OLDER MEN | THE WEEKND

20

ok ok guess who's back and omg i missed this <3
enjoy this and the chapters that are to come! ;) and tysm for the sweetest comments and support! ily angels!!

020

SHE'S BEEN STARING at the white wood of her desk ever since Mr. Archival had walked into the classroom.

   Humiliation is intoxicating when mixed with innocent desire, a need to be comforted, and the recollection of her geography teacher's fingers on her back is a heady one.

  But the anxiety tightening her throat and making her squirm in her seat has a source far more menacing than the exposed tan neck of Mr Archival; the memory of Abel Tesfaye's long fingers gripping the steering wheel of his matte Porsche, the two Mercedes cars following them to school, are the implication of a world Bella had wanted to enter for so long.

     Her skin burns where he'd ever touched her. Her innocence, Bella knows, is as much of a temptation as it is her own vulnerability. She realizes, with a start, that The Weeknd's motives had been clear from the very beginning.

  I don't want to make out with you, kitten.

Do you know what I can do to you?

"Isabella?"

   She jerks her head up so violently that, for a second, the room spins; Bella's eyes catch the inquisitive gaze of Mr. Archival, and, despite herself, she feels her cheeks tinting red.

   The classroom is strangely quiet — she'd been too dazed to realize that the bell had already rang, and she's the only one left. Mr. Archival, leaning against the whiteboard, observes her, and indecipherable expression obscuring his features.

Before she can excuse herself, he speaks up.

"I'll be frank, Isabella. You worry me."

    "Sir—" Bella stammers, but he pays her attempts no attention as he continues.

  "You've been acting unlike yourself for the past week. I am in no position to pry, but your sudden reaction yesterday leaves me no choice."

     Bella lowers her gaze.

      "I was just tired," she lies, and it comes so easily that, for a second, she believes it herself. Her father's not a cheater, and she hadn't just gotten herself into a mutually beneficial attachment with a man ten years older than herself, and a million times as rich.
A million times as corrupt.

    A week before, her teacher's concern would leave her with fantasies that would last Bella an entire weekend; this time, he can no longer be enough. She had tasted a poison sweeter, one that leaves her craving something else, something darker.

   "Who was that man with you?" Mr. Archival asks, and the controlled tone of the question startles Bella.

   "Excuse me?"

He continues carefully, "the man that, I assume, drove you home."

Something about the way he is looking at her is a novelty. It is as though, for the first time, he is trying to see something in her face, something he hadn't been able to read.
   Perhaps he's trying to find the rotten core of her fascinations. Perhaps he'd finally understood.

"That was an associate of my father's," she says, tone as light as the material of her v-neck.

He sighs.

  "Isabella, if you... if you need to talk about whatever is bothering you, you do not have to resort to the friends of your father for comfort."

   His words hold an unmistakeable chill, but Bella's smile is all sunshine as she rises from her chair, locks tucked behind her ears.

   Before she turns towards the door, she makes her voice is as sweet as the syrup Mr. Archival takes with his coffee.
      "Sir, comfort is the last thing I search for in the men my father works with."

A different car pulls up to her school once the bell rings.

It is all tinted windows and sharp edges, the wrap so black that not even the cloudy sky reflects on its surface, closely followed by two identical Mercedes AMGs. A mix between the AM Valkyrie and a cruiser with an iced-out grill.
He has a type, Bella thinks to herself, with everything. She wonders, innocently, what other things he finds pleasure in except for expensive cars and black suits.

Bella tries to ignore the excitement that makes her knees weak as she walks up to the vehicle.

The window rolls down before she can open the door, however. The Weeknd, eyes hidden behind visors as tinted as the glass of his car, gestures elegantly towards the backseat.

"Get into the back, Isabella," he says in lieu of a greeting, and the way her name rolls of his lips cannot be anything else but a cruel manipulation. No man can make a suggestion sound more like an order.

He wears a suit as black as his visors, and silver cuff links gleam as he returns one of his hands towards the steering wheel.

  A leather belt snakes around his defined waist.

"Why?" Bella asks, not missing the way his ringed fingers caress the wheel.

"Because I said so."

"Mr. Archival was much nicer to me than you are right now," she mutters under her breath, but slides into the backseat obediently, coming face-to-face with a collection of sealed Dior bags. She smirks. "I thought you said my outfit was fine for the dinner?"

Instead of responding, Abel's long fingers press the button that drives the engine roaring to life. "I had them pick something more fitting."

For a few moments in which she untangles the multiple bows that tie one of the boxes, Bella revels in the realization that The Weeknd had bought her a baby pink Chanel bag to go with her outfit.

The revelation is fleeting once she considers what he might ask for in return. What she wants him to ask.

Whether she wants him to ask at all.

Her experience with men older than herself have never gone beyond fantasies, a caprice for bad girls she had never gotten to explore. Sitting at the back of his car, Bella wonders, for the first time, if he had worn the leather belt for a reason.

The scent of expensive leather and cigar fumes brings a fever to her cheeks.

"Are you expecting me to change in the back of your car, Mr. Tesfaye?" Bella muses, a teasing tone to her question.

"Yes," Abel deadpans, as though his seatbelt isn't the only thing separating them.

"And I suppose you aren't going to look?"

The Weeknd chuckles. "If I wanted to see you undress, it wouldn't be in the back of one of my cars, kitten."

Bella's throat goes dry.

"Okay," she breathes, but she isn't sure that her voice obeys her. Her cheeks, she is sure, are a constellation of pink, and yet, despite their loveliness, are a giveaway of how flushed The Weeknd can make her feel with a few wickedly chosen words.

The promise the evening holds is more of a warning, and it thrills her to the bone.