11
MIA
LOVE ME LIKE YOU DO – ELLIE GOULDING
My hands are wet, and I rub them nervously over my thighs. Whatever it is that happened tonight, I am as far out of my comfort zone as possible. Maybe it is all a dream, and I’ll wake up, and none of it was real.
Only it is real.
The hand pulling me out of the car is real.
The scent in my nose is real.
The cold night air in my lungs is real.
The electrifying sensation in my core is real.
The woman guiding me into her mansion is real.
Her hands wander around my shoulders and pull off my coat. The coat she gave me. The bloody thousand of pounds coat.
“Follow me,” she says and walks me up the stairs to a corridor on the right, where she opens a white door and gestures for me to go inside.
I feel like a puppet, and the best and worst thing is, I am not even opposed to it.
The room is dark, and I see nothing at first. She claps her hands twice, causing me to flinch, and the lights to turn on.
I don’t know what I expected, but this was not it. The room is as big as the living room and kitchen of my and Bella’s flat.
What comes into view first is a huge four-poster bed to the right, made from massive wood. Hooks everywhere.
My eyes fly to the left; almost the entire wall next to a leather armchair and a leather bench is covered with a picture frame that must be fifteen feet high. It shows a photo of Victoria in a tight leather full-body suit with a deep V-neck that shows off her breasts. She sits on a red velvet sofa, her legs wide, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees with a leather crop in her hands, staring directly into the viewer's eye with a confidence I have never seen on anyone's face. Ever.
Words fail me between being absolutely thunderstruck and wondering what kind of person would hang such a picture of themselves to see. The amount of confidence she must have.
“Are you feeling alright?” she asks from next to me.
“Yes,” I say carefully.
“Your face tells something else,” she says.
“It’s just—unexpected.”
“Is it?” she asks me cheerfully.
“I suppose yes,” I say.
“Do you have questions?” she asks me.
“Many,” I say, no idea where to start and end.
“Ask,” she says and sits down in the leather armchair, opening a button of her blouse.
I risk a stolen glance at her breasts, something she seems to find quite amusing.
“So, um, this is what you mean by lifestyle?” I ask.
“Yes and no,” she says. “This is just one room and a small part of what I call lifestyle.”
