I shrug again. I don’t actually have an answer to that. The only conversations we’ve had about relationships were before he left, and maybe once over the phone when we discussed how difficult it would be to have a relationship when he was traveling all the time. But he’s home now, and he hasn’t mentioned traveling—although we haven’t been doing much in the way of talking this past week outside of moans and orgasms.

I consider how much time I’ve spent “with” him over the last several weeks. If I’m honest with myself it’s felt like a relationship since before he came back from the UK.

“I guess you need to talk to him and figure out if you’re both on the same page,” Amie says, pulling me out of my head.

I nod.

“Do you think you are?”

“I think so? Maybe? God, I hope casual hookups aren’t his thing.”

“I’m sure he wants the same thing you want. I guess now you’ll really need to find your own apartment. Can you afford that yet?” Amie pats my hand in a consoling gesture. I think I might be starting to panic a little.

“I can’t live there anymore.” It’s not a question. It’s just that reality is hitting me, and it’s a lot like being smacked in the face with a giant penis. Bancroft’s giant penis.

“It might be easier if you have your own place now that you’re sleeping together.”

I nod dumbly. She’s 100 percent accurate on this. I can’t live with Bancroft if we’re in the beginning stages of dating. If that’s even what’s going to happen. Beyond that, my relying on him financially creates a power imbalance I’m not too keen on. I don’t want to feel like my services are being bought, even if they’re as incredible as he tells me they are.

“So?”

“Huh?” I’ve gapped out again.

She mouths the sex and then says, “Is it good?”

I think about last night. About coming in from work at three in the morning and waking him up with a blow job and the two-hour fuck marathon that then took place. Bancroft thoroughly enjoys testing out my flexibility. We’ve had sex in places and positions I’d never thought possible. And that mouth—sweet lord. “The best.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Really? What’s he like?”

“Intense.” I lean in to whisper, “He has a very dirty mouth and excellent stamina. He can go for hours.”

Amie bites her lip and looks a little wistful. “Aren’t you sore?”

“Only in the best way possible.” I’m pretty sure I’m ruined for any other man. I’ll have this unreasonable bar to hold all other men to. Bancroft Mills and his dirty mouth, and amazingly large penis are my new minimum standard.

“Is he . . .” she trails off and does a few eyebrow raises.

I raise my own in question.

“Adequately endowed?”

“More than,” I reply.

“More than?” She touches the necklace she’s wearing. It’s a gold chain with diamonds. Amie doesn’t like yellow gold, she prefers white. I’m assuming the necklace was a gift from her thoughtful, clueless fiancé.

“So much more.”

She swallows her mouthful of lettuce and leans in close. “How much more?”

I have no idea why Amie is so interested in the size of Bancroft’s penis. “Are you asking me for approximate dimensions?”

She nods once. I look around the table for things that might be comparable. There’s nothing. “Wider than a toilet paper roll and about yay long.” I hold my hands apart and then widen the gap a bit until I get it just right.

“Wow,” Amie breathes. “Wasn’t that . . . uncomfortable?”

“He’s incredibly adept at foreplay.”

Her cheeks flush pink and she looks down at her salad, pushing the dry leaves around.

“It’s never too late to trade in your current model for one with more girth, or length, or both.” I spear a fry and bite the end off.

Amie snorts and brings her hand to her mouth, eyes darting around, embarrassed the sound came out of her, maybe. I miss the version of my friend who cared less about what people think. We should’ve gone to a non-posh restaurant so we wouldn’t be forced to have this conversation in embarrassed whispers. I wish I cared less, too.

It’s half past two in the afternoon by the time I get home—or back to Bancroft’s condo. I’m nervous now. I’ve been enjoying the sex bubble we’ve been living in, but Amie has a point, we have to talk, and I have to make a plan to move out. I sincerely hope I haven’t read things wrong and that this is about more than sex. I think it is. Our conversations up until now have me hoping it is.

The condo is the same as when I left it, which means Bancroft still isn’t home. I should probably wash the sheets after last night’s sexcapades. I stop at Francesca’s cage first. She’s been fed recently, by the look of things. Maybe Bancroft did it before he left for his emergency meeting.

“Hi, pretty girl.” I nuzzle her head and carry her down the hall.

When I get to Bancroft’s room I notice the bed isn’t quite how I left it. It’s still unmade, but there are a few items of clothing littering the mattress, namely the components that make up a suit. And his closet door is open.

My stomach does a little flip and I return to the kitchen, rummaging through my purse until I find my phone. I missed a call from him about twenty minutes ago. There’s a voice mail.

“Hey. Hi, Ruby. Uh . . . look, I’m at the airport. I have to go back to London, there’s an issue I need to take care of. I don’t really know when I’m going to be back, but we need to talk and it probably isn’t a phone conversation . . .”

There’s a brief pause and a sigh.

“We need to make some adjustments with our arrangement. This has all happened a bit faster than I expected. I think maybe . . . Fuck. I’ll try to call when I’m in London.”

My stomach feels like it’s trying to jump out of my throat. This doesn’t sound good. I sit down at the island and note the envelope propped up against the bananas. I blush at the memory of what I did with one yesterday afternoon in a bid to distract Bancroft when he was busy with a phone call. It resulted in me being bent over the island, spanked, and then fucked.