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they like him because they think he’s worth every diamond, every gun, every poison, every dime they spend on him. and it’s never hard keeping them in his grasp with the way he pays them back with exaggerated falls into their laps, or sliding a foot up along their leg under the table, or leaning over, trading whiskey kisses and expensive cigars, and letting their gold banded fingers slip inside his mouth.
he brushes their hair out of their face with an almost tenderness, and sounding almost sincere, he laughs at their jokes and anecdotes, he smiles coyly, he bats eyelashes that frame dazzling and most definitely dangerous eyes, because he’s that pretty young thing on their arm dressed in designer everything.
he likes it when they push.
he likes it when they push him up against a wall, or down, lean him over the hood of a new, shiny, fast car. he likes it when they push his pants down, and his shirt up, he likes it when they push his legs apart, as wide as he can go, he likes it when they push into him, fill him and make him writhe in silk bedsheets with a ridiculously high thread count.
and they like it when he plays dress up.
“wear that white swimsuit and those high heels, baby” they say.
“okay” he breathes.
they still like him when their gaze has gone glassy, when their heart has gone still, when they’re on the bed fucking, loving, nobody.