It was a Saturday, which meant two things: laundry day, and apparently, my one-month anniversary with a girl who decided that counted.
"You’re not serious."
"I’m dead serious," she said, eyes sparkling like she’d just told a child Christmas was canceled unless they coughed up a Ferrari.
"One month?" I asked.
"One. Whole. Month," she repeated, stretching each word out like it was sacred scripture. "Thirty chaotic, emotionally unstable, possessive, kiss-filled days."
I sighed into the phone. "That’s not even a thing."
"IT IS NOW," she snapped, then added sweetly, "Either come over and be my gift... or buy me a yacht."
I froze. "...A what?"
"Or a penthouse. Or a gold-plated horse. Or one of those ugly little dogs that fit in purses and cry in French."
"None of those are things I can afford, Celestia."
And that was how I found myself standing in the driveway of the Moreau estate, holding nothing but anxiety and poor decisions.
Her place was insane. Like... too insane. Marble floors, grand staircases, staff dressed better than my professors.
I leaned over and whispered, "So... where’s everyone?"
She shrugged. "Mom and Dad are either closing a hostile takeover or arguing with the King of Denmark. Lucien’s probably jetskiing with some model named Valeria with cheekbones sharp enough to cut cocaine."
She grinned. "Which means... we’re alone."
Except for the chef, the housekeeper, the three guards posted discreetly at invisible corners, and maybe the butler who glides instead of walks.
"Where are we going?" I asked as she pulled me up the grand staircase.
My body froze. "We could go to the pool. Or the theater. Or—"
She turned, lips in a pout. "I guess it’s yacht-shopping then."
I groaned. "You’re evil."
> "Don’t slut-shame me for having high standards."
Her room looked exactly like I expected. Lavish. Darkly feminine. A bed the size of my entire apartment. Silk sheets. Mood lighting. A closet that could house refugees.
I didn’t sit. I perched — on the edge of her bed like it would bite me.
She stood in front of me, arms crossed. "Relax. You’re not gonna get jumped."
Her eyes said otherwise.
We talked. Ate overpriced strawberries. Watched five minutes of a movie I forgot the name of because her body was right there — and then she pounced.
Every kiss felt like a declaration. Every touch like a dare.
She straddled me, palms pressed against my chest. "Still a virgin?" she whispered.
"Unfortunately," I muttered through a groan.
She kissed down my jaw, my throat, paused just above dangerous territory. "One word," she breathed, "and I’ll make it disappear."
I wanted to. God, I wanted to.
But I couldn’t. Not . Not yet.
Then she let out the loudest groan in history and flopped off of me like a petulant princess denied her toy.
Her legs kicked up dramatically as she lay on her back. "This is so unfair!"
I sat up, panting. "Are you... mad?"
She turned to me slowly with the sharpest glare in existence. "What. Do you think?"
I blinked at her like an idiot.
Then sighed, frustrated but soft. "Ugh. You’re too cute when you’re scared."
She rolled her eyes. "Fine. No sex. At least not today."
But then she turned to me with a wicked grin that made my blood pressure spike.
"But starting today, I’m teasing you every chance I get. Every. Single. Day. Until you’re leaking precum just from eye contact. Until you’re on your knees begging me to ride you into next semester."
My soul left my body.
Then she kissed my cheek sweetly. "Happy anniversary, virgin boy."