The moonlight came through the window in long pale stripes, cutting across the silk sheets like bars of silver. Nisha lay on her back, the blue jeans tight against her hips, the yellow short top riding up just enough to show a sliver of her belly. The man—Raj, he'd said, just Raj—sat beside her on the bed, his weight making the mattress dip toward him. She could smell the cologne on his neck, expensive and warm, and underneath it the salt of a man who had been alone too long.

"You're so quiet," he said. His voice was soft, almost reverent. "I thought you'd talk more."

"I talk when there's something to say." She turned her head on the pillow, looked at him through the dark. "Right now I'm looking."

"At what?"

"At you."

His breath caught. She watched his throat move when he swallowed. He was not a young man—fifty, maybe more—but his hands were clean, his nails trimmed, and he looked at her like she was something he'd been saving for.

"I haven't done this in a long time," he admitted. "I don't know if I remember how."

"You remember." She reached out, let her fingers brush his wrist. "Your body remembers. It doesn't forget."

He looked down at her hand on his skin, then back at her face. "You're kind."

"I'm honest." She smiled, a small curve of her lips. "There's a difference."

His hand moved then, slow and deliberate, landing on her thigh through the denim. The weight of it was warm, heavy, a claim more than a question. She felt the heat of his palm through the fabric, the slight tremor in his fingers that he was trying to hide.

"Is this okay?" he asked.

"Yes."

His hand stayed there, unmoving, as if he was afraid she would disappear if he pressed too hard. She could feel the tension in him, the restraint, the years of wanting something like this and not knowing how to ask for it.

"You can touch me," she said. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

His fingers curled into the denim, gripping her thigh, and then he leaned in. His mouth found hers—soft at first, tentative, the kiss of a man who had forgotten the shape of it. She responded, parting her lips, letting him in, and something in him broke open. His hand slid higher on her thigh, his tongue finding hers, and the kiss deepened into something hungrier.

She felt his other hand come up to her face, cupping her jaw, tilting her head so he could kiss her deeper. His thumb traced her cheekbone, the edge of her nose ring, and she felt the roughness of his palm against her skin. He kissed like a man drinking after a long drought, and she let him, matching his hunger with her own.

His hand moved from her thigh to her waist, fingers finding the hem of her yellow top. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark and asking.

"Can I—"

"Yes."

He pulled the top up, slowly, the fabric whispering against her skin as it slid over her ribs, her stomach, her breasts. The air hit her bare skin, cool and sharp, and she saw his eyes go wide. He dropped the top on the bed beside them, staring at her chest, at the full curve of her breasts in the plain cotton bra.

"Oh," he breathed. "Oh, god."

His hands came up, trembling, and she watched him hesitate, his fingers hovering over the clasp of her bra. She reached back herself, undid it with one practiced motion, and let the straps fall from her shoulders.

The bra fell away. Her breasts came free, heavy and full, the nipples already tight from the cool air. She saw his face change—the awe, the disbelief, the hunger—and she felt a warmth spread through her chest that had nothing to do with the room.

"Oh my god," he whispered. "You are perfect. More than a girl."

The words landed in the silence between them, and she felt the truth of them settle into her bones. She had been called many things—beautiful, strange, wrong, brave—but never perfect. Never more than a girl. The words sat inside her like a key turning in a lock she hadn't known was there.

He reached out, his hands shaking, and cupped her breasts. His thumbs brushed her nipples, and she felt the jolt of it, the electric pull from her chest down to her belly. He was gentle, almost afraid, as if she were made of glass.

"You're real," he said. "You're actually real."

"I'm real." She reached up, threaded her fingers through his hair. "Touch me. I want you to."

He leaned down, his mouth closing over her nipple, and she felt the wet heat of his tongue against her skin. He suckled her, soft at first, then harder, pulling her into his mouth like a man starving. She felt the pull of it deep in her belly, a tug that went straight down between her legs.

She guided her nipple with her fingers, pressing it deeper into his mouth, and he groaned against her skin. His hand came up to her other breast, kneading it, his thumb working the nipple while his mouth worked the other. She felt her head fall back on the pillow, her eyes closing, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

He suckled her like a child, like a man who had forgotten what it felt like to be held, to be fed, to be wanted. She felt the weight of his head in her hand, the softness of his hair between her fingers, and she held him there, letting him take what he needed.

"That's it," she murmured. "Take your time."

He moaned against her breast, the sound vibrating through her skin, and she felt his cock hard against her hip through his pants. It was unmistakable—thick and insistent, pressing into her thigh as he suckled her. She shifted beneath him, letting him feel her body against his, and he gasped, pulling back just enough to look at her.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't mean to—"

"Don't apologize." She looked at him, her hand still in his hair. "You're supposed to want this. I'm supposed to make you want it."

He stared at her, his lips wet from her skin, his eyes dark with want. "You're not like anyone I've ever met."

"I know." She smiled, a slow, knowing curve. "That's why you paid for me."

He laughed, a short, surprised sound, and she felt the tension in him ease. He leaned down again, but this time she stopped him, her hand on his chest.

"Your shirt," she said. "Take it off."

He sat up, his hands going to the buttons, and she watched him fumble with them. His fingers were shaking, clumsy with want, and she reached out, batting his hands away.

"Let me."

She undid the buttons one by one, slow and deliberate, like a girlfriend would. The fabric fell open, revealing his chest—soft, pale, dusted with grey hair. He was not a young man, not a beautiful man, but he was real, and he was here, and he wanted her with a hunger that made her feel powerful.

"You're beautiful," she said, and she meant it.

He blinked at her, something flickering in his eyes. "No one's ever said that to me."

"Then they were wrong." She pushed the shirt off his shoulders, let it fall to the bed. "Lie down."

He lay back on the silk sheets, looking up at her, and she saw the vulnerability in his face, the nakedness that had nothing to do with his clothes. She moved over him, straddling his hips, and she felt his cock hard against her through the denim of her jeans.

"You feel that?" she asked, grinding against him slowly. "You feel how hard you are for me?"

"Yes," he breathed. "God, yes."

"Good." She leaned down, her hair falling around them like a curtain, and she kissed him, deep and slow. His hands came up to her breasts again, cupping them, his thumbs working her nipples, and she moaned into his mouth.

His hands slid down her body, over her ribs, her waist, her hips, and then he was fumbling with the button of her jeans. She felt his fingers against her belly, the heat of his palm, and she lifted her hips to help him.

He pulled her jeans down, slow, and she felt the cool air on her thighs. He pushed them lower, over her hips, and then he stopped.

She saw his face change. The hunger flickered, shifted, and then something else took its place—wonder, curiosity, a softness she hadn't expected.

"Oh," he said. "Oh, you're—"

He was looking at her, at the small, soft cock nestled between her thighs, and she felt the familiar spike of fear in her chest. She waited for the rejection, the disgust, the moment when he pulled away and told her to leave.

Instead, he reached out, his fingers brushing the soft skin of her cock, and he smiled.

"Amazing," he said. "A beautiful girl with a small, shrink cock."

She stared at him, her heart pounding. "You're not—you're not disgusted?"

"Disgusted?" He looked at her, his eyes soft. "Why would I be disgusted? You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

She felt something crack open in her chest, a wall she hadn't known she'd built. She had been so ready for the rejection, so prepared for the disgust, that she didn't know what to do with his acceptance.

"I—" She swallowed. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything." He reached up, cupped her face in his hands. "Just let me touch you. Let me show you how beautiful you are."

She nodded, not trusting her voice, and he pulled her down to him, kissing her soft and slow. His hands moved over her body, tracing the curve of her hips, the softness of her belly, the delicate skin of her inner thighs. He touched her like she was sacred, like she was something to be worshipped, and she felt herself melting into him.

His hand found her cock again, wrapping around it gently, and she gasped at the contact. It was small, soft, barely there, but his touch was reverent, his fingers stroking her with a tenderness that made her eyes sting.

"You're perfect," he murmured against her skin. "Every part of you. Perfect."

She felt the tears prick at her eyes, and she blinked them back, not wanting to break the moment. She reached down, her hand finding the waistband of his pants, and she pushed them down, freeing his cock.

It was thick, hard, straining toward her, and she wrapped her hand around it, feeling the heat of him against her palm. He groaned, his hips bucking into her hand, and she smiled.

"You're big," she said. "I like that."

"I—" He swallowed. "I want you. I want to—"

"I know what you want." She leaned down, her mouth hovering over the head of his cock. "And I'm going to give it to you."

She took him in her mouth, slow, letting him feel the wet heat of her tongue. He gasped, his hands fisting in the sheets, and she worked him deeper, taking him as far as she could, her throat relaxing around him.

"Oh, god," he moaned. "Oh, fuck—"

She sucked him slow and deep, her hand working the base while her mouth worked the head. She could taste the salt of him, the musk of his arousal, and she felt her own body responding, the heat pooling between her thighs.

"You're so good at this," he breathed. "So fucking good—"

She pulled off him, just enough to speak, her lips wet and swollen. "I learned from the best."

He laughed, a broken sound, and she took him back in her mouth, sucking harder, faster, until she felt him trembling beneath her. She could feel how close he was, the tension in his thighs, the way his breath came in ragged gasps.

"I want to fuck you," he said, his voice rough. "I want to be inside you—"

She pulled off him, looking up at him through her lashes. "Then do it."

He reached for her, pulling her up the bed, and she went willingly, her body humming with want. He rolled her onto her stomach, his hands on her hips, and she felt him behind her, his cock pressing against her ass.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice strained. "I want to—"

"Yes," she said, pressing back against him. "Do it. Fuck me."

He pushed inside her, slow, and she felt the stretch of it, the fullness of him filling her. She gasped, her fingers gripping the sheets, and he groaned, his hands tightening on her hips.

"Oh, fuck," he breathed. "You feel—you feel incredible—"

He thrust into her, slow at first, then faster, and she felt the rhythm of it building, the slap of his hips against her ass, the wet sound of him moving inside her. She moaned, loud and unashamed, and he fucked her harder, his fingers digging into her hips.

"That's it," she gasped. "Don't stop—"

He fucked her hard, his cock driving into her again and again, and she felt herself climbing toward the edge, the pleasure building in her belly like a coil about to snap. She reached back, her hand finding his, and he laced his fingers through hers, holding her as he fucked her.

"I'm close," he groaned. "I'm so close—"

"Come inside me," she said. "I want to feel you come—"

He thrust into her one last time, deep and hard, and she felt him spill inside her, hot and thick, his body shuddering against hers. She clenched around him, milking him, and he cried out, her name on his lips.

"Nisha—"

She felt the word like a shock, the sound of her own name in his mouth, and she came with him, her body clenching around his cock, the pleasure ripping through her like a wave. She gasped, her nails digging into the sheets, and he collapsed on top of her, his weight warm and heavy, his breath hot against her neck.

They lay there, tangled together, the moonlight still striped across the silk sheets. She could feel his heart pounding against her back, the sweat cooling on her skin, and she felt something settle in her chest—a warmth, a peace, a sense of being seen.

"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for this."

She turned her head, looked at him over her shoulder. "You don't have to thank me."

"I do." He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "You gave me something I didn't know I needed."

She smiled, a small, private thing. "That's what girlfriends are for."

He laughed, soft and warm, and she felt the sound of it against her skin. She lay there, his weight on her, his breath slowing, and she thought about the old man at the beach house, the way he'd wept into her hair. She thought about her husband, weighing rice at the shop, his burn-scarred hand moving through the grains. She thought about the woman on the phone, the list of men, the way the list never seemed to end.

She was a girlfriend tonight. She was whatever this man needed her to be, for the right price.

And she was still Nisha. She was always Nisha.