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I would have loved to just fall into my pillows and wipe my thoughts clean. But I can still smell him on me. Musky, oaky, minty. I strip down and jump into the shower. The water is cold, but I don’t mind. For a few seconds at least, I’m so focused on my breathing that I forget the way Ruslan ushered me out of his apartment and practically shoved me out the elevator doors.
The building security guard had given me a skeptical look.You’re just one more in his revolving door of conquests, so enjoy it while it lasts and be prepared for when he decides he’s had enough of you.
There’s a slight chance I may have been projecting.
It’s just that it felt so good—in the moment, at least. I’d been nervous, sure. But he managed to calm me down and put me at ease.
I lost myself in the heat of his gaze and the next few hours became a whirlwind of panting, moaning, sweaty, breathy, intense sex. The kind of sex that you call your best friend about so that you can give herallthe salacious details because you can’t quite believe just how good it was.
I can’t call Phoebe, though. Because telling anyone about my arrangement with Ruslan would mean forfeiting both a ton of money and a ton of good sex.
Did I say good sex? I meangreatsex. I meanmind-blowing, once-in-a-lifetime, I’ll-feed-off-the-memories-when-I’m-old-gray-and-trapped-in-a-boring-marriagekind of sex.
Still, great sex aside, it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the fact that I’m exchanging sex for money. There’s a word for it…
Oh, right!
Prostitution.
In other words, I’m a whore. A whore who reeks of the man who just used her body and then discarded her when he was done.
So what does it say about me that I actuallyenjoythe way his scent clings to my skin?
I punish myself by scrubbing said skin raw. By the time I get out of the shower, I’m bright pink from scalp to soles. The lavender body scrub I used has successfully erased his woodsy musk. But I still catch a few oaky notes in the air when I reenter my bedroom.
Stop it. He isnotyour freaking boyfriend. You don’t get to have expectations. You don’t get to have feelings. And you definitely don’t get to daydream about him after.
I turn off the lights and crawl into bed. Compared to Ruslan’s foamy, softer-than-air mattress, mine feels like a plank of hard plywood.
My skin stings from my aggressive wash, but it gives me some small measure of comfort. I just have to keep reminding myself why I signed his contract.
Mostly for those kids.
Partly for myself.
The reasoning behind the decision was sound. I just need to remember the rules. I need to adjust my expectations.
Time to be a big girl now.
17
EMMA
I’m at my desk at eight o’clock on the dot.
The point is to be here before him, so that I can prove to Ruslan—and to myself—that I can handle this arrangement. While we’re at Bane, he’s my boss. When we’re out of the office, he’s my—
Oh God, he’s here.
“Be cool, Emma,” I snap at myself under my breath.
He’s wearing a black Burberry coat over his tailored suit. His briefcase catches the light at his side. I lift my chin as he approaches. His eyes meet mine.
Three… two… one…
“Good morning, Mr. Oryolov.”
Stuck the landing. Nice job, girl.
