Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
BONNIE
My phone pings, and I feel like a lead weight has dropped in my stomach, because as I look at the notification, I see that the remaining amount of money has been deposited into my bank, and just like that, after one weekend, I’m one hundred thousand pounds richer. So why do I feel so icky about it all?
Why doesn’t it feel right?
Why does it feel like accepting this money is totally wrong on every level?
I gave him my time, I gave him more orgasms than I thought possible, including three more last night and two this morning, I gave him the two nights and two days, like the contract said, but I feel sad. Like it’s the end of something special, something I never expected to find.
I’m waiting for the car service to get me, to take me back to my shitty life with my shitty family, where I’ll go back to doing the shitty waitress job, because there is no way I can be an escort to anyone else. Not after this. I don’t even know if you can come back from having sex with the boss, anyway.
“The car service is here,” he says, as he walks up behind me on the balcony, his hands in his pockets, his expression looking just as grave as mine.
“Okay.” I swallow the lump that has formed in my throat, because how is it even possible for me to be missing him already? How is it possible that I’ve fallen so hard and so fast for a man who a few days ago was just my sister’s ex? I can’t even fathom how quickly my heart has let him in.
It can’t just be down to the amazing sex, can it?
I already know that it isn’t, because between the sex, we talked, got to know one another, and it felt like he was the missing piece of me. Ugh. I need to get out of here and clear my head, be away from him, maybe then I’ll see that it’s just the post-sex haze clouding my thoughts.
He walks me to the door of the penthouse, carrying my bag for me.
“Thank you for this weekend,” he says as I turn to look at him.
“Thank you to you, too,” I manage to say, keeping the lump in my throat at bay and wondering why all of a sudden I want to cry. “I guess, uh, I’ll see you around?”
“I guess so,” he grates out, like he’s struggling to speak. I take my bag from him with a sad smile, turning and opening the door, feeling like I need to shut this part of my life away in a box and never look at it again, because it’ll hurt me if I do.
“I’ll be here again next weekend, just so you know,” he says as I walk out of the door, desperate to turn back around but knowing I can’t, because if I do, then I’ll lose myself in him completely.