Chapter 19
SEBASTIAN
Aquestion has been eating at me since I woke up ten minutes ago and found my bearings—Diane’s bed, her apartment, late Saturday morning. Following a short night. Short because we spent most of it fucking in the living room, in the hallway, and here in this bed.
I barely noticed that question when it arose as I was thinking of something else. But, for some reason, it stuck in my mind. It blitzed out all my morning routines and is now invading the areas of my brain normally reserved for strategic thinking and processing of financial data.
Diane stands by the window, gazing outside, completely oblivious to my turmoil. She’s wearing my shirt in lieu of a dressing gown. I was still asleep when she got up and put in on.
This burning question is killing me. All my neurons are currently working on it, desperate to figure out the answer before it’s too late. I wouldn’t go so far as to say my life depends on it, but my emotional and physical well-being certainly do. Perhaps even my sanity.
What I’m so desperate to know is whether Diane is commando under my shirt.
I can discern her nipples, so I know she didn’t put on her bra.
But the cotton of my shirt is too opaque to see through.
What’s worse, its weave is too tight to permit an educated guess regarding the presence of panty lines across her butt cheeks.
If only she would bend down to pick something up, it would give me a fighting chance.
But as things stand, my guesswork is perfectly ineffectual, and I’m scorching my neurons for nothing.
Would it be too rude to dig into the heap of our clothes on the floor and hunt for evidence?
Last night, we undressed in the living room, so she must’ve fetched our clothes when she woke up.
I could always pretend I’m looking for my own underwear.
Except my boxers are in full view on top of that heap.
Damn.
Will she tell me if I ask her politely? Will she be sympathetic if I beg her to put me out of my misery? Or I should try a different tack and I announce that I need my shirt back? Will she take it off?
One thing is certain: If I do nothing, she’s going to pick up her clothes and head to the bathroom. That will mean I’ll never know. And I’ll have to live with that glaring gap in my knowledge for the rest of my life.
“Last night was a mistake,” Diane says without looking at me just as I’m about to stand up and do something radical such as slip my hands under the hem of that stupid shirt and get my answer.
It takes me a few moments to process her meaning. “I had the impression you enjoyed yourself.”
She still won’t turn toward me, but I can see her ears and cheeks color.
Good.
“I did,” she finally says. “And that’s the problem.”
“Why?”
She spins around. “We’re in a fake relationship that’s soon to become a fake marriage. That’s hard enough to handle. But if we start having sex…”
My thoughts exactly.
Until last night.
“Won’t it be easier?” I sit up and stare into her eyes. “It’ll actually make our fake love look more natural.”
“I can’t.” She shakes her head. “It’ll be too fucked up, even for me.”
I think I know what the real issue is here. “You’re afraid you’ll fall in love.”
“With you?” Her face contorts into a grimace. “You’re the last man in the world I could ever fall in love with.”
The vehemence of her denial would’ve been suspicious if the horror on her face were less sincere. I know Diane well enough by now to conclude she’s truly appalled at the notion of falling in love with me.
That rattles my ego somewhat.
But I remind myself that I, too, would find the prospect of falling in love with her unpalatable.
Diane is a radical leftist and an undereducated have-not.
When I identified and hired her, she was lower in the societal food chain than almost every person in my employ.
Her father tried to elevate his family to a better life.
But he failed due to poor business skills.
And yes, I’m aware that part of the reason he failed was me—the highborn have who crushed him like an annoying bug. And who believes that the best social order is when the elites are at the helm and the masses are at the oars.
“Excellent,” I say. “I have no intention of falling in love with you, either. But I don’t see why we can’t have some fun while we’re contractually bound to each other.”
“My mind is made up.” Diane gives me a hard stare. “I don’t want this to happen again, and you have to respect that.”
“Of course.” I nod. “Not a problem.”
An image of her face, flushed with arousal and pleasure as I stroke her core, pops into my head.
Then another image of her moaning as I push into her.
Ah, the sweetness of being inside her! I’m not prepared to give that up just yet.
The desire will get stale, as it usually does, in just a few weeks.
As for feelings, I’m perfectly safe from them.
Even with Ingrid, whom I intended to marry, I never experienced that all-consuming emotion they call love.
By the time my contract with Diane expires, I’ll surely be through with her.
But not yet.
At this point in time, I want more of her sweet body, her pretty face and even her sharp tongue. She arouses me as much as she entertains me. And I know I arouse her as much as I repulse her.
Anyway, arguing now is pointless. She says she doesn’t want to have sex with me again. Fine. So be it. I’m not going to beg her. Instead, I’m going to lie low and wait. Starting next Saturday and for the rest of the summer, Diane will live under my roof and sleep in my bedroom.
Who knows what will happen?
“When I move in with you,” Diane says as if reading my mind, “do I absolutely have to share your bedroom?”
“It’s in the contract.”
“I know that. It’s just… If I sneak out and sleep next door, no one will know.” She gives me a pleading look.
“Let me ask you something. Have you ever slept in a house with live-in help?”
She shakes her head.
I sigh. “I thought so.”
She smirks, and I realize my remark sounded more arrogant than I’d intended. But hey, Diane considers me an arrogant ass anyway, so I guess I’m just living up to her expectations. Anyway, I was trying to make a point.
“You see,” I say. “You can fool your family—parents, children, siblings, cousins, grandparents… Grandmas can be perceptive, but even they can be duped. Who you can’t fool is the people who serve you breakfast in the morning, make your bed, and clean your bathroom. They know everything.”
“Do they?”
“Trust me, they do.”
She turns away and stares out the window.
I’m sure she understands, but I want to make myself crystal clear.
“In addition to me,” I say, “there are five other people living in my town house. Some of them you’ve met already, others you will the day you move in.”
Diane gives me a sidelong glance, her expression wary.
“If we don’t sleep in the same room,” I say, “they’ll know. I can’t risk that.”
“OK,” she says. “Not a problem.”
The next second, she picks up my boxers from the top of the pile and sets them on the bed. I watch, forgetting to breathe. She pulls my jeans from the bottom of the pile and places them next to my boxers. Then she grabs the rest of the pile, without sorting it, and heads to the bathroom.
“Sorry I borrowed your shirt,” she calls from the hallway. “It won’t happen again.”