This is going to be so fucking awkward, and I hate awkward. Last night was so much fun and clearly I wasn’t thinking straight, and now this is going to be one awkward morning after.
Just rip off the Band-Aid, Jake. Get your money and go. Preserve your dignity while you can.
I finish up and wash my hands, taking a deep breath as I grab a robe off the back of the door and cover up as I walk out into the room. The light shines through the windows, bathing the room in brightness, like a spotlight. Aaron’s still in bed, but he’s at least in his underwear, so I don’t have to stare at his cock—which my memory latches onto at this moment if only to fire home how careless I’d been. I know I don’t have to cover myself—after all, it’s clear he’s seen my cock and we’ve done…things, but if I want to walk away from this without feeling like a guilty idiot, I need to put a wall up between me and Mr. Perfect, who I will never see again.
My heart and my cock ache with that thought. Last night was crazy, to say the least.
It was fun, too. Not just the date itself, but…
Brunch. Dinner. Drinks and dancing to Taylor Swift. I vaguely remember dancing with Aaron as my girl asked if I wasreadyfor it, like some haunting premonition.
I thought I was. Clearly.
But now, in the light of day, when the fantasy is over… I’m not so sure. Because now comes the part that sucks.
“Hey,” I say, trying my best to remain calm and collected. Professional.
Aaron smiles up at me. “I had a great time last night.”
I casually collect my clothes, trying to be as cool as a cucumber even though I feel like I could jump out of my skin.
“Yeah, it was fun.”
I find my underwear and slide them on. Aaron doesn’t move from the bed, but I can feel his gaze on me.
“What I can remember, anyway.” The words are harsher than they should be. I look up to see his eyebrows furrow. I’m going to hate what I say next, but I need to know.
Even in the past when I slept with clients off the clock, I made it a point to not get too shitfaced because I needed to be in control of the situation. Which is why if sex was something that was going to happen, I needed to be upfront with my clients about my boundaries and we needed to have a conversation about our sexual health.
My brother says I’m too controlling, that I overthink and just need to “live in the moment, “ but I would rather be safe than sorry. Working in the clubs, you learn quickly to cover your ass so you don’t end up with a shitty tip that lasts a lifetime.
The same goes for my personal relationships. The fact I’m an ex-stripper-turned-professional date is already a red flag for a lot of people. They usually assume I must’ve fucked each and every client I’ve ever had and that I’m riddled with STDs, and both are so far from the truth it’s not even funny.
I’ve been getting tested since I lost my virginity when I turned eighteen, and I can count on one hand how many men I’ve had sex with, professionally and personally. I’m an everyone-rides-free attraction like some people tend to think, just because of what I do for a living.
If anything, I’m more selective because of it. Which is why I feel so fucking guilty right now.
“Did we…” I suck in a breath, making a point to look at Aaron, though when I do, I regret it because he looks a little sad. Worried, even. Maybe he regrets what happened. I don’t, but… I do. It’s confusing. I feel like I fucked up, somehow.
“Did we… ?” I ask. There is a silence between us that feels almost deafening.
Aaron meets my gaze. “No.”
It’s one solid word. A statement.
I let out a sigh of relief. “Oh. Okay. Good.”
I realize the moment I say it, it’s the wrong thing to say, and I sound like an asshole.
Fuck!
“I mean—”
He walks over to the couch, where his jacket is strewn haphazardly over the arm.
“I just don’tusuallyfuck my clients, period. And seeing as we’re both covered in cum and naked, I just—”
Aaron lets out a sigh.
