Page 59 of Buy Me, Sir

She smiles as she reaches the other side of panic, the quiet place I know so well.

“Trust me,” I breathe, and she blinks. The tears flow.

I know she feels herself slipping, I know the pull of the void. Her fingers loosen their grip on my shoulders. Her eyes flutter, holding onto mine.

And then, in those final moments of consciousness, she strokes my face. Her thumb sweeps my cheekbone with a tenderness that defies reason, defies everything.

I count down from five, savouring the way she’s slipping away from me.

And then I let her go.

She comes back in a heartbeat, gulping in a long rasp of air as her eyes come back to focus. I’m still inside her as she splutters, still inside her as she turns her head to the side and coughs and gasps and gulps until her breathing returns to normal.

I stroke the hair from her forehead, then tip her face to mine.

“Ok?” I ask.

The girl underneath me smiles, and then she giggles.

It’s the most beautiful sound in the world.

“Do it again,” she says.MelissaI want to die in his arms. I want his eyes to be the last thing I see. His beautiful voice the last thing I ever hear.

But not tonight.

I’m euphoric, giddy as my breath returns to normal, and he smiles at me. He actually smiles.

I don’t think he realises he’s doing it, the lines at his eyes crinkling as he brushes the hair from my forehead.

“Ok?” he asks.

I smile back, because I am. I really am ok. Better than ok.

I giggle because this is crazy. This shouldn’t be good, but it is. It’s so good I can’t stop grinning.

“Do it again,” I say.

He’s still inside me, and I love how it feels. I love how all of this feels.

“Soon,” he tells me, and then he kisses me.

I love how he kisses me.

I love how he breathes into my mouth as he pushes in deep.

I love the way I’ve made him so horny. I’ve definitely made him horny.

It’s different when he fucks me this time, frantic and desperate, his skin clammy under my fingers as I hold his face to mine.

“Please…” I ask, and I don’t know what I’m asking for.

He does, because he gives it to me. Deep thrusts that make me cry out noises that don’t sound like me.

I hold him so tight, my lips on his as he shudders and moans, and he’s so close, his eyes right in mine, as I feel him lose control.

He tenses. Grunts. And I feel it. I feel him come.

I made him come.

It’s only when he stops that I realise how sore I am. How tender my pussy feels.

It’s only when he pulls away and pulls me up with him that I realise I’ve bled over the perfect white bedding.

Horror. I’m so horrified I try to wipe it away with my fingers, but the pink stain just smears worse.

“I’m so sorry…” I tell him. “I’m really, really sorry, sir.”

My eyes are wide and scared as they meet his, because I don’t want him to be angry. I don’t want to disappoint him.

But he’s not angry.

His eyes are dark, but they’re not angry at all.

He stares so weirdly, and my heart races, because I think he knows. I think he knows who I really am.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he tells me.

But he’s still staring. Still thinking.

I’m burning up. My cheeks on fire as I bluster a smile.

“I’d better get, um, cleaned up a little…” I say, and head for the bathroom.Alexander“I’m really, really sorry, sir.”

I can’t stop staring at her, can’t tear my eyes away from the sweet panic in hers. The hunch of her shoulders as she frantically tries to wipe her blood from the sheets.

As if I give a fuck about the sheets.

She’s beautiful. Too much of a delight to be real.

So it can’t be real. She can’t be real.

She tells me she’d better get cleaned up a little, and I watch her retreat to the bathroom. She smiles before she closes the door behind her, and it makes me smirk to myself to think of her dithery fingers wiping herself clean.

I plan to head in after her, but I need a moment. I’ve already clocked her bag on the dresser, and I’m straight over before she can catch me in the act.

I make sure the door is still closed before I undo the clasp and take a look inside. A purse, which I don’t open. A phone with a locked screen, an older handset, nothing special. A lipstick, a hairbrush. A little velvet bag, some chewing gum, and finally, slipped into the hidden pocket, her passport.

I flip it open quickly.

Amy Leigh Randall.

Age twenty-one, just as she said on the video.

I note her address. East End, but not in too bad an area. Her photo looks older. Her hair is longer and light brown, her face glowing natural with barely any makeup.

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