Free Losing Control by Jen Frederick

box on the table, make up my bed, and go into the bathroom to run through my nightly ritual of facial scrub and moisturizer. As I brush my teeth, I wander back into the living room and stare at the crumpled box.
    Finally I climb onto the mattress and situate the box between my legs. Opening it means something. If I return it to him again, I think he’ll back off. After flicking the light off, I set it on the floor and crawl under the covers. And lie there. And wonder. And wonder some more.
    With a curse, I sit up quickly and turn the light back on. Ripping off the bow, I pull off the lid of the box revealing the golden tissue inside. I push it away and see a riot of gorgeous, mouth-watering lace in every tropical shade in the beach crayon box—from aqua to coral to sand. But as I lift out the items reverently, I notice that there are only bottoms. Everything we bought, but just the bottoms.
    There’s an envelope and in it are the three hundred-dollar bills, still perfectly creased, and a small MP3 player. I grab my earbuds and listen. His smooth voice plays out like a velvet chocolate spread—sinful and completely irresistible.
    “I couldn’t decide if I wanted to keep the tops or the bottoms. Did I want to imagine your breasts wearing the silk or satin or your sinful secret part? I opted for the latter. You know where the rest of the sets are. Come and get them.”

Chapter 8
    I CALL THE NUMBER HE leaves for me at the end of the message even though it is very late. He answers on the first ring.
    “I thought you didn’t want to have sex with people you paid. Something about contaminated inkwells.”
    He laughs and the low sound vibrates throughout my body. “I’ve decided that I’m particularly skilled at compartmentalizing, so I’m going to make an exception.”
    “Do I want to know why?”
    “Probably not. You’re not ready for it. But it can be drilled down to the fact that I’m not interested in self-denial.”
    “You should look into it. I hear it’s character building. Anyway, thanks for the awkwardly intimate gift.”
    “You’re welcome. I prefer to think of it as generous and intimate rather than awkward. And my character was set at the age of fifteen. It’s immutable now.”
    “Fifteen?” There’s a story there.
    “Yes.” He offers me nothing more, and I’m not ready to push.
    “Are you always so confident and knowing? It’s not attractive.”
    “Then I guess you’ll have no problem resisting me.”
    I stick out my tongue again since he can’t see me being childish. “I’m not sleeping with you.”
    “Who says we’ll be sleeping? I anticipate a lot of rigorous activity followed by a complete loss of consciousness.”
    “That’s not sleeping?”
    “No, that’s fucking until you’re nearly dead.”
    “Sounds terrible.” It sounds amazing. I’ve never had someone talk to me so boldly. They certainly don’t talk like that in the movies. It’s more about showing soft lights and wide-opened mouths. Although I wouldn’t turn that down, either.
    “Tell me about yourself,” he invites, and in the background I hear the rustle of sheets as he gets more comfortable. There’s not a doubt in my mind, he’s nude. I wonder what he looks like in his bed, his golden skin contrasting against his white sheets. Does he touch himself? Malcolm always has his hands down his pants. When I asked him about it once, he said his balls itched. I figured that was a sign of some kind of STI and never asked again.
    “What do you want to know?”
    “Anything you’ll share with me. I can see that you aren’t much for social media. Your Facebook profile hasn’t been updated since your mom was deemed cancer-free three years ago.”
    “I’m just not that social.” I’m not sure why I’m talking to him. I have to get up in a few hours for work, but I can’t put the phone down. Not while he still wants to hear me. “I’m Sophie Corielli’s daughter, a bike courier.”
I’m boring.
“Who are