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“I’m beyond grateful for my success. This isn’t exactly what I dreamed of, but I get to do what I love and get paid ridiculously well. To put it in perspective, the first six months after I launched my website were equal to a rookie contract. Since then, I’ve been making All-Star money.” I use hockey terms for reference without actual numbers.

“Fuck.” His mouth drops open.

“Yup,” I agree. “It’s insane.”

Mav sits up straight. “Does this mean someday you’ll be my sugar momma?” he asks with wide, curious eyes.

“Baby, you make your own money; you don’t need me to fund your lifestyle,” I quip, relieved at the direction of our teasing. My insides have turned to total mush. It could be his acceptance or the acid disintegrating everything. Time will tell.

“Especially since I’m terrified of being broke,” he says seriously. Unfortunately, I lived his fear, so I’m intimately acquainted with it.

Focusing on potential problems is a fast track on the pity/victim train. Mav’s not hopping on that if I can help it. Hopefully, humor will stop the train.

“Worst-case scenario, all your current money is poured into medical bills, and you never play hockey again. I’ll hire you as my assistant and let you stay in my cute reading nook,” I say with a straight face.

“You’d relegate me to the reading nook?” Mav knocks me with his shoulder. “I’d become a hunchback sleeping in that tiny space.”

“Whelp, stay healthy,” I tease. “Now, do you want to see this, or should I get you a copy of my tax return?”

“We can do a date night next week and show each other our tax returns. But you’ll win.” Mav rests his head on my shoulder to see my screen.

“It’s not winning.” I kiss his hair and dive in before I lose my nerve. “This email is strictly from my website, and where all the requests come in. I sort through them and block anything hateful or suspicious.”

“Wait, what do you mean?”

“Some idiots try to come on anonymously, and I learned fast that is a hard no for me. And Mav, I work in the sex industry. Some guys think consent doesn’t apply. I get tons of dick pics and requests for insane sex acts.” I pause for him to ask more questions, and he does.

“What’s the craziest request you’ve ever gotten?”

We’ve jumped into the ocean without a life jacket. “There’s the unimaginative asking to fuck me. Crude. Boring. Lifetime block. Simple. The creative ones are scarier. Asking me to use weapons or animals. Which, fine if that’s your thing, I won’t shame you, but they get creepy and cyber-stalk me and figure out where I live.”

“Are you in danger?” He wraps an arm around my middle in a protective move.

“No. I’ve filed police reports, which was useless, but no one has come to my house. It helps to have the studio downstairs. One person couldn’t possibly do both jobs.” I let out a humorless laugh.

“Tell me what you love most.” Mav changes the subject for me.

“My favorite thing to do is choreograph a new routine with a theme.” I scan my requests and open an innocent one. “This person usually…” I read the email. “He’s older and a classic rock guy. Here”—I point to the screen—“he wants me to dance to a Def Leppard song. It’s one of his faves, and he’s a regular so he picks which background he wants.”

As Mav reads the request, I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“Show me.” His gaze meets mine, and the lust in his eyes makes me lightheaded.

“It’s a live performance, so no rehearsal. I set it up and let the music decide where my body goes.” I’m explaining it wrong, since I choreograph regular dance numbers.

“Pretend I’m him.” He flips over and puts his head in my lap, upending my laptop. “I really want to see you dance.” Mav pulls my bottom lip out from between my teeth. “Please?”

This is dangerous territory because none of the guys I perform for have a chokehold on me like Mav. Dancing for him and him alone is completely different. My stomach clenches, and the lyrics of him pouring his sugar on me play on a loop in my head.

“Are you embarrassed?” he asks.

“No, why?” I push his head gently and stand before my dick decides to wave at him.

“You turned pink.” He shrugs. “It’s kinda cute.”

“I’m not cute!” I huff and retreat to change the background. Heaven help me, I’m going to do this.

“Hmm, what about sexy…or delectable…or scrappy?” He comes up behind me and easily reaches for the backdrop and crowds against me.