“Are you trying to scold me or something?” she snaps as she jerks her head out of my grasp. It’s dawning on her that I won’t be continuing this, much to the aching disappointment of my cock, and her passion is replaced with irritation.
“Sex is not transactional, do you understand? Next time you do this?” I wave my hand between us and step away. “Do it because you want to, not because you feel like you have to.”
15
ZIRA
Is he fucking serious?
Too stunned to speak, I just watch Bradley excuse himself and leave the kitchen so casually, as if we weren’t getting hot and heavy literally ten seconds ago.
Sex isn’t transactional?
What kind of bullshit is that?
Unlike Bradley, I live in the real world and sex is the biggest transaction to exist. Sliding from the table, I quickly button up my jeans and debate what to do, but it’s hard to think while my body is still singing so high from pleasure. I’m so close to orgasm that just walking back toward the room I woke up in sends pulses of delicious pleasure coursing through my body.
Fuck it.
Once inside, I shut the door and strip off my clothes while heading straight for the shower in the ensuite. If I’m stuck here, then I’m not going to remain this wound up when I can take care of it myself. Despite the shabby bathroom walls and slightlyyellowed floor tiles, the pressure of the shower when I step under it is out of this world and I nearly forget the reason I came in here. Standing under the spray is utterly soothing and for a long few minutes, I soak up the sensation of the powerful water stream massaging aching tension from my shoulders.
It’s bliss. It’s the kind of shower I’ve read about when scouring hotels and fantasizing about having enough money to take a trip somewhere blue and sunny. I could easily lose myself here and not come out until the water’s cold and my skin prunes.
Luckily, the ache between my thighs brings my pleasure back into focus and under the hot, powerful spray, I work myself to orgasm with my fingers in just a handful of seconds. Oddly, Bradley’s getting me so worked up and then leaving me utterly in the cold is rather arousing and my thoughts tumble with the idea of him charging back in here full of regret, eager to help me finish because he can’t resist me. It’s a peachy fantasy that lets me come all over my fingers and finally satisfy that aching craving inside me.
The afterglow doesn’t last long.
I stand under the shower and gaze down at the plug hole, watching the water swirl and swirl before getting sucked under the black cap. With each gurgle, reality’s cold claws resettle across my shoulders.
We stole from the Mafia and the only thing standing between me and a fate of being tortured to death is Bradley. Bradley, a man who is apparently too much of a gentleman to accept sex as a thank you or payment.
The first man in history, in my experience. Over the years, I’ve slept with more men than I care to count, but it’s a necessitywhen there isn’t enough money to cover an important bill, rent, or to soothe some loan shark looking for my brother’s head.
Why is Bradley different? Why can’t he just accept it like everyone else so we can move on?
His refusal frustrates me, but I can’t pinpoint why. Either he thinks he’s too good for me or it’s some kind of game to make me crawl back and attempt something even more obscene.
Sex isn’t transactional.
The phrase spins around my mind as I finally climb out of the shower and wrap a towel around my body. Back in the bedroom, fresh,clean clothes have been laid out on the bed for me, along with my phone and a handwritten note.
Zira,
Your phone was recovered from the car so I’ve returned it to you. Help yourself to the clean clothes and let Frank know if you need help changing your dressing. I’ve left to get some food.
Bradley.
I stare at the note until my eyes blur, mapping out the swirls in his penmanship. They match the swirls on the card he gave me, so maybe he did write those cards himself. Something as pretentious as that would definitely match with the gold ink and his apparent values.
Brushing the note aside, I slide onto the bed knee first and pick up my phone. It’s fully charged and the screen is void of any kind of notification. My fear that they’ve been through my phone and thus removed the home notifications is calmed when I open it with my passcode and find the same silence inside. No calls. Notexts. No emails in my inbox, only countless in my junk. Even my quiet social media has only one notification about monetization which I quickly swipe away and groan.
Usually, work and Peter keep me so busy, I don’t have to worry about the silence in other parts of my life, but sitting here in a silent room only shines a light on the cavern of loneliness I try to ignore. There’s no family to check up on me, no friends beyond work colleagues that I don’t know well enough to socialize with, and no lover to look out for me. My closest friend is probably Mrs. Lee from my local grocery store.
My head sags down and I lock my phone, setting it aside just as a twinge of pain pulls across my ribs. Taking a deep breath, I drop the towel from my torso and peer around myself to glimpse the gauze covering my wound. Just a peek and the phantom touch of Bradley’s fingers ignites on my skin once more. He was so gentle and focused when patching me up and I never thanked him. Not verbally, at least.
Shit.
Harris really did try to kill me. Not only that, but as life left him, he was still determined to take me with him. Out of all the terrifying people who have turned up at my door over the years in response to shit Peter’s gotten into, Harris has always been the worst. I misjudged him from the very beginning and nearly paid with my life.
