Page 7 of This Woman


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His face remains impassive. “Stayed the night again?”

I give him a tired look but hold back my retort, because if there’s one man on this earth who deserves my respect, it’s John. “I’m going for a run.” I need to clear the cobwebs off. And the drink. And the sin.

I head for the doors.

“Just tell me,” he says, pulling me to a stop. I don’t turn around. “Why the fuck have you spent millions on a penthouse apartment when you crash here every night?”

It’s a reasonable question. I turn to face him, pulling my heel to my arse to stretch my thigh. “It’s an investment.” What else should I spend my money on? My car’s paid for, my bikes are paid for, this place is paid for, I don’t need to pay for gym membership, food, and drink.

Or sex.

And I certainly haven’t got anyone to leave my money to.

“We’re here for a good time, John.”

He shakes his head, and I know he’s thinking Uncle Carmichael would turn in his grave. “Or,” he starts, “perhaps you’ve bought it because a tiny part of your fucked-up brain, which makes a brief appearance most mornings when you wake up with a pounding head and a few women in bed, is telling you that you need to get the fuck out of this lifestyle.” He turns and wanders toward the bar.

Yeah, and maybe that too.

“Go on holiday, Jesse,” he calls back.

“I just got back from Cortina.”

“That wasn’t a holiday. That was a change of scenery.” He disappears into the bar as I drop my heel from my arse. He’s right, of course. But in my defense, I went with good intentions. A detox, if you will. Then I found the minibar and a few hot Swedish women. It spiraled from there.

My head is suddenly pounding again, and I glance around The Manor’s lobby. Opulence and grandeur stretch to every corner. From floor to ceiling. Every inch of this place drips sophistication. I look up the stairs to the private suites. Why the fuck wouldn’t I want to stay here every night?

Because it’s slowly killing you.

Run.

I turn and break into a sprint. And I don’t stop. Not for miles. My head empties and my body loosens, my mind focused on the feel of my feet hitting the ground constantly. Peace.

And that sense of freedom only intensifies the farther I get away from The Manor.

2

I wakeup the following morning sprawled on a bed in the communal room, my staff cleaning around me. “Fuck,” I mumble, propping myself up. “Morning.”

“Morning, Mr. Ward,” Rosa says cheerily as she strips the bed next to me. God love her, she doesn’t bat an eyelid at my naked form.

I gather the sheets and stand, wrapping them around my waist. “What time is it?”

“Ten o’clock, Mr. Ward.” She flaps a fresh sheet, and it whips the air, creating a deafening crack. I flinch, kicking a bottle out of the way as I leave.

I trudge down the stairs, around the landing, and into my private suite, shutting the door behind me and leaning against it. Why the fuck do I do this to myself?

Because you’re a glutton, Ward. A glutton for alcohol and sex. And punishment.

And escape.

But there is no escape.

I hear the muffled sound of my mobile and scan the room. The bedsheets are everywhere, the floor littered with various pieces of leather lingerie. My mind fuzzes, a montage of naked bodies and entwined limbs, ransacking my brain. Moans of pleasure. Screams of ecstasy. Meaningless orgasm after meaningless orgasm.

Release.

But no release.

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