RISK & REWARD ✔️

80 | 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘦

IT'S SO MUCH.

Really. That's all I can come up with. My mind goes blank, and my body stops working. Pressure bumps briefly against my back; a hand claps down on my shoulder, and stuttered footsteps behind me say that Slade has, quite literally, stumbled to a halt.

Neither of us say a word.

Dark mahogany floor. Polished. Clean. The color of melted chocolate. Rich. God, I sound like I want to have sex with the floor. Maybe I do. It's so fucking nice. Walls are a warm off-white shade, that dark crown molding. On both my left and right are closets with sliding doors, both open to display the lack of contents within. Directly overhead is a neat little chandelier, silver and six-spindled.

Dead ahead are two folding doors, pushed open—and beyond that is where Slade and I are staring.

Huge living room. Huge. Golden light spills warm and soft out from the juncture between wall and arching ceiling; it glows on the black carpet, it glows on the plush black-leather couch. It positively gleams on the edge of the huge flatscreen TV resting on a glass-top table.

On the left is another set of folding doors. From where I'm drunkenly staggering out of the foyer, I can see what looks like the edge of a fucking hot tub. A hot tub. A hot tub in the fucking suite. On the right is another set of folding doors—Slade is heading slowly towards those, and when I stumble after her, I find out why.

Kitchen of kings. Black, granite-topped island, tall black barstools. Coffee machine. Microwave. Eight-top stove, double oven. A triple rack—triple!—of what look like a million types of tea. Glass cabinets of plates and drawers of silverware. The fridge? Enormous. Set into the wall. Ice and water dispenser with one of those fun screens that all the rich people have.

Something hits my arm. Light. Weak. I'm barely conscious enough to turn.

Slade looks like she's about to pass out. Her brow sags, her eyelids flutter. She paws at my shoulder again, a motion so ridiculously uncanny for her.

She lifts her other hand. Points with three fingers up, back over her head.

I follow her guide, and it's up, maybe twelve feet up the wall, that I realize that there's more than one floor.

It's a sort of semi-spiral staircase located at the rear of the kitchen, right beside another set of sliding doors that leads into some sort of large closet—presumably an empty pantry. Fifteen steps, and we're upstairs on a long sort of balcony overlooking the main room. Carpet; soft, fluffy carpet. There's a long bench running along the short room-side wall, with pillows in each corner.

And then there's the bed.

The bed is enormous. Enormous. Lit with colored LEDs set into the mirrored headboard; it could probably fit four, five people, and it's complete five million pillows and a nest of thick duvets. And, just in case we want them, a pair of fluffy pink handcuffs, wearing a pretty little tag.

Happy housewarming, lovebirds :)
S

The first thing Slade and I do is clean ourselves off. After several days traveling in that little booth—we'd barely left it at all, actually—we sort of, possibly reek, and truth be told, I'm aching for hot water. Slade insists on leading me around like she's my personal bodyguard, checking to make sure everything is all right and nothing is out of the ordinary. She forces me to stop at the bathroom door while she goes in, and when she finds the lights, she sort of forgets about me; she stares at the place like she's seeing anything, ever, for the first time.

It is a hot tub. Jacuzzi, more like. Heart-shaped and huge, just like everything else. One side of it rests against the front wall. The mirrored front wall; one of three. Big box shower in the corner, toilet boxed in in the other and sinks set on the back wall. Beside the door in one corner is a tall cabinet, glass-faced and filled with a variety of things. Medicines, bandages. Balms, gauze. Oh, and it's mixed in with a whole ass-load of bathing things. Soaps, shampoos. I don't even know. Just everything, and so...much.