Chapter 9

As we roll out of Regina’s gated community, the sleek Mercedes gliding smoothly through the winding streets, she gestures toward the dashboard with a flick of her perfectly manicured hand. “Can you type your address into the GPS?” she asks, her voice quieter than usual, almost tentative. I nod, leaning forward to punch in the details on the touchscreen, the soft glow of the system casting a faint blue light over my hands. Once it’s set, the robotic voice confirms the route, and we settle back into our seats. The hum of the engine fills the car, but there’s a heavy, awkward silence hanging between us. It’s thick, suffocating, and I can’t stand it for long. My mind’s racing with a million questions about her, about her family, about that weird, fucked-up “daddy” shit she kept moaning in the shower. What kind of family dynamic is this? Is this some rich people kink I don’t get, or is there something darker buried under all that designer bullshit? But I know I can’t dive into the deep end right away—not after the intensity of the last few hours. I need something neutral, something safe to break the ice.

I shift in the leather seat, the material creaking under me. Then I remember Lynda’s offhand comment about being sent home early by Regina’s dad. It’s a thread, a tiny one, but I’ll pull it. “So ... your mom and dad work together or something?” I ask, trying to keep my tone casual, though I’m pretty sure it comes out sounding like I’m prying. I wince internally, hoping she doesn’t take it the wrong way. Regina’s grip tightens on the steering wheel for a moment, her knuckles whitening, and there’s a long pause before she lets out a sigh that seems to carry the weight of the world. “Yes,” she finally says, her voice clipped but not hostile. “My father is a partner at a law firm downtown. My mother works as a paralegal there. They have been colleagues for years.” Her words are formal, precise, like she’s reciting a prepared statement, and she doesn’t elaborate further. I nod, filing that away—lawyer dad, paralegal mom, makes sense for the money and the house—but she goes quiet again, staring straight ahead at the road, her jaw tight.

I’m about to try another question, anything to keep the conversation from dying completely, when Regina suddenly flicks on the blinker and pulls the car over to the side of the road. The Mercedes comes to a smooth stop on the shoulder, and she shifts it into park before turning to face me. Her bluish-grey eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, are wide with something I haven’t seen in her before—nervousness, maybe even fear. Her hands fidget in her lap, and she takes a shaky breath before speaking. “Please, Chris, promise me you will not say anything to anyone about what happened at my house tonight,” she says, her voice low and pleading, a stark contrast to the confident, bitchy tone I’m used to. “I know things got ... a little crazy with my mother. She can be ... well, what I mean is, our family is...” She trails off, her words stumbling over each other as she struggles to explain. Her cheeks flush, and she looks away for a moment, out the window at the passing cars, before turning back to me with desperation in her eyes. “Actually, can we not get into it right now? I promise we can talk about it later. I can tell you have a million questions. But please, just keep quiet about it for now.”

I’m taken aback by how raw she sounds, how vulnerable. This isn’t the Regina George who dragged me into a bathroom stall this morning and sucked my cock like she owned it. This isn’t the Regina who demanded I buy her designer shit and get a fancy car just to be worthy of her. This is someone scared, someone who’s showing a crack in that perfect, controlling facade. And fuck, it hits me hard. I can see the fear etched into her face, the way her lips tremble just slightly as she waits for my response. That dark, twisted voice in my head—the same one that pushed me to fuck her ass in the shower, to make her do filthy things just to prove I’m in charge—whispers to me now. It tells me to use this, to blackmail her, to hold this over her head and make her do whatever the hell I want. She’s vulnerable, it says, fucking exploit it. Get her to beg, get her to give you everything—her friends, her money, her fucking soul if you want it.

But I shut that shit down fast. No. I’ve already won. I fucked her into submission, made her admit I’m more than she can handle, got her to agree to share me with whoever I want. I don’t need to play dirty now, don’t need to turn this into something uglier than it already is. I look into her eyes, seeing the genuine worry there, and I feel a pang of something I wasn’t expecting—guilt, maybe, or just a shred of decency I didn’t know I still had after today. “Regina, I promise,” I say, my voice steady and firm, making sure she knows I mean it. “I won’t say a word to anyone about what happened. Not about your mom, not about any of it. You have my word.”

Her shoulders sag with relief, and she lets out a breath she must’ve been holding since we got in the car. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the soft purr of the engine. She looks at me for a long moment, like she’s trying to gauge if I’m lying, if I’m just saying this to placate her. But I hold her gaze, letting her see I’m serious, that I’m not the kind of asshole who’d use something this personal against her. Finally, she nods, a small, almost grateful smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I appreciate that, Chris. More than you know.”

She turns back to the road, shifts the car into drive, and pulls back onto the street, the GPS recalculating as we resume the route to my house. The silence returns, but it’s not as heavy now, not as suffocating. There’s still a million things I want to ask—about her family, about whatever fucked-up dynamic is going on with her and her mom, about why she’s so terrified of this getting out—but I know now’s not the time. She’s already opened up more than I expected, shown a side of herself I didn’t think existed. And honestly, after the marathon of sex and drama today, I’m too fucking drained to push for more answers right now.

As we cruise along the route to my house, Regina’s Mercedes glides by the sprawling structure of Springs Fashion Mall. Its towering glass facade reflecting the city lights around us. Regina glances at the clock on her dashboard, and then turns to me with a hopeful look in her bluish-grey eyes. “Do you want to swing by the mall real quick?” she asks, her tone softer than I’m used to, almost like she’s testing the waters. “I would like to buy you an outfit for tomorrow. Something to make you look ... presentable.” I don’t give a rat’s ass about fashion—never have. Clothes are just clothes, and I’m fucking tired, ready to crash the second I get home. But she’s asking, not demanding, which is a change from the Regina I met this morning. Plus, it’s her money, not mine. I can’t help but mess with her a little, though. In a completely deadpan voice, I say, “You’re not just buying me clothes hoping I’ll have sex with you in exchange, are you?”

For a split second, Regina’s eyes widen, her mouth parting in surprise, but then she bursts into laughter, the sound bright and genuine, echoing in the confined space of the convertible. “Oh, you caught onto my plan,” she shoots back, playing along with a mischievous grin. I keep the charade going, my face still straight as I reply, “Fine, I guess one outfit will get you a quickie.” “Deal,” she giggles, her laughter lingering as she adds, “Do not worry, I promise we will be in and out. Just one outfit. Maybe tomorrow we can do some real shopping?” There’s a hopeful lilt to her voice, and I can tell she’s itching for me to commit to more of her world, more of her plans. Women and their shopping obsession—I’ll never get it. I’m not ready to say yes, but I don’t want to shut her down completely either. I need to see how tonight plays out, how I feel after some damn sleep. “We’ll see,” I reply cryptically, leaning back in the seat with a smirk of my own. Regina smirks right back, a knowing glint in her eye, as she swings the car into the mall’s parking lot and finds a spot near the main entrance.

We step out into the cool evening air, the massive glass doors of Springs Fashion Mall looming ahead. The place is eerily quiet for a mall, the usual bustle replaced by the distant echo of footsteps and the occasional murmur of late shoppers. As we push through the doors, I’m about to ask Regina when this place closes when the PA system crackles to life overhead. “The mall will be closing in 5 minutes. Please make your purchases now,” a polite but firm voice announces. Regina doesn’t even flinch; she’s already power-walking through the central atrium like a woman on a mission, her heels clicking sharply against the polished marble floor. I’m struggling to keep up, my legs heavy from the day’s exertions, but I can’t help but take in the surroundings. It’s my first time here, and even near closing, the place screams money—high-end stores line both sides of the first floor, their glass fronts gleaming under the natural light filtering through the glass dome ceiling. The central fountain in the atrium is still bubbling softly, surrounded by plush leather benches that are now mostly empty. Several stores already have their security gates halfway down, metal grates glinting as they block off entrances. Up ahead, escalators hum quietly, leading to the second floor, and a modern art sculpture—a weird twist of metal and glass—catches my eye near a set of potted plants.

Regina doesn’t give me time to gawk. She’s beelining toward the back of the first floor, and I hustle to match her pace as we approach a store called Banana Republic. The security gate is partially lowered, hovering just above head height, and a female employee stands by the entrance, her posture polite but firm as she ushers out the last few stragglers. She’s thanking everyone for shopping there, her voice sweet but insistent, reminding them the store is closing and they need to leave. As we get closer, the employee—a hot, twenty-something blonde with long, straight hair and a body that’s a little too thin for my taste but still sexy as hell—starts to open her mouth, probably to tell us they’re done for the night. But then her eyes land on Regina, and her face lights up with recognition. “Regina! Oh my gosh!” she squeals, rushing forward to wrap Regina in a tight hug, completely ignoring the closing protocol she was just enforcing. Regina hugs her back with a warm smile, clearly familiar with this girl, and I take the opportunity to step closer, figuring we might need to charm our way into shopping past closing.

“Hey, I’m Chris,” I say, flashing a grin as I extend a hand, letting my voice drop just a little lower, testing the waters. My pheromones—or whatever the fuck they are—usually do the trick, and I’m curious to see if they’ll work here. She turns to me, her blue eyes widening as she takes me in, and I can see the shift happen almost instantly. Her cheeks flush, her posture softens, and she shakes my hand with a little too much enthusiasm. “Hi, I’m Tiffany,” she replies, her voice breathy, her gaze lingering on me a beat too long before she snaps back to Regina. Regina, catching the exchange but not commenting on it, jumps in with a dramatic flair. “Tiffany, this is my new boyfriend, and we have a fashion emergency,” she says, gesturing to my outfit—jeans and a worn-out tee that’s seen better days—with a mock grimace. Tiffany’s eyes flick to my clothes, and she nods a little too eagerly, her lips curling into a smile. “Oh, I can see that. Total emergency,” she agrees, her tone almost flirtatious, and I can’t help but feel a twinge of amusement at how quickly she’s fallen under my spell. But then her expression falters, and she bites her lip, looking genuinely apologetic. “I’m so sorry, though, I can’t let you shop right now. The registers are already closed for the night, and I can’t reopen them. It’s against policy.”

I watch as Regina’s expression sours, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I thought you were the manager,” Regina says, her voice carrying that sharp edge I’ve come to recognize as her default when things don’t go her way. Tiffany shakes her head, looking genuinely sorry but firm. “Assistant manager, sorry. Nothing I can do.” I can see the fire igniting in Regina’s eyes, that familiar spark of defiance and control she wields like a weapon. She doesn’t like being told no—hell, I’m pretty sure she’s never accepted it in her life. For a moment, I think she’s about to snap, to yell or throw her weight around like the queen bee she is. But then, just as quickly, a wicked glint replaces the anger, and a sly smirk curls her lips. She leans in close to Tiffany, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper I can’t quite catch, even though I’m standing right there. Whatever she says, it makes Tiffany’s eyes widen comically, her gaze darting to me with a mix of shock and something else—curiosity, maybe, or that lust I’ve seen in so many women since the wasp sting. She looks back at Regina, who nods emphatically to whatever unspoken question hangs between them. Without another word, Tiffany ushers us inside the store, past the half-lowered security gate, her earlier resolve crumbling like it was never there.

Inside Banana Republic, the lights are still on, casting a warm glow over the neat racks of clothing and polished wooden displays. The store is empty now, the last customers having trickled out, and the quiet feels almost eerie compared to the usual mall bustle. Tiffany and Regina huddle together for a quick, hushed conversation near the entrance, their heads bent close as they exchange a few more words I can’t make out. I catch Regina shooting me a quick, mischievous glance before they both turn and head toward the men’s section with purpose. I trail behind, feeling a little out of place in this upscale store with its crisp, minimalist aesthetic. Tiffany, still buzzing with that nervous, lusty energy, looks me up and down before asking, “What’s your waist and shoe size?” I rattle off my measurements—29-inch waist, size 8 shoe—and within a minute, she and Regina return with a complete outfit draped over their arms. They’ve picked out a short-sleeve button-up shirt, no pattern or design, just a plain, solid color that looks boring as hell to me. I flip over the tag and see it’s a size small and costs $50—fucking outrageous for something so basic, but hey, it’s not my money. The pants are some kind of slim-fit khaki, and there’s a pair of leather loafers to match. I’m skeptical, but I keep my mouth shut for now.

“I’m a size large, not small,” I tell Tiffany, holding up the shirt with a raised eyebrow. Both she and Regina stare at me like I’ve just spoken a foreign language, their expressions a mix of amusement and disbelief. “Just try it on,” Regina insists, waving a hand dismissively. “We can always get a larger size if it doesn’t fit.” I shrug, not thrilled about this, and head into the dressing room. I’ve always been a t-shirt and jeans guy—simple, comfortable, no fuss. Trying on this outfit feels ridiculous, like I’m playing dress-up or something. Am I seriously supposed to wear this to school? I strip off my worn-out tee and faded jeans, slipping into the button-up first. To my complete astonishment, the size small fits perfectly, hugging my frame in a way that’s snug but not tight. Are my usual t-shirts two sizes too big? I’ve never thought about it before, but damn, this actually looks ... decent. Next, I pull on the pants, and while the waist is the right size at 29 inches, they’re way too snug everywhere else. The slim fit clings to my legs and, more noticeably, outlines the bulge of my cock in a way that’s borderline obscene. Ever since the wasp sting, I’ve been sticking to the baggiest pants and shorts I own to hide the monster in my pants, but this? This leaves nothing to the imagination. I tug at the fabric, trying to adjust it, but there’s no hiding the damn thing.