissing at it.

But God, you don't think you've ever wanted it inside of you more. A year of restraint, of patience, and now it's all you can think about.

You lift yourself off of his face, even as you twitch with every kitten-lick to your dripping cunt as Sylus chases after it. Awe overcomes you for a moment as you finally get a good look at him—his face covered in your slick, all red with blush and his open-mouthed pants for air, and yet he's never looked more smug in all the time you've known him. A real feat, considering his ego.

The last thing you want is to stroke it further, but the monster between his legs is difficult to ignore. You continue to palm at his cock as you direct him to slide up the bed. "I forgot how big you were. For an old man, anyways."

"You wound me. Here I thought I outclassed men of any age."

You settle over his shaft, grinding along the length of him. "Wealth makes you blind, Sylus."

"But it heightens other senses." His hands return to grope you once again, dragging deep into the flesh your thighs, your hips, your waist, while his cock ruts between your folds. It feels too good as it rubs along your clit, and every so often it catches on your entrance, the tip of him desperate to be let in.

No longer can you deny yourself, so you finally indulge—bringing his cock to your opening and slowly sinking down.

Little by little, you lower yourself on his cock, feeling your body expand to accompany him. But the stretch is too much too quickly, and you think that maybe you should have opened yourself on your fingers first. It's been a long while since you've last had sex. There's been no one else, not since you've been so wrapped up in Sylus' company. You know you're being impatient, but you feel too bold to back down from the challenge now. Your breath stutters as he enters you, eyes screwing shut in focus. It must signal something to him, because that's when his arm wraps around your torso and pulls you down into his chest.

"Too eager for your own good, kitten," he murmurs into your ear. His other hand settles on your hip, steadying you from sinking further on your own. Your control is stolen from right under you just like that, and you're forced to simply accept what he gives you. It's easy to forget just how experienced he is, but that practice shows itself with how each little shift of his hips has you loosening for him. "You can take it. That's it, just like that. So good for me."

You're so embarrassed by how easily his praise has you mewling, and you bury your face in his neck from the shame. Just in time too, because one of those large hands sneaks between the two of you to rub at your clit, and that has your mewls turn into a cry.

All at once, he's made you so weak to him. But the sensation is too good not to let yourself relinquish a bit of the fight when the pain has turned to pleasure, when you're brought further down until he's filled you completely. You feel every twitch of his cock inside of you, every one of your nerves flush with him, and it's as though you couldn't squeeze him any tighter. Still, even with him so snug, your body tries to clench.

"Tight," Sylus gasps.

"That's what you get"—you shudder, and it's hard to get out the words when you feel like he's pierced you all the way through to your throat—"for fucking someone half your age." His cock jumps within you, and he groans low, a growl reverberating through his chest. He's so easy it makes you laugh into his neck. "You're such a pervert, Sylus."

"Says the needy little thing taking my cock so well," he says, and just like that the tables turn and he has you moaning into his skin. "You call me the pervert, and yet, here you are, melting so beautifully for an old man like me. I think you love it just as much, kitten."

You sink your teeth into his neck, keen on shutting him up, and his hips cant up into you with the sting. Enough talk. Your body finally feels settled around his cock, and you are beyond ready to fuck him now. Just as soon as you finish marking his neck enough that he can't so easily forget about you in the morning.

Only once you're satisfied with your handy work do you pull away to settle on his hips, looking down at him from above, hands pressed to his chest. He already looks so perfectly fucked out, and you hope you can save this image in your memory long after he leaves you. Usually, you prefer to close your eyes during sex. It's easier to focus on the pleasure, to centre your mind on getting off as quickly as possible when you block out the rest of the world. But now, you want this to last as you raise yourself up his length. You want to savor the way his lashes flutter as you bring yourself back down. You want to capture this forever, this impossibly rich and powerful man at your mercy.

You find your rhythm with the helpful guidance of his hands on your hips, and he holds your gaze like it's a competition to see who will break away first. Neither of you want to lose, even as you ride him into a fever pitch of pleasure.

There's something about the way he looks at you, the way you feel looking at him, that causes your chest to tighten. Right here, where you're both stripped and bare, your bodies connected in the most intimate way possible, you don't feel so far away from him. Everything else fades, and for a moment, he's not too old for you, and you're not too young for him. He's not his net worth, and you're not his expense. He's Sylus. You're you. Just two people in orbit. It seems so simple all of a sudden. Frightening.

Stupid thoughts cloud your head, heightened by ecstasy, and you feel foolish for wanting to be made raw like this with him for more than tonight. He ended things with you. All this sex is just one last hurrah, and hoping for anything more is pushing your luck. This is no man's land.

You break the unspoken treaty.

"I think we should renegotiate our terms."

His fingers dig into your hips, holding you still. For a second, your heart stops as well. Oh God, what have you done? Should have kept your mouth shut and stayed in blissful sexual purgatory. At the very least your stupidity could have waited until after you came.

But a slow smile spreads across his face. "You've put me in a terrible position to refuse."

"It's a skill I learned from you." For emphasis, you continue to circle your hips.

"Devious little thing, aren't you?" He chuckles, but it morphs into a breathless little moan at the tail end of it. "Well, you're in luck. I was thinking the same thing."

Wonderful relief overcomes you. For just a bit longer, you can remain in this horrible web you've woven for yourselves. You had already begun to miss it, like an addict to the misery. If only you knew why he changed his mind. Maybe the sex convinced him otherwise, or maybe he just feels the same as you—hopelessly entangled in this self-inflicted agony. Terrible together but worse apart.

He must be too drunk on sex to realize how much leverage he's handed you now. With his cock throbbing inside your walls, you decide to test the limits of his want for you. "I have some new stipulations."

"What's your angle, then?" He raises an eyebrow.

You start small. "I want a month in the tropics."

"That's it? A vacation?"

"Without you."

"Sounds lonely, kitten." Sylus hums, releasing his hold on your hips to ghost his fingers along your spine, the touch forcing a gasp out of you. It almost brings you to waiver, nearly falling into his chest before you steady yourself.

"I'll bring a friend." In revenge, you drag yourself up along his cock, then back down, and when you go to move again his hand shoots back to try and keep you still.

"I thought we were friends?" Even as his breaths come heavy, he manages to pout.

"Not even close."

"Is that all, then?"

You think for a moment, grinding your hips down, allowing yourself the relief of that thick cock rubbing against your insides just right. After a moment of contemplation, you come up with something. "I want a car."

"What kind?" he answers quickly.

"A McLaren," you say.

Sylus only laughs. "You have expensive taste."

"Says the one who keeps trying to buy me."

"I never said it was a problem." His hands travel up your sides, along your torso, until he's groping your breasts. His fingers pinch your nipples lightly, then tug hard, and you're made so weak that you collapse onto him with a moan. Exactly as he planned, it seems, because one arm curls around you tight to hold you there as he whispers in your ear. "Be greedier, kitten. What else? A penthouse? A yacht? An island?"

You try to pull away to regain your power, but you can't get any further than meeting him face-to-face, noses brushing. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're always so reasonable."

Lips meet lips as you speak, your fingers curling around his neck, thumb petting his Adam's apple. "I'm not the one paying off younger women to sleep with me."

He smiles against you. "No, you're just the young woman getting paid."

"Bastard," you say, and then you're kissing him again with enough force to drown out your ire. Patience leaves you, hesitancy along with it, and you're fucking yourself on his cock just as you squeeze his throat. Sylus meets you with his thrusts, planting his feet on the bed and fucking up into you, bouncing you on his length faster than you can keep up until you're practically open-mouthed drooling instead of kissing him.

Sylus fucks you so thoroughly that you can no longer think, nothing beyond the wonderful stretch of his cock inside of you filling your thoughts. Just his hand on your hip, his thumb at your clit, his breaths against your face and his body rocking against your own. You mean to tell him him that you're close, but the words are so malformed by your pleasure that they're more a litany of whimpers than anything else. It's alright, experience lives in Sylus' touch, and he brings you to the edge without any need for guidance. You bite down on his shoulder as you come, and his hips flex up to grind into your cunt, stringing you up in your orgasm for so long it numbs you.

But he leaves you with no time to recover. Bless and curse the endurance granted to him by his age, because his cock is still hard inside of you, and he flips you in your weakened state. Now you're the one pressed into the mattress, and he has you trapped underneath him. You're not sure there's anywhere you'd rather be.

"You've had your fun, kitten. Now I get to fuck you exactly as I please," he growls, leaving sloppy kisses along your collar, your shoulder, your neck, until those kisses become nips into your skin, and those nips turn to bites. His hands roam freely, groping every bit of flesh he can reach—your ass, your thighs, your breasts—until no part of you is unmarred by the impressions of his fingers. It's both reverential and defiling, like you're being taken apart and put back together by someone whose sole expertise is your body. All the while, his cock rocks inside of you.

A witty remark waits on your tongue, but a sudden thrust chokes it from you and you can no longer remember what it was you were going to say. And then he thrusts again, harder, the slap of skin-on-skin loud enough to break the sound barrier. Your hands tangle in his hair, your back bows beneath him, and when he thrusts again, and again, and again, you lose all will to argue. Your submission is fucked into you, but even still, you think you might have let him have his way regardless. It feels too good to let go, to wrap your legs around his waist, to be wholly encompassed by his weight dropping down on top of you, to relinquish power in exchange for this wonderful pleasure.

With every thrust sending your nerves alight, you wonder again and again how you managed an entire year without this. No one fucks you like Sylus does. He knows this, too—you can see it in his eyes. You're wrapped around his finger, just like he is around yours. Hopeless.

His hand come to cup your jaw, thumb rubbing against your lips. Obediently, you suck it into your mouth, and he groans. "You want to come, kitten?"

You nod hurriedly, moaning a muffled mhmm around his thumb.

"Good girl." He fucks into you faster, harder, and you didn't think it was possible to be driven even deeper into the mattress. His other hand lifts your hips just so, and each one of those thrusts brushes right where you like it the most, and your fingers already begin to numb before your climax overcomes you. And then it does, and you think you might be crying with how good it feels to be reduced to nothing but a mangled, writhing mess of ecstasy. He continues to fuck you through it, murmuring sweet nothings into your ear about how good you are for him, how sweet, that you're his girl, that you come so beautifully, over and over until he's cut off by his own orgasm. He floods your cunt, hips stuttering with a growl, and you've now learned that he likes to kiss when he comes because his thumb is gone and replaced with his lips with such desperation that it could only be out of necessity.

His hips rock as he softens inside of you, his sweat-soaked body going slack except for the hand now stroking your cheek. Your kisses slow until lips rest against lips, noses brushing together, eyes shut tight to relish in the afterglow before whatever happens next ruins it all.

Both of your heartbeats are so loud. You can feel every little kick of his pulse, and it embarrasses you knowing it must be the same for him.

As his cock slips out of you, his fingers entangle with yours so that your palms are pressed together, and he removes himself from your mouth to nuzzle into your hair instead. His softened cock slides against your hip, his legs weaving together with yours. You almost forgot he likes to cuddle after sex, too.

You rest like that for a long time. Long enough that the sweat begins to cling uncomfortably, and you want to complain, but you want even less to break the silence. He seems just as content to linger, and for a second, you worry he might have fallen asleep. It's too bad, because it would have been so easy to run away while he was unconscious.

Instead, he murmurs in your ear. "I'd like to reopen our negotiation."

Back to the bargaining table. You should have known it wouldn't be so easy. "Did I miss the fine print?"

He laughs weakly. "No, I have my own stipulation."

"Get on it with it, then. What do you want?"

It's then that he finally pulls away, and you realize it must be more serious then just more financial banter. Still, he doesn't go too far. He rests next to you, propped up by his elbow, his hand soothing along your waist. "I'll agree to all of your terms, but you need to answer just one question of mine."

"What is it?" You're not sure you like where this is going. A question? Sylus is not such a simple man. Always, there's an angle, but you have no other choice than to play into his hand.

His hand moves up to cup your face, thumb stroking across your cheekbone and holding you in that piercing red stare. He sighs, and for the first time since your fight, he sounds painfully sincere. "What have I done to make you so unhappy?"

You're stunned by his directness. All you can do is blink slow, again and again. This isn't something the two of you have ever discussed. Not like this. You've preferred to stew in it instead, letting your commiseration simmer between you in an unspoken hurt. Talking about it seems pointless. There isn't hope for an escape. It's just what it means to be with him.

And so your instinct is to deflect. "I'm not the only one who's miserable, Sylus."

"But you're the one with the power to change that, kitten."

"Me? Are you serious?" How could he possibly think any part of this is in your power? He brought you into this dynamic. He's the one paying you. He's made you into an accessory. The fact that he's ignorant to this makes you want to scream. "You're a fucking billionaire. I'm so pitifully beneath you that I barely feel like a person. I don't think you could ever understand how powerless that's made me. It's driving me crazy but, I don't know, I can't, I don't want to leave. I like"—you—"the money. I like it too much. I want to be your equal, but I'll always just be your whore."

His face softens, but his words come desperate. "Who ever said that's what you are?"

"It's our entire arrangement, Sylus."

"The reason our arrangement is even in place is because I am a terribly selfish man, kitten, but I never meant it to put you in this position. I only wanted you by my side. And tonight, I thought—" Sylus pauses as though to collect himself. "I thought ending things would relieve you of that burden. But I'm still that selfish man, and I'm finding it so very difficult to let you go. I need to know what more I can do, because I can't just stand by and watch you suffer."

You tremble under his honesty, with a sharp pang straight through your chest. But it doesn't come healing. All it does is hurt you more, because you knew. All along, you knew he wanted you. But still, he feels so far away. It's hopeless. It'll always be hopeless. You have no other choice but to drown in it.

It takes you a while to muster the words, but you're still as resolute as ever. "There's nothing you can do. I'll never fit into your world."

"You don't know that. You have to allow me to bring you in," he argues.

"It's not so simple."

"It can be."

"You'll never understand."

"I'm trying to," Sylus huffs, exasperated. Finally, he releases his touch and then releases his gaze, rolling over onto his back to stare at the ceiling instead.

Both of you lay there, frustrated, the circular nature of your argument setting in. You've been here so many times before, fighting over things that matter less with the same amount of vitriol. Maybe, you think, this is just what it means to be together.

The two of you have made such a mess of it all, that even after mind-blowing sex you can't help but argue. Strange. Somehow, you feel almost giddy at the thought. Why does it delight you this way, to look at him, and see a man so frustrated by you? You know you see it in him too, that same delight when you're the one pushed beyond the narrow limits of your patience. Because for all your fighting, for all the ways you drive each other crazy, for your subjugation to his wealth, for his daftness to your perspective, at the end of the night, you still want him. And then even when you lash out, when you dig your claws into his wounds or you air his dirty laundry to a room full of his business partners and acquaintances, he still wants you.

It's all the same, isn't it? The hurt. The revelry. Hand in hand, just like you and Sylus.

You move in next to him, taking his arm and draping it over your waist, snuggling in close to kiss at his neck until he finally turns to face you. He looks confused for a moment, and then he sees your smile, and you choose to believe that the way he softens means he understands. Then he kisses you, and that confirms it—all that needs to be said passes between your lips, and you feel him smile too.

The kiss lasts a long time. It's slow—maybe the slowest you've shared in all your time together—but it has to be, you think, for it to carry all the emotion you want it to. Stay with me, you hope it says. Stay with me and be miserable forever. I don't want to live any other way.

When you finally pull away, you linger for a moment and close your eyes. You search for the only part of it you can say out loud. "I don't think I know how to stop hating you."

He chuckles. "You don't have to stop. I've always loved contradiction." Never has the word contradiction sounded so much like your name.

"You know, you're a bit of a masochist, Sylus."

"It seems we're birds of a feather, sweetie."

When you meet his lips again, that slow kiss turns to a feverish one, and before you know it, you're rutting against each other. Your leg wraps around his waist, and he moves to kiss and suck at your neck, marking you further with bruises that are bound to bloom purple and leave you wearing turtlenecks in public for days.

Already, you're so turned on again by those large hands all over you that when he speaks into your neck you don't hear him at first, and he repeats himself after kissing up your throat. "Before we settle the contract, I have an addendum. One last stipulation."

Ugh. You are so sick of all this talking. You tighten a hand in through hair, and crane his neck so he's sure to see your disdain for his stalling. "What is it this time?"

“Marry me.”

Your heart stops. “What?”

“You want to be equals and I want to give you everything I have. I think it’s a fair compromise,” he says, and oh God, you think he might actually mean it. He looks to you with that smarmy smile, but no punchline follows. No laugh. His eyes are the most honest part of him, and they betray nothing of this being a joke.

“You’re not serious,” you say, not trusting even your gut in this moment.

“I've never meant anything more.”

You refuse to believe it. There has to be something else. “You just want me as your live-in sex slave.”

“No, but I wouldn't mind being yours.” He laughs with a glimmer of seduction, large hands dragging up and down your spine.

But even as you shudder, you won't let yourself get distracted from his absurdity. “I'll believe it when I see the prenup.”

“Hm, no such thing. I said equals, kitten.” Oh, so he actually has lost his mind.

“And what if I immediately file for divorce and drain you dry?”

“Then I would be honoured to entangle myself with you in the most painstaking legal battle the world has ever seen,” he says. Not at all does he seem to waiver in his stance.

Goddammit. Yes, you're the one who said you wanted to be equals, but you didn't mean it as something even possible to achieve, but as a dream so insurmountable as to always burden your dynamic with the weight of your want for it. You should have known better than to try and present an impossibility to a man who builds empires for a living.

You have no choice but to allow it to sink in. Marry me. Sylus said it so easily, like it was an obvious solution to all of your problems. For such a smart man, he can be such an idiot when he chooses to be. If you're this miserable now, what will happen when you're made to be his little trophy wife? It feels like a condemnation. You're too young to get married, even if it's just another arrangement. Ridiculous. He is truly out of his mind. But when you look to him, you can't help but see the sincerity underneath that wretched smirk of his. This is his idea of an olive branch. A stupid, idiotic, impulsive olive branch.

For a dangerous moment, you let yourself fantasize. You see the wealth, the luxury no longer determined by Sylus' whims but now your own. The credit cards in your name. Your signature next to his on the deeds of vacation homes. The access granted to you by his status, now your status and all of the power and control that comes along with it. You see plaques of Mr. & Mrs.

You imagine the words my wife leaving Sylus' lips.

“This is a horrible idea," you whisper.

“My favorite kind.” His smirk turns to a grin, and you know then that he senses your capitulation.

Still, you argue for the sake of it. “We fight all of the time.”

“Some would say like an old married couple.”

“We don’t love each other, Sylus.”

With a huff, he moves in close, tightening his hold around your waist. As he speaks, voice low to a growl, Sylus nuzzles his nose against your cheek, like an animal desperate for affection. “Say yes, kitten.”

Every part of you tells you that you shouldn't. It'll never work. There's no way this will actually bring you to be equals. Not with your age, not with his wealth, and not with how terrible you make each other feel all of the time. You can't last one single night without wanting to tear each other apart.

There are so many ways this could end catastrophically for you both, so why is it impossible to say no?

“I'm picking the ring.”

You don't think you've ever seen a more devious look on his face. He grins, crow's feet wrinkling at his eyes, smile lines scoring his cheeks, and you hate knowing that he's won. If you were a stronger woman, you think you'd take it back just to watch him break. But you don't. You can't. It feels too much like a victory for you, too.

Before he says anything, you continue to add conditions to your new arrangement. “And I refuse to elope. I don't care if it's a sham, I want a wedding. Not a small one, either."

That only seems to delight him. “You know I like to show off.”

You sigh, and wrap your arms around his neck. "I'm going to make this so incredibly inconvenient for you."

He leans his forehead against yours. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

"This is dooming us, you know."

"But doesn't doomsday sound like such fun?"

For once, in all this time you've been together, you're tired of arguing. "Fine. It's a deal."

This time, when Sylus kisses you, you recognize the same unspoken thing you kissed into him just moments ago. Stay with me, he says. Stay with me and be miserable forever. I don't want to live any other way.

The two of you are so hopeless, aren't you? Here you are, trapping each other in this hell of your own making. And willingly, you run into it. How could you not? Neither of you stood a chance of making it into heaven, anyways. There's no room for harlots and charlatans like you.

"A deal, she says. Ever the romantic," Sylus murmurs against your lips.

"My romance died with your chivalry."

"I'll have the tombstones made." He rolls over top of you, pinning you to the bed as he begins kissing down your neck, your collar, until he's peering at you from between your breasts.

"Nothing too gauche, and make sure you pick a nice plot." Your hand tangles through his hair, and you smile as you guide him further down.

"Anything for you, kitten."

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