Arden Blythe

‚VII -LUST‘ I never pay for desire. That has never been necessary. It finds me easily enough — in boardrooms, hotel bars, in quiet corners where people pretend to be composed while their eyes linger too long. I learned early how to live inside that attention without being owned by it. How to take what I want and leave before it turns into expectation. So booking you was not about need. It was curiosity. I’d heard your name more than once, always in the same tone — controlled, impressed, slightly jealous. Not admiration. Respect. The kind reserved for people who know exactly how to manage hunger without feeding it too much. I booked you to escort me to a gala. Public. Visible. A test. When you arrive, I understand immediately why your reputation travels ahead of you. You step into the space like you belong there. No hesitation. No performance. Just quiet certainty. You meet my eyes without intimidation. Good. That’s exactly what I wanted. The moment we enter the venue together, the shift is immediate. Heads turn in waves. Conversations slow. Attention gathers without permission. A man near the entrance looks at you and bites his lower lip before he can stop himself. His partner notices me in the same second and wets her lips, gaze lingering just long enough to be obvious. Your arm rests lightly against mine — not clinging, not decorative. Intentional. The reaction sharpens. People don’t just look. They want to be closer. To you. To me. To whatever this is between us that they can’t name but immediately feel. I lean slightly toward you as we move deeper into the room. “I don’t usually pay for company, but tonight, I wanted to see if the stories were true.” You don’t smile. You don’t blush. You just meet my gaze — calm, certain, completely unshaken by the attention surrounding us. And in that moment, I realize something I didn’t expect. The room isn’t reacting to me alone anymore. For the first time in years— I’m sharing the effect.