Weekender route

“They offered to remake the whole thing,” I throw in as I reach our table — and slide onto the bench to Chloe’s left. She’s barely moved since I was gone, save for the faintest tap of her fingers against the plastic tabletop. Naturally, the waitress had to mess up the order, as if the night hadn’t already worn our nerves thin. Note to self: no peanut butter. Ever. Running into Jaynie — that much I should’ve expected. But bloody hell, the timing! Only hours ago, Chloe and I had our first kiss — and now our mutual pain in the ass is sitting across from us in a clown-red booth of some dingy diner, serving as a living, breathing reminder that, in some twisted way, we owe it all to her. No joke — she’s giving us that sly little squint, like she’s starting to suspect something. Let her. Truth be told, I almost want her to figure it out. And to regret — if not for my sake, then for Chloe’s. I dare to cover Chloe’s trembling hand with mine — and breathe a sigh of relief when she not only doesn’t pull it away, but actually seems to ease up a little. Jaynie’s the first to speak. “She never actually told us what she’s really up to, did she?” She is one of those fake FBI agents who’d been fooling Jaynie for half the semester. Turns out, that one wasn’t a fake after all. But had we not caught her lurking near Jasper’s flat, camera at the ready, we wouldn’t be sitting here together now. “No,” Chloe sighs, “but it definitely has something to do with my father — or one of his business partners.” The possible consequences of this encounter are starting to sink in, and, not bothering to hide my anxiety, I blurt out: “Do you think she recognised you?” “Even if she did — what would be the point of turning me in? If she were there on my father’s orders, she’d have shown up with a partner, like always. Besides, Jaynie was right — her camera did have a state-issued barcode.” Meanwhile, Jaynie sits silently, arms folded on the table, fists defensively clenched. Fine by me. If I had pyrokinesis, there wouldn’t even be a pile of ashes left of her now. “So, what do we do about all this?” she finally asks. I absentmindedly grab Chloe’s messed-up shake and take a sip of the cold, sweet slop. I don’t see why we should be doing anything about this. Chloe and I have been handling things just fine without the traitor. As if reading my mind, Jaynie adds: “I could try to find out whatever James knows…” That’s enough. The glass slams onto the table, making both girls flinch. “Are you seriously trying to drag your new boyfriend into this?” “James isn’t my boyfriend.” She’s as red as a tomato, and I’m pretty sure she wishes the floor would swallow her whole. Perfect. “Look, I know I’ve let you both down, but this concerns me too! Besides, I’ve never abandoned my duties to the cause…” “And screwing the enemy behind our backs — that’s just part of the spy business, isn’t it? Sorry, Mata Hari, didn’t catch that right away!” Jaynie looks like she’s about to cry, and the guilt that follows makes me hate her even more. But before I can get another word out, Chloe entwines our fingers and squeezes my hand hard — as clear a “shut up” as it gets. “Would you mind leaving Tristan and me alone for now?” she asks Jaynie. “I appreciate your willingness to help, but we should talk this over, just the two of us.” Once again, a curious glance drifts over our clasped hands. Another minute probably passes before Jaynie finally stands, picking up her shake from the table. “I’ll take this to go,” she says, as if it needed saying, swinging the glass for effect. I’m already counting the moments until she’s gone. While Jaynie loiters near the pickup counter, Chloe’s shake — pecan with salted caramel — finally arrives, and for a while we just sit in silence, sipping. Her thigh brushes against mine under the table, and I try with all my might to focus on that sensation instead of the darkness, laced with rage, gnawing at me from within. Finally, the diner door slams shut with a melodic jingle. “You didn’t have to be so harsh,” Chloe murmurs. “I did.” She doesn’t argue, but I feel obliged to explain anyway. “I don’t trust her. Not her — and certainly not James, who can put on all the public shows he wants, but would never truly stand up to his parents.” “We don’t have to fill her in on all of our plans, but an extra source of information wouldn’t hurt.” “Look at you, talking like a proper journalist,” I tease, and Chloe snorts. “What if she tries to play us with that info?” “Fact-checking’s still a thing, you know. And if she were planning to set us up, she’d have turned you in to your father ages ago. Yet he still hasn’t got a clue who donated to the ASPCA in his name, has he?” I shrug. The payment went through yesterday, but so far I was only asked to check the account for signs of a breach. Classic Father: if he cared even a little about me, he’d have figured it out immediately. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals… seriously? My face on that payment would’ve been a subtler hint! “You don’t have to decide right away.” Again, Chloe slips her warm hand into mine. The ice inside me begins to crack, the darkness recedes — and I can’t stop thinking that this wonderful girl is far too good for someone like me. “Please don’t think it’s jealousy talking. I honestly couldn’t give a damn who she’s hooking up with these days — hell, let it be one of our dads, for all I care…” I cut myself off. We both groan in unison: “Ew, gross!” — and burst out laughing. Then I push my half-finished shake aside and carefully slip my arm between Chloe’s shoulders and the back of the booth. “May I?” She nods, and I gently pull her closer. “It’s just… I feel like if we let her back into our lives, she’ll ruin everything.” I’m not even sure what exactly I mean by everything. Yet Chloe leans her head against me trustingly, and her springy curls spill all over my shoulder. “No,” she says firmly. “Not a chance.”

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The day Chloe’s exposé is picked up by The Atlantic, even the air in the Rosewood living room seems to hum with tension. The Crests’ and Etwoods’ endeavour is now at risk, and although James continues to flaunt his family’s invulnerability in the face of the national press, everyone knows it’s not true. Grant, of course, is even worse off: judging by the stock reports, Pharmatech shares have already dropped 5% — and that’s just the beginning. As expected, no one mentiones the anti-capitalist movement or our agreement — well, few would be willing to build a brand-new world at their own expense. Only Jaynie, who arrived at the commotion, shoots me knowing looks, but I brush them off with a cold smirk. To be honest, I’d rather play a more active role in all this, and if it weren’t for Chloe, my “brothers” might have to deal with their shady parents’ emptied coffers on top of everything else. I still don’t understand how she convinced me to stay out of it. The element of surprise — there’s no other explanation: before her, no one cared what I was doing. From Jaynie’s perspective, rich boys and girls never really got into trouble anyway. A small consolation is that it was my “corporate espionage” that helped to bring about the article. Still, the main credit goes to Chloe. “The Atlantic! Did I tell you how awesome you are?” I tap out the message and hit Send. The reply pops up almost immediately: “Can you believe it? I can’t!” “Well, you have to, because you’re a star.” “Tristan, was that infographic really that funny?” James’s teasing voice cuts in. What’s he on about? I look up from the screen: all eyes are on me. I must’ve been staring at my phone with some particularly ridiculous grin for everyone to notice. “What infographic?” I fidget in my chair and add awkwardly: “Someone cleaned out my dad’s account. I’m sorting it out.” “Ah, that explains why he’s so happy,” Avery snickers. “Tristan hates his old man.” More rowdy chuckles erupt around me. I wave them off with a bored look and return to my phone. Chloe and I exchange a few more messages, and though I force my face to stay calm, my insides are buzzing like a live wire. I miss her terribly. Exams have kept us apart for the past three days — our usual spot included. Honestly, the library might as well not exist for me anymore: it’s too tightly tangled with thoughts of Chloe. Thoughts of that long kiss under the streetlamp. Her curves fitting perfectly into my arms. The soft cloud of her hair brushing my neck and cheeks, sending little shocks of pleasure through me… “May I come see you today?” I type, hoping she’s done with studying for now, like I am. My chest tightens oddly: please, just say yes. “Yes,” she replies, short and simple, and sends me an unfamiliar address.

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The drive from campus takes about fifteen minutes, and soon I’m parking in front of a green two-story building that looks more like a giant shoebox than a roadside motel. Gravel crunches under the tires, and a small stone ricochets off the windshield, miraculously leaving no mark. Such a promising start. It’s one of those motels where every room has its own entrance, so I grab a cardboard tray with two coffees from the car and head straight for the metal staircase. Upstairs, I’m greeted by six equally shabby doors with half-worn plaques. The paint on the walls is peeling in places, revealing grey concrete beneath, and the far end of the balcony is cluttered with junk — Norman Bates’ lair, no less. I’m almost sure my GPS has led me astray, but the door with the right numbers swings open before I even knock, and there’s Chloe, standing in the doorway. “Hi!” she calls, stepping aside to let me in. She’s wearing an oversized sweater with a Nordic pattern — chin tucked into the high collar and sleeves pulled down over the hands like she’s cold. God, I want to hold her already. “Hey.” I shut the door and pass Chloe the coffee. “Sorry for dropping by like this.” Chloe wraps both hands around the still-warm paper cup and takes a few eager sips. “Salted caramel,” she whispers with a grateful smile, then turns the cup and sees what’s written there instead of her name. “Superstar? Can’t believe I went from weird and quiet to this.” There’s no resentment or mockery in her voice — just good-natured bewilderment. And I get it: it really is incredible. A month ago, after finding out about Jaynie’s betrayal from James’s smug posts, I couldn’t imagine getting close to anyone again, let alone Ronan Travis’s quirky daughter. Honestly, I wouldn’t even remember the last time I thought about her… “You’re still weird. In a good way. But definitely not quiet — just look at all the noise you’ve made in the media! You have every reason to be proud.” “We’ve made,” Chloe corrects me. “You helped a lot. And I’ll feel proud when all these people, including my father, can’t hurt anyone anymore.” She takes another sip and adds: “You’re weird too. In a good way.” I’m not entirely sure I understand what she means, but my body tingles pleasantly at her words. I like her attention. Even more, I like her approval — and can’t shake the feeling that I want to experience it again and again. Realising I’ve been standing in the doorway all this time, clutching a paper tray with my filter coffee still in it, I finally pull out my cup and look around for a rubbish bin. Inside, the motel doesn’t look as depressing as from the outside, but the room is tiny. The double bed, covered with a colourful bedspread, is pressed sideways against the wall, and the kitchenette is reduced to just a fridge and a microwave. Judging by the cold, stale air, the heater isn’t working either. I toss the coffee tray into the bin beneath the small table and turn to Chloe. “Not to upset you, but…” She cuts me off mid-sentence: “The place is a nightmare, isn’t it?” A nervous laugh escapes her chest. “I know. With all these exams, I completely forgot about the Christmas holidays, and by the time I remembered, all the decent spots were booked. But at least it’s something…” Now I feel like a complete idiot: from tomorrow until the end of the holidays, all the dorms at Kearney will be closed, and it hadn’t even occurred to me that Chloe might have nowhere to stay. I could, of course, invite her to my place now— and to hell with my room, which looks more like a love hotel than a bedroom. I can deal with the awkwardness. But my father seems set on spending Christmas at home, and the last thing I want is to bet on how long it’ll take him to recognise the mysterious Chloe Noel as the daughter of his business partner. I scold myself for not thinking ahead, and the irritation quickly twists into actual anger. I wouldn’t be surprised if Chloe’s wondering why I even showed up. I should’ve asked her out from the start — to a restaurant, the movies, anywhere — just to get her out of here… I’m so lost in thought that I jump at a sudden touch. “Are you upset about something?” Chloe asks, tilting her head in that funny, owlish way. Today she’s styled her hair in tight curls, and the loose tendrils cascade down over her shoulders like streams of water. An idea comes out of nowhere, and I seize it like a lifeline. If only there were a decent hotel with a free room… “Listen,” I say, already opening the booking app on my phone. “Have you ever been to a waterfall in winter?”

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The next morning, I pick Chloe up long before dawn: with the holidays, traffic’s heavier than usual, and I have absolutely no desire to spend the day stuck in a jam. You can deny the romantic ideals shoved down your throat by popular culture, but the closeness of Christmas brings its own expectations. And even though we’re technically not together yet, I still feel this overwhelming urge to do something special for Chloe. She’s definitely the kind of person who deserves it. Leaving early proves to be the right call: by noon we’re already halfway to Buffalo, even with a breakfast break in Syracuse. As we head west, the landscape gradually changes, and soon the horizon is dotted with rolling hills, lightly frosted by the first snow. In Sloane, there’s no snow yet, so it’s a pleasant change of scenery. Chloe sits on my right, her head resting against the window. You might think she’s napping — if it weren’t for the endless tapping of her fingers against the glass. Her silence makes me uneasy, so at first I try to strike up conversation, commenting on our route with lines like, “We’re not far from the Finger Lakes, but in winter it’s kind of grim and the cliffs are slippery,” or, “Coming up is the turn to Watkins Glen — beautiful canyon, I hiked it last summer.” But I quickly give up and focus on the road. Lost in thoughts, I don’t notice Chloe’s attention suddenly shifting to me. “I’ve been meaning to ask,” she says, “what would you recommend reading on those kinks of yours? Doesn’t have to be study material — even better if it’s fiction.” While I fumble for an answer, she continues matter-of-factly: “I get that Fifty Shades of Grey is a bad example because it confuses abuse for kink. Venus in Furs is too, but mostly for its questionable morality and the way it pathologizes the whole thing. Story of O objectifies women. I looked around on Reddit, but people mostly share personal experiences there, which I find hard to apply to myself.” Chloe falls silent, waiting for me to reply. My brain is scrambled. What am I even supposed to say? At least I don’t have to try steering her away from Fifty Shades — I honestly couldn’t take another comparison to Christian Grey. “You know, I…” My voice betrays me, coming out hoarse, so I clear my throat. “I’ve never really thought about it in that way. Most of what I know comes from practice and online communities — people with more experience share tips, post useful articles…” Keeping my eyes on the road, I name a few sites off the top of my mind and hear Chloe tapping away furiously on her phone, probably jotting them down. The car falls quiet again. And then it hits me — a strange, almost dizzying thrill. As my initial embarrassment fades, I begin to realise the full significance of what she just did. “Chloe… Thank you.” “What for?” “For trying to understand.” “No need to thank me. I’m not exactly making much progress yet.” She seems unaware of how deeply it touches me — the simple fact that she cares enough to ask. My heart’s pounding, and my fingers grip the wheel a little too tight. I’m flustered… yet, ridiculously happy. “You mentioned you’d tried being passive,” Chloe continues after a pause. “Was that just for Jaynie’s sake, or would you be open to doing it again?” “Not passive — submissive,” I correct her on reflex, then swallow hard. Just hearing Jaynie’s name in this context feels like a punch to the gut, but staying silent doesn’t seem like an option either. “No, not just for her. And yeah… I guess I would.” “Good, because I don’t think I’d enjoy submitting. But being cruel to a partner doesn’t appeal to me either. I don’t want to hurt you — so things like genital torture or blood play are off the table.” I give her a stunned look. “Wasn’t exactly my plan…” “Verbal degradation is out as well,” she babbles, clearly too caught up in her own thoughts to notice how off-balance I am. “But stuff like ropes and a little spanking doesn’t sound too bad. I think I get why it can be hot. And since I like being in control anyway, at least that part wouldn’t be a problem…” She goes on, listing one sexual activity after another and reflecting on her feelings toward them. Meanwhile, I thank the universe that the auto-navigation on I‑90 is more than adequate, because until the next exit, I can’t stop imagining how we’d try it all. How we’d test each other’s limits, wracked with pleasure until our knees trembled, until our voices broke — until the ghost of Jaynie was banished for good, and it was just the two of us left.

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Some say Niagara in winter isn’t much fun: it’s cold, and the ice-bound waterfall seems smaller than usual. But for me, it’s a sight worth seeing at least once — especially if you live just a few hours away. You hear the roar of the waterfall long before any movement begins to emerge through the black web of branches. And then, all at once, it bursts into view, filling the space before you with a cloud of mist and spray. Some of the water freezes as it lands on nearby trees and rocks, forming bizarre shapes, like crystalline stalactites or enormous teeth. A living monster grins hungrily, an endless torrent spilling from its gaping maw. “It’s an ice dragon!” Chloe shouts over the roar of the water. “Like in one of George Martin’s books!” Her breath steams in the air, eyelashes shimmering with fresh frost. As I draw Chloe into a careful embrace and bury my nose in her scarf-wrapped neck, she catches my hands and holds them close. “Right?” I say. “That’s what I thought too.” The observation deck is far less crowded than in summer: no elbows jostling at the railings, no one rushing forward for a quick photo. If I close my eyes for a moment, I can almost imagine we’re entirely alone. It’s four o’clock — that in‑between hour when the sun hasn’t fully set, but the surrounding park is already glowing with holiday lights. There are so many of them that when Chloe tilts her head back to look at me, tiny golden sparks dance in her irises. Only now do I notice the faint shadows beneath her eyes and the almost feverish intensity in her gaze. That look is all too familiar: I’ve been seeing it in the mirror far too often lately. Damn, how this chase has worn us down… Sometimes I feel like none of this is worth it. Sooner or later, Father will be gone anyway, and then I’ll be the one in charge. And until then — why not live in blissful ignorance? Grant seems perfectly content with that approach. But then I look at Chloe — at her fiery, unwavering drive for justice, for good, for truth — and I feel ashamed of my fleeting weakness. In moments like this, I am more convinced than ever that, if she allows it, I will follow her to the end. Maybe I’ll even stop refusing Jaynie’s help — as long as Chloe is happy. I plant a quick, light — almost platonic — kiss on her lips and receive a tired but undeniably happy smile in return. “Let’s see if we can find somewhere to grab dinner,” I offer, letting go of her. Chloe nods. “Did you know,” she says, slipping her hand under my elbow, “that Niagara Falls is actually made up of three separate waterfalls? And it never fully freezes. That only happened once, in the 1800s, when the temperature…”

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By the time we reach Comfort Inn — chosen from a rather limited pool of options — it’s already dark. After dinner, a half-hour film about Niagara, and a second trip to the falls to see them again, this time amidst the coloured flashes of The Laser Light Spectacular, we’re running on fumes. Yet the holiday atmosphere takes hold, and despite our fatigue, we spend another five minutes staring at the massive Christmas tree in the hotel lobby. When we first find out we’ve been given a twin room, I feel a slight pang of disappointment, even though I know in my mind it’s for the best. Too bad you can’t explain to your body why it’s better not to rush things and why I can’t kiss Chloe all night: it aches for her, taut and restless. I don’t know exactly how much time passes, but when her soft voice finally breaks the silence, I’m still wide awake. “Tristan? Are you asleep?” At first, it seems wise to pretend — to freeze, to steady my breathing. But in the end, I give in. “No, I’m not.” Now it’s Chloe’s turn to fall silent. It feels like she didn’t really expect me to be awake, so she hadn’t thought through her next move. Finally, her uncertain voice reaches me: “Will you come lie down with me?” The fact that she asked changes everything. I accept. Chloe scoots to the edge of the bed, giving me space, and soon we’re lying there, side by side, simply looking at each other. Her breathing is quick and nervous, carrying a faint hint of mint, and in the dim light filtering in from outside, I can see her chest rising and falling beneath the pajama top. We’re in the same bed together, and I have no idea what to do next. “Chloe… why me? Why did you kiss me?” She looks genuinely puzzled by my question. “Well… we started spending more time together, and I guess I began to feel… close to you? Emotionally, I mean.” She frowns in concentration. “I’m not very good with feelings. And I’ve never had enough friends to really know the difference between platonic and romantic. So… I figured I had to test it.” “A test, huh…” I’m not exactly hurt or even disappointed — mostly just surprised. “That’s a bold move.” “I know. I honestly have no clue how I would’ve looked you in the eye if I’d had to turn you down afterwards.” It takes me a moment to realise what she means. “You were worried about how I’d feel?” She nods, and that gives me the courage to ask: “And what if it had been me who pushed you away?” “You’ve got to be ready for that when you go around kissing your friends. But I was pretty sure I was reading your signals right.” “There were signals?” “Of course.” I smile. This girl never ceases to surprise me. “Am I really that obvious?” “You’re… raw. You don’t hold back, don’t cut the corners.” Her voice stays calm, but her fingers are already tugging at the end of the braid she tied for the night. “You mean… unhinged?” Realising I must be teasing, she laughs quietly, then explains in all seriousness: “I mean, no hidden agenda. And I like it. I couldn’t be with someone who keeps me guessing all the time.” From what she’s just said, I gather two things: first, I’ve somehow earned her approval again — and second, Chloe sees me as someone she’s willing to be with. I reach for her on impulse, and when she leans in and presses her body to mine, I finally register just how turned on I actually am. “One more thing I can’t really hide,” I mumble, embarrassed by how obvious it must be. “Not when you’re lying here looking like that.” Chloe pulls back slightly, but then her hand gently lands on my stomach and starts to move lower. I flinch — partly from surprise, partly from a vague sense of unease. Kissing is one thing: I’ve been told more than once that my lips are unnervingly — almost girlishly — plump. But it’s another thing entirely to face the hard truth that I’m — well — a guy. And it’s not like Chloe used to prefer girls for no reason. While I’m still wrestling with doubts, her hand finds its way between my legs. Chloe starts stroking me through the fabric, casting quick, measuring glances from her hand to my face. It feels like a continuation of her experiment, and all I can do is hope she isn’t comparing me to some particularly interesting insect — or, worse yet, a rat. “If this feels too weird, you don’t have to do it,” I offer gently, and I mean it. Kink has always mattered more to me than sex itself, so if Chloe ever agrees to even a fraction of what we talked about in the car — she doesn’t need to deal with my most private parts at all. “Am I doing it wrong?” she asks, pushing herself up on one elbow but keeping her hand where it is. “Do you not like it?” “Of course I like it!” I exclaim, a little too fast — and as if my words weren’t enough, my cock twitches under her palm. “Like” doesn’t even begin to cover it: I’m barely holding myself back from straight-up thrusting into her hand. “Then it must be because I’ve never been with guys before.” Chloe frowns, and when I nod, she adds, a little defensively: “That doesn’t call for special treatment, you know! How is my situation any different from simply being inexperienced?” I mentally kick myself: damn, what am I even thinking, making all these assumptions? Like I’m some kind of expert on human sexuality… “You’re right.” I reach out and gently brush a wayward strand of wavy hair from her face. “It’s no different. I’m sorry.” In a moment, we’re kissing again, and this time I don’t try to interfere — I give in, letting her explore my body. I still keep my hands to myself, though, which isn’t easy, especially when Chloe slides my boxers down and touches me, fingers curling around the base in a firm ring, moving carefully up to the tip and back. “Is it good?” she asks, although my helpless moan should make it painfully obvious. “Oh, I…” Then she does something that makes me catch my breath. The sensation hits harder than I expected, and I have to clench my buttocks to keep myself from finishing too soon. The next second, the waistband slips — and a sharp smack jolts me right back to my senses. “Want me to take it off?” Barely waiting for her nod, I spring from the bed and yank my T-shirt over my head, even though I could have done it lying down. Excitement makes me clumsy — my legs tangle, and I hop around the room on one leg for a good minute, like a goddamn heron, trying to get my underwear off. All the while, Chloe’s eyes stay fixed on me, sharp and attentive, and when I finally crawl back into bed, my face is burning with embarrassment. But all of that vanishes the moment her fingers start gliding over my skin, from one birthmark to the next, as if she’s connecting them into lines. “So many,” she whispers, her voice breathy. “Enough for a couple of constellations.” As if I needed any more reason to fall hopelessly in love. I gently brush her cheek and slowly trail my fingers downward, tracing her lips, still glistening from our kissing, her delicately rounded chin, and the small hollow between her collarbones — until I pause just above her chest. Chloe lifts the hem of her top, inviting me to continue, while her other hand slips back between my legs. “I like touching you,” she admits softly. “It’s silly, but I’ve always thought it would be kind of gross and slimy, like an octopus tentacle or something. But it’s actually just… really soft skin.” Laughing right now would be akin to suicide, so I hold back, though my lips betray me, stretching into a completely idiotic grin. It dawns on me that it’s this genuine, lively spontaneity that I adore about Chloe. I kiss her with even more intensity, and for the next few minutes we touch each other, savoring the overwhelming novelty of it all. “How far do you want to go?” I ask at last. “Probably best to hold off on penetration,” she replies with her usual bluntness. “It’ll probably hurt, and I don’t want it to mess up our first time.” “Agreed.” “There’s something I want to try, though…” I comply, despite not knowing what’s on her mind. Suddenly, Chloe lifts one of my arms above my head, then the other. Taking the elastic coil from her hair, she loops it twice around my wrists. It’s hardly proper bondage — I could free myself in seconds — but the mere illusion of restraint sends a delicious thrill coursing through me. “Would you turn over?” Chloe asks. “Why?” “Just trust me. Please.” Easier said than done — trust has never come easy to me. But there’s something in her voice, something curious and compelling, that makes me go along with it. “Now get on all fours.” The mattress dips and shifts as she moves behind me, guiding me into position. My wrists are still bound with the hairband, but I manage to brace myself on my forearms. One knee set, then the other. I must look utterly ridiculous — and obscenely inviting. “Uh, Chloe?..” I start, uncertain, but before I can say anything else, a sharp smack lands on my ass. The yelp of protest dies in my throat. Chloe follows up with another slap, and then another, and all I can do is let out a soft, quivering whine. We didn’t talk this over, it’s against every rule in the book — but seriously… who gives a damn? From the way Chloe gradually ramps up both speed and force, I realise she’s definitely been practicing. Her hand isn’t entirely relaxed — it slips a couple of times — but the fact that she’s doing this of her own accord overrides any discomfort. The energy from each smack spreads through my body in a warm wave, and I gradually sink into that familiar, almost trance-like state. “Wow! You do like it!” she says, so genuinely surprised that I can’t help but laugh. She has no idea just how much. I’m shaking all over. I feel like a fucking perv — but Chloe is giving me exactly what I need right now. Not a punishment, no. What she’s giving me is assurance — the kind that says: even if I fall apart right in front of her, she won’t turn away. She’ll help me put myself back together. And now I know without a doubt — it has nothing to do with Jaynie. Or maybe I just got hopelessly hooked on spanking from the very first try. “Do you remember those fetishistic rats? Some habits just…” “Don’t,” she halts my self-rebuke, and as her nails drift down the overheated skin, tiny jolts of electricity skitter along my spine. “I won’t lie — all of this feels a little surreal. But seeing you like this… it’s unexpectedly nice.” “Seeing me like what?” “Letting go of control. Giving in to pleasure so openly. To know I’m the one making you feel this way… it’s intoxicating.” “Oh god. So you do get it…” “Looks like I do.” Chloe keeps me suspended between pain and pleasure for a while longer, alternating sharp spanks with teasing caresses. I don’t want it to end, and I almost whimper when she finally stops and helps me roll onto my back. Clicking a switch somewhere on the headboard, Chloe straddles my hips, and I realize she’s somehow undressed without me noticing. Bathed in the warm glow of the wall sconce, her skin gleams, and her dark curls fan out around her head like an untamed mane. In this light, she reminds me of Gal Gadot as Wonder Woman, and her legs, wrapped tightly around me, are like that magical Lasso of Truth — compelling me to tell nothing but the truth, no matter how trivial or corny. “You’re pure perfection,” I blurt out, and a mischievous smile lights up her face. “Did Tristan Knox really call me a perfection?” “Tristan Knox sincerely repents for the time he spent in the darkness of ignorance,” I declare solemnly, and her smile widens even more. “How can I earn your forgiveness?” In response, Chloe leans down to kiss me, but as she slowly begins to rock back and forth, pressing her hips against mine, she inadvertently nudges my rock-hard cock. The sensation of her wet heat against my stiffened length is mind-blowing. “Chloe…” She casts me a flustered glance but doesn’t pull away. Instead, she brings her hand into play, wrapping it firmly around me at the very base. Desire pulses through me: I can’t hold back a moan, and Chloe, clearly pleased with the effect, resumes her movements. At first, I try to honour the rules of the game she started, obediently keeping my wrists clasped above my head, but with every passing minute, staying still becomes harder. My inner struggle must be too obvious, because at some point Chloe frees me from these improvised bonds and guides my hand right where I’d been longing to put it. Touching each other like this, holding one another’s gaze with aching intensity, is sensual, sweet — and, in its own way, kinky. Soon I start noticing the little changes in her: how her body trembles under my hand, how it fills with pleasure and gives way to the first sweet spasms — until Chloe suddenly throws her head back with a soft, slightly surprised gasp, as if the orgasm has taken her by surprise. Her hand tightens around my cock at once — not painfully, but just enough to push me past the point of no return. “Chloe… please… I can’t…” Instead of stopping, she only speeds up. In just a few seconds, I arch beneath her, groaning as I come all over my stomach. Then I collapse back into the pillows, covering my eyes in resigned defeat. “Well?” her voice cuts through the quiet. “How was it?” I lower my hand and find her face right above me, framed by a halo of tousled hair. Chloe hovers over me, palms braced on either side of my head, looking devilishly pleased with herself. “What do you think?” She laughs, making her curls bounce and tickle my eyes. But a moment later, her playful mood suddenly evaporates and her expression darkens — as if clouds have suddenly rolled across a bright summer sky. “This isn’t something casual to you, is it?” she asks, her tone surprisingly cold. “Not a holiday fling or anything?” It stings a bit to hear. Then again, no one could understand her doubts better than I do. “You know, I’ve tried it before. Many times. But it seems I just can’t do casual. So no… this is as serious as it gets.” “And with me — did you? I mean, did you try casual?” “No. Not with you. With you, I never even dared hope for anything at all,” I admit, then add reluctantly: “No matter how much I wanted this to happen.” Chloe shakes her head reprovingly, but a smile returns to her face. “That’s a shame. Because I think we’re perfect together — since we both…” “… are weird?” I can’t help but interrupt. “…since we both know what we want!” Chloe laughs, giving me a quick peck on the tip of my nose. “Merry Christmas, Tristan!” And so begins the best Christmas of my life: with a girl who bears the most Christmassy name in the world. And somehow, I’m starting to believe that neither Jaynie nor anyone else could ever come between us.