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I hang up and stare at my phone for a moment. He’s started saying that to me since we got back from Rome: drive safely.
Does it ever cross his mind… the phone call he got when Alina died? Is he scared he’s going to get that call again?
We have so many bridges to cross, so many inner demons to fight—both of us do. I keep thinking this horrible thought—and I hate that I do—but what about his addiction to prostitutes? Would he ever go back to that?
I mean, if I was pregnant and unable to have sex for an extended period of time, would he still be satisfied?
Stop it. Stop thinking this shit. It isn’t healthy.
His past is his past. It can only hurt me if I let it.
Knock, knock.
I stand outside room 612 at the Rosewood, smiling to myself. I'm wearing one of his black trench coats. Beneath it, I'm wearing leather bondage lingerie, as well as thigh-high, black lace-up boots.
I can be as dirty as he wants me to be.
He’s bringing out a side of my personality I didn’t know existed. I’m craving this submissive sexuality.
When we are at home and he sneaks into my bed, we make gentle, silent love. We whisper the words I love you to each other all night long. But when we stay in hotels we fuck like animals, and I am completely addicted. I’m addicted to the hit. I love the contrast of hard and soft.
Of loving and fucking.
Of Mr. Masters and Julian.
Julian loves me.
Mr. Masters loves to fuck me…. hard.
He opens the door to me, already undressed, wearing nothing but a robe. He has a glass of scotch in his hand and I know he will already have an erection beneath his robe. A thrill runs through me, a sick thrill, because I know what we are re-enacting here: his time in the brothels. And the only sick thing about it is that I fucking love it.
I love being his whore.
“Hello, Mr. Masters,” I whisper.
His eyes flame with arousal. “Hello, Miss Brielle.” His voice becomes deeper when he’s aroused. I can tell the difference between his personalities now.
Mr. Masters has a deep, commanding tone. Julian has either a playful or sad tone, depending on his mood.
He takes my hand and lifts it to his mouth, kissing it softly. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
He leads me into the room and I glance over and see a bottle of baby oil on the bedside table. I swallow the lump in my throat and try to ignore the nerves dancing in my stomach.
He pours me a scotch. “Drink this.” H
e leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “You’ll need it.”
My heart races and I sip the rocket fuel. It brings memories of our nightcaps together. They seem like a lifetime ago now.
I down the glass in three gulps, and he smiles darkly. “Atta girl,” he whispers.
I hold the glass out. “I’d like another.”
He smirks and refills my glass slowly. Once full, I sip it, ignoring the way my hand shakes.
I’m so nervous, I have no idea what he has in store for me, but the baby oil tells me it’s something we’ve never done before.
“Undress,” he orders coldly, slipping smoothly into his role play.
