My heart pounds, and I am beyond anxious.
Thank you. That was fun.
“Fun?” I huff loud, pissed with the heartless and short message. “That son of a bitch.”
I pace, I process, and I think way too much. I am not confused about the trip or my feelings, but I am disturbed.
Forcing myself to not run upstairs, to not kick his door in, and to not demand an explanation is beyond hard. Really f-ing hard, but I need to know. Know how to feel. Know who we are.
Know if we are real, or if he and the last few amazing days was all just a show.
I pace, trying to understand what is going on.
Based on the verbal agreement to be his fake fiancée, and like in many countries around the world, verbal agreements hold up in a court of law, that should mean weare still legally engaged.
And that should mean I have access rights to him. Him, his body, his lips, and his eyes.
All of him!
Thinking on, I suspect the only issue or complication to that line of thought is that the deal had noted the engagement was a ruse. A trick. A scam.
My mind goes around and around, and I am close to vomiting.
I am about to storm up the rest of the marble stairs and demand we talk when the stupid bell rings again.
“Son of a bitch,” I huff, running to the message.
I lift it fast, my fingers shaking, my heart racing.
PS Can you please come up? It is time. Time I make you come.
I snap, and I see red. I am beyond furious, but furious and almost turned on.
Scribbling fast, with a shaking hand, I write.
FU. PS What time and how?
I put it in the stupid pipe system, and it wooshes away. I then yank hard on the dumb bell so he knows to check his end.
As I pace in the forming moonlight, confused, angry and excited, the stupid bell rings.
Vaulting across the bed, I snatch at the note.
Now and tongue.
I yell loudly, and it is not pretty.
Deciding clothes are not needed, and enough is enough, I yank off what I have on. That being comfy black yoga pants and a T-shirt, no bra.
I run naked, and I am pissed.
Enough is enough!
After streaking up the back two levels of marble stairs, I run down the polished oak hall. I pass old oil paintings, marble statues, and fancy antiques.
Suddenly, my eyes pop and I slow. “Fuck.”
I cover my breasts and try to look normal.
