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Her taking my cock with those pretty pink lips. She enjoyed it, and I fucking loved it. I close my eyes. No. But it’s like my mind— or my conscience — won’t let me forget.
She’s a dirty little whore. But I’ll be fucked if she’s gonna be anyone else’s whore. No goddamn way. I may not have ruined her for any other man like I promised, but I sure as fuck am not gonna let her continue as an escort. Not on my watch. I’ll make sure she never has to lift a pretty little finger for the rest of her life. And I don’t want shit for it. I want to see her happy, not struggling. Living the life that she deserves.
I remember her little whimpers as I pulled her nipple, tweaking the little bud between my fingers. Perfect tits. Perfect pussy. Perfect little ass. Perfect fucking everything.
I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself when I imagine shoving my cock into that tight, little hole. The one I already fucked with my tongue.
A low growl leaves my throat as I tighten my grip and quicken my pace. Everything about last night was wrong, but my body tells me otherwise.
My body tells me it was the hottest night I’ve had in a very, very long time.
My body tells me this woman is under my skin, able to get to the heart of me quickly.
My body twitches as I close my eyes and I let myself have this moment of unbridled passion. Of want and lust that is not only forbidden but completely wrong.
But like the sadistic bastard I am, I take it anyway, revelling in the fact that I made her come so quickly and easily. When I imagine sinking my fat cock inside her, I lose it, and I know I’m going to hell when I spurt my hot cum all over myself and the shower wall. I milk myself until every last drop is expelled from my body.
I utter no words. None are needed.
The water washes away all the evidence of my sins — and I chuckle. If only it were that simple. I’m not even fucking sorry; how’s that for repenting?
I turn the taps off and run my hands through my wet hair.
Tonight is solely about setting the record straight.
I’ll give Charlize a check so she’ll never have to work that fucking escort job ever again — or any job for that matter. It’s high time Charlize Prescott realised her worth. I know that terrible upbringing has played a part in the reason why she’s basically living in squalor right now, and that makes me mad. I had something to do with that. A big something. And it’s now my job to rectify it.
If I can’t do something good with my fucking money, then what is the point after all?
Charlize is no charity case, I get that — but she should not be suffering like this. Not ever. And I know by where she lives and what she’s doing for work that she needs money. Money her grandmother should have given her if she’d been able to manage her finances better.
Again, guilt washes over me. I can’t help it. Charlize is no longer a girl — she’s a woman. A woman who isn’t living how she should. How she deserves.
This feeling—it’s like a slowly, seeping poison finding its way into my system. Snaking up inside my veins to wrap around everything inside me.
I should leave it well alone. No good can come from this. But then I reason with myself that Charlize deserves it. The money will help. Maybe it is a bargaining chip to get her out of my life once and for all — she did tell me she wanted to travel and hadn’t been able to do that since arriving in London. Times are tough.
As I dry myself off with a towel and begin to dress, I feel that feeling pounding in my chest; the excitement of seeing her again.
In all sincerity, I want to know how she’s doing. If she’s enjoying her life and doing all the things she set out to do, despite being poor. Of course, my version of poor and hers are probably light years away, but I won’t apologise for my wealth. I’ve earned all the perks that money can buy, and I didn’t do it by ripping anyone off.
We’ve never even had a real conversation about her mother, not since that day at the funeral. It was one of the last times I ever saw her. She was just a kid when her world turned upside down; she didn’t deserve any of what happened or what fate had in store for her in Australia. That’s what makes me persevere with this dinner— so I can make amends. I never expected that we’d ever be family — or even friends — but if we can end things civilly and she goes her way and I go mine, that would be the best outcome.
I don’t like worrying about her.
I don’t like thinking about her.
And I sure as fuck don’t like jerking myself off in the shower recapping everything about her and that body that was never made for me.
Yes. It may be a fact that Charlize Prescott is under my skin, but that doesn’t mean I have to act on it. It would be irresponsible of me to knowingly leave her in a worse situation than she was in before. The money she got for last night will only go so far.
And knowing her, she’ll like the money. She’ll want to do it again… with some other guy.
I’ve no right to feel anger or resentment, but that’s exactly how I feel when I think about another man with his dirty paws all over my princess.
My princess?
Am I delusional? She’s no more mine than the fucking Crown Jewels. But none of these things will stop me.
