Chapter 62: Fuck. Sleep, Plan the Next fuck. Sleep. Fuck Again or Her Request

CEleste had been right, Damon had built the sexy part first:

The women. Their bodies. Their hunger, their marriages being shit and their husbands not touching them enough. What they might ask him to do. What he could make them feel. How much Desire he’d get. How much stronger Lust Spawn could become and how much fucking fun the Service Path sounded compared with slowly seducing women one by one.

That was where his attention had gone.

He’d looked at the whole thing with the brain of an eighteen-year-old virgin who’d just been handed supernatural abilities and somehow thought that qualified him to start a secret luxury sex business before dinner.

And the really embarrassing part was that he had called Service the easy path.

Damon almost laughed at himself walking down the hall.

’Easy. Sure. Easy if the women were just horny forty-year-olds from Tinder looking for a younger guy.’

Easy if nobody had husbands, kids, companies worth hundreds of millions or billions and surnames that showed up in Bloomberg, drivers, assistants, security, lawyers, family offices, boards, political friends or some psycho husband willing to spend fifty grand finding out who’d been fucking his wife.

’Yeah. Super fucking easy.’

Damon had looked at women whose one secret could wreck marriages, careers, families and companies and thought the main problem was whether the website looked expensive enough.

Four taps. Jesus Christ, he had really sat there and had the audacity to start thinking four taps was the part of this business he needed to solve.

Some of the women he wanted could lose more from one leaked photo than Damon had ever personally spent in his life. A CEO gets exposed and suddenly there’s a board meeting. A politician’s wife gets exposed and now it’s national news or billionaire’s wife gets exposed and suddenly lawyers start multiplying like fucking mosquitoes.

One angry husband might decide court was too slow and goes for the shot in the head. One obsessed client might decide Damon belonged to her. One jealous client might decide nobody else should have him. One woman lies. One phone records something, one hotel employee recognizes somebody. One idiot gets pregnant. One database leaks.

And Damon had been sitting in Belrose thinking about fucking fonts.

"Fuck," he muttered.

The system had come him so hard yesterday that he hadn’t even noticed what it was doing to his head. Yesterday Damon had been a virgin with a five-hundred-and-thirty-day masturbation streak as means to release his sexual frustration and until the system showed him another path; and today he’d been planning how to secretly satisfy wealthy older women for money like this was some normal little extracurricular between MATH 121 and accounting.

That jump should’ve scared him but instead he’d gotten excited and lied to his head about the fantasy he could created that he forgot reality.

System Shop. Abilities. Meters. Points. Lust Spawn. Predator’s Gaze. Women suddenly becoming readable in ways they hadn’t been yesterday, Camilla wanting him. Marguerite’s fantasies, Charlotte’s Desire jumping and even her liking of him.

Every little success had stacked on top of the last one until Damon had quietly stopped asking whether shit made sense anymore. It worked because the system existed. That had basically become his logic, and now that he actually looked at it, it was dumb.

’Really fucking dumb.’

Celeste had forced him to see it, and that was what pissed him off most.

He needed her.

Okay maybe not her specifically, and God knew there were probably safer options than partnering with a girl his family had once legally kept away from his bedroom, but he definitely needed somebody doing what she’d just done to him:

Somebody who looked at his horny genius ideas and asked all the ugly questions before Damon learned the answers from a lawyer, a husband or the NYPD.

And Celeste wasn’t just smart; she was scary smart that made normal smart people look like they’d forgotten half the exam.

She’d looked at what he built and immediately started asking about verification, privacy, payments, hotels, recordings, husbands, security, pregnancy, blackmail, police, family connections, repeat clients, scheduling, leaks, all the shit Damon hadn’t wanted to think about because none of it involved tits.

Then she’d gone further and practically rebuilt the entire concept in front of him.

The website becomes private. Access only after screening. Single-use links. Returning clients do or deciding the return clients do not use it either and use another means all together. New women come in through people who already know. Celeste filters the ones Damon should never get near. She handles the ugly parts while Damon handles the women.

’Fuck. Sleep. Plan the next fuck. Sleep. Fuck again.’

Somehow that was her pitch.

And the insane thing was that after she’d walked him through all of it, Damon would’ve believed she’d been planning his Service Path for years if he hadn’t gotten the system literally yesterday.

That girl was a genius. A fucking genuine genius and all she wanted was to become his partner.

Of course she did; even his stalker needed a job title.

Damon reached the elevator area, ignored it and took the hallway toward Vespera’s room. Now is the really ugly question.

’How the fuck do you trust your stalker?’

Seriously, how?

This was a girl who knew passwords he’d forgotten, knew his porn habits better than he did, had broken into his room while he slept, had been legally kept away from him by his own family, and had apparently been stalking him long enough to casually mention old passwords And now Damon was supposed to give her access to an identity that could eventually involve some of the most powerful women in New York?

That sounded insane because it was insane.

But Celeste being insane wasn’t even the biggest problem.

’Celeste being insanely smart is.’

A dumb stalker could follow you around and make your life uncomfortable but a genius stalker could build your whole secret life better than you could and make you wonder why the fuck you were still holding the keys.

’Find one.’

And Damon hated how much that appealed to him.

If she really handled everything she said she could, his job became almost offensively simple: Train. Study. Use the system. Pick the clients she pointed at. Satisfy them. Keep them wanting more. Sleep. Wake up. Do it again.

There were worse lives. Way worse, and his dick certainly won’t ever complaints.

Lilith would’ve been disappointed in him if she’d been in Celeste’s place too.

She would’ve shaken her head, maybe rubbed her forehead, and given him that quiet I raised you better than this look.

Jesus Christ Damon would rather get punched.

He stopped outside Vespera’s door and knocked twice.

There were movement coming from inside, soft at first, then closer before the door opened a few seconds later and Vespera stood there with her phone in one hand, blonde hair loose around her shoulders, looking annoyingly comfortable while Damon had just spent the last hour discovering he might be an idiot.

Her eyes moved over his face, dipped lower for a second, then returned to him.

"Well," she said, already stepping aside for him, "you look like somebody finally ruined your day."

Damon walked past her into the room and gave a dry little laugh. "You have no fucking idea."