The humid New York air hung heavy, clinging to my skin as I lay tangled with Alexander. His sweat, a salty-sweet mix, mingled with mine. His thrusts were too fast, too rough, never truly savoring the moment, never acknowledging me.

I bit my lip, suppressing a moan, but it only seemed to fuel his intensity. He knew my sensitive spots, teasing, prolonging the inevitable. "Alex…" I pleaded, my voice raspy. He slowed, then stopped, his blue eyes challenging me, a cruel game he loved to play.

Eventually, I gave in, moving my hips beneath him, pushing for the release we both craved. He joined me, the rhythm escalating until we both peaked, collapsing breathlessly.

He pulled me close, peppering my neck with soft kisses, his fingers playing with my hair. "A reward," he'd say, "for bringing me satisfaction." We'd lie there, staring, sometimes him asking random questions about fears or exes, and me giving flippant answers.

This was our ritual, a business transaction. I wasn't a prostitute; I was his sugar baby, his contracted girlfriend. For eight months, I'd played the role perfectly, holding up my end of the deal with Alexander, the rich, secretive New York financier.

But this morning, the deal would end.