“Ah, right,” I say, attempting to fuel my words with an aloof attitude but sounding like a grouchy child who just woke up from her nap. “You had access to my bank account.”
No response.
“Well.” I turn away from him. I feel as if my feet are frozen in place. I can’t even lift them.
I have the money.
And wasn’t that all this was about?
I have to get to Savannah…
I have to… talk to Gwen and Cosette…
The list of things I “have” to do is dwindling. I look up at him.
“You said there was… one condition,” I whisper.
Give me a reason to stay.
“One more time.”
My heart skips. I lick my suddenly dry lips and swallow. “One more time… what?”
“Let me make love to you. I’ll make love to you before our time is up.”
It’s the least I can do, I reason, as if I need to convince myself this is right. I do owe him this.
But a part of me wantsone more time.
One more time to be held.
One more time to be kissed.
One more time to be ravaged by the beast.
“You can leave,” he says. “Every penny’s in your account. La Maison is closed and you, like the rest, will have the opportunity to take a severance package or work at Thayer’s establishment. But I have one more hour with you.”
I glance at the time and realize with a sudden jolt that he’s right.
He’s right.
What will he do with that hour?
“Alright, then. I’m a woman of my word. I told you I would fulfill my end. So let’s do this.”
I start stripping out of my clothes as he unfastens the first button of his shirt.
“Let’s go.”
The coherent part of my brain reminds me this is not a wise move.
The primal part of my brain’s having a party.
And a part of me wonders. Is it true I can’t be with him? Or truer that I can’tnotbe with him?
I’m a sex worker. I do this for a living. I amverygood at having sex without emotional attachment.
I’m not sure what he wants to show me right now, but he canhave. At. It.
