Chapter 29 #2
Now, I’m not a prude. I think I’ve put that suspicion to rest tonight. But I didn’t like that it wasn’t even his idea.
He was talking more about this stuff with his friend than me.
And then, he was truly not the type.
The thought that he’d be having total control over me and screwing it, most like losing his erection and then not being able to get it up and blaming it on me?
No, thank you.
But Ewan did it, removing that block from my head, and after making me come against the wall, he dragged me back to the bed.
I had zero time to rebound, and I was a mess between my legs when he got hard again and tossed me on the bed.
Face down.
I pulled upright, and he grabbed my hips and brought me close to him. Standing next to the bed with me bowed down––only the cuffs were missing and me being tied to the headboard––he pushed the chiseled head of his erection inside me.
I didn’t think I could take more of him. More hard thrusts, more painful grips on my body, more shudders, more tension. More mind-blowing pleasure.
I thought I was too tired, and he wouldn’t be able to make me go up again.
Boy, was I wrong?
My bones still hurt, and I think I pulled a muscle from having my legs spread open. It was nasty. Dirty nasty.
I smile.
My grin is calm and peaceful and lined with satisfaction.
We had a good night.
Forget about the money, going back and forth with that club manager, and facing Mrs. Eisenhower’s scrutiny.
I hope I won’t end up like her.
What’s her problem? She can’t sleep? Is she worried I won’t get married again if I meet men like Ewan?
Ewan.
I turn the shower off, put my slipper on, and slide my bathrobe on without running my towel over my body.
The plush fabric soaks up most of the moisture before I head to the kitchen.
I was so sleepy an hour ago after we fucked for the fourth time. Neither of us wanted to walk into the shower at the motel. There was nothing wrong with it. There was nothing good with it either. It was a small shower, basic.
We couldn’t even fit inside both if we wanted to, you know, have sex again.
I was raw––still am––but I wanted him again.
And he wanted me again.
Ewan.
He is an interesting man with all his secrets. And his back and forth and putting the fear of God into that man at the club.
I bet he won’t talk to me the way he did last night again.
Reluctantly, Ewan said yes to my returning to the club tonight with a condition, though.
He’ll be there, and I get to wear what I want to wear.
Meaning my catsuit.
I won’t be showing much skin, and it’ll be more of an athletic performance than anything else.
That’s all. Which works for me.
This way, I’m not in hot water with Sammy, and I can work my shift and collect my money before I’m done with this type of work.
I cleaned the money that I got so far the best I could. And I mean literally cleaning it with a warm, damp cloth, not using some accounting tactics.
All of it will help me build up my emergency fund.
So today I’ll be free during the day––I’ll catch up on sleep––and then I’ll work at night. And meet him.
And tomorrow, I’m working in Manhattan during the day, and then I’ll be free until next week.
I don’t have any plans for Christmas.
Christmas Eve falls on Saturday, so I’ll see how that shakes out. I didn’t think I’d need to make plans for that day.
I still don’t know whether we’ll see each other these next few days. Probably not.
He might have previous engagements. A place where he’s expected. Family he needs to spend Christmas with.
I won’t hold my hopes high.
Sighing, I pour myself a cup of coffee and slide into a chair at the kitchen table, my drink in front of me and my phone in hand, the screen dark.
Sunk in thought, I swipe my phone, and the screen brightens up. It’s almost five o’clock.
A smile tugs at my lips.
This sort of schedule is so not like me. I’m a stickler for a good routine.
Going to bed at eleven, breakfast at seven, working out at six in the morning or six at night.
Sometimes, I’m doing both sessions, if possible. Weekends are for chores. Evenings are for reading.
Damn… I’ve been living like my mom.
She wasn’t so much into working out. And she did her chores throughout the week. She’d go to the store every other day because she loved getting out and spending her time shopping for groceries. Me, not so much. I always stock up, so I don’t have to go to the store that often.
The screen lights up with a silent alert, and my eyebrows flick up as I pick up the phone and read Sammy’s message.
Sammy: How was your gig last night?
Weird.
Why is she up at this hour? Sending me messages?
A kernel of concern swells in my chest.
Why is she asking me about my gig? I hope nothing happened after we left.
I imagine the worst possible scenarios. My boss called her and complained. Oh, shit.
Cold sweat trickles down my neck. If he did that, he surely told her he was bossed around by Ewan.
I type a brief message.
Me: How come are you up?
Her reply arrives instantaneously.
Sammy: Doing the walk of shame. I didn’t think you’d be up. What’s your excuse?
A few laughing emojis follow, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Me: Can you talk?
Sammy: Sure.
Her video call arrives immediately.
“Hello, there,” I say, my elbows propped on the table, the mug in my hands.
My phone is propped against the vase.
Her hair is in disarray, a big smile on her face, the camera jolting up and down.
“Sorry. I’m just getting in. Give me a moment.”
“Sure. No problem.”
She sets her phone down, and I hear her walk into her place before kicking off her boots and moving around the room.
“I didn’t think I’d get home so late,” she says, picking up her phone, and I can see her face. “Oh, look at you. Drinking your morning coffee. Did you just wake up?” she asks.
“No.”
Shit.
That's not the best answer.
A knowing smile pulls at her lips.
“What did you do?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
It works.
She tears her eyes away from me and looks around her kitchen,
“I’m so fucking hungry. This guy I met last night…”
A big smile hovers over my face.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “Didn’t you say you had to travel out of town?”
She laughs.
“I said. And I will. I’m flying out at 6 PM this evening.”
“So, is he the reason you couldn’t work last night?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Huh… Who is he? Please don’t tell me he’s just another guy you met online.”
She flicks her finger up before pulling out a loaf of bread from the cupboard and some cheese from the fridge and starting to make a sandwich.
“He is not,” she says, her back turned to me as she looks for a kitchen knife. “I met him in Manhattan last week. At the restaurant,” she says as if she just remembered I knew the place. “It was right before the night you filled in.”
“Who is he?” I ask, curious.
She puts her sandwich on a plate and sits at the table.
“You won’t like this, but it’s not what you think.”
“I’m listening.”
“He was on a date with a woman he met on a hookup app, and things just didn’t work out between them––he later told me.
He made a comment when I brought their drinks to the table and she was at the restroom.
And I thought it was tacky to share something like that with me, a stranger to him, but I knew it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility to be on a date with someone you didn’t click with.
It’d happened to me, too. So, he joked and said he’d give that app another try.
And if it didn’t work he’d call me and ask out.
But I needed to give him my phone number for that.
He was clever.” She chuckles, and I smile before she continues.
“And I did. But I didn’t think much of it.
Well, he called and asked me out, and this is the result,” she says around her food, laughing again.
“Things worked out for him in the end.”
“They did work for both of us. Man, I missed getting laid well.”
“Tell me about it,” I say with too much emphasis on my words, and I earn a curious look from her.
“What about you? How was the club tonight?”
“It was all right. The manager is a dick, though.”
Chewing, she lifts her eyes to me.
“Did he say anything to you?”
“Nothing worth talking about,” I murmur, aware of the fact that she knows nothing about what really happened at the club. “We argued about my costumes.”
She chuckles.
“Tell me about it. He wants the girls in the tiniest thongs. I know why we’re there, but please… We don’t need to look like a colonoscopy.”
I laugh, amused.
“I’m glad you’re alive and well,” she says before sliding the last bite of her food into her mouth.
For a few moments, she looks down while I have flashes in front of my eyes from what happened at the club.
“I don’t know if I want to do this again,” I say, and she shifts her eyes to me.
“Sorry,” she says, distracted and smiling. “He texted me and said he would miss me terribly if I left. Isn’t he sweet?” she murmurs, typing a reply.
“Yes, he is.”
She finishes typing and sending the message.
“I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
“It was about––”
“Not dancing over there again,” she continues, gesturing in understanding.
“I know. I don’t blame you. I’ll probably stop working there as well.
Especially, if this guy I’m talking to turns out to be something serious.
Not serious as in getting married, but you know, seeing each other for a little while. ”
I listen to her with a soft smile on my lips. It takes us so little to start thinking about the serious stuff. And I know why. These things are always flying off the rails before we know it.
My mind goes back to my ex.
If anyone had told me I’d be fucking in motel rooms, and feel good about it, while talking it from behind not so far into the future after I said I do, I would’ve laughed my ass off.
And look at me now.
“You’ll find someone,” Sammy says in response to my thoughtful expression.
I swiftly bring a smile to my lips.
“I’m not in a hurry.”
“I know. I’m not, either. But like I said, it feels good tofinally look forward to having some good sex, if nothing else."
I stay mum.
Hooray to that.
I feel the same.
A few seconds pass before I take a sip of coffee, and she speaks again.
“I apologize for being so abrupt about that man.”
“What man?” I ask swiftly, my heart galloping in my chest.
I suddenly know exactly what man she's talking about.
“The guy you went home with. Or whatever you were doing with him.”
“Yeah. No biggie. I told you it was nothing.”
“Yes, yes. I understand. It’s good if you two have nothing to do with each other. This type of man can be problematic.”
“I’m sure it could be,” I say, looking at my mug again, tempted to overdose on coffee.
“You said you didn’t know his last name…” I probe. “He never formally introduced himself to me either.”
“What first name did he give you?” she asks.
“Um… Ewan?”
Our eyes connect as I say no to another sip of coffee
“That’s his name.”
“What about his last name?” I insist.
“Yeah. I don’t know it as I just said. But I can get it for you if you want me to.”
I gesture immediately.
“No, no. I was just asking. I don’t need to know his name. We were only making conversation.”
“Okay….” she says, and stretches in her seat before yawning. “I think I need to go to sleep. I’m spent,” she says, a happy smile on her face. “I’ll talk to you when I get back, yeah?”
“Sure.”
“All right. Merry Christmas to you, and let me know if there are issues at the club.”
“Merry Christmas to you, too. I will for sure.”
Moments later, we end the call and I slide back in my seat, looking at my phone like it’s my enemy.
I wish I could get a text message from him.
Wouldn’t that be nice?
It would.
But it won’t happen.
That’s fine.
Despite the caffeine dripping through my blood, I feel ready to go to bed. I grab my phone, then change my mind and plug it into the kitchen to recharge.
A new alert hints at a notification, but I’m too lazy to check the message. It’s from Sammy.
I’ll read it when I wake up.
It’s probably nothing.
With that thought in mind, I go to bed, and quickly after, I sleep like a baby for eight hours straight.