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I watch from the bar, a cold glass gripped tightly between my fingers.
Six weeks. I’ve been coming here forherfor six weeks now, nearly every other night. I might as well hand her my credit card and the keys to my Audi with how much I’ve spent just needing to see her. The need to be around her has become almost unbearable.
I feel like I’m going insane. Every single moment that I’m not with her, I feel myself slipping further and further away from this version of myself that I can actually stand. With her, I can be exactly who I want to be.
I should stop.
It’s borderline insanity at this point. Constantly thinking about her, hearing her voice in my head when I’m not with her, stroking my cock every night to some fantasy of her. That is if she lets me. What the fuck has gotten into me?
And it’s not just about the dynamic and what we do in that room. It’s really become so much more.
I watch from the bar as the man by her side says his goodbyes to her, pressing his lips to her cheek before slipping out of her reach and down the stairs toward the exit. When she spins around for her room, her eyes land on my face.
I watch her expression obsessively, waiting to decipher what it all means. And the only thing I can ascertain from the look on her face now is affection.
The way her mouth turns upward and her eyes crinkle with a smile. When she looks at me, she looks almost happy to see me.
I’m a fool if I believe it.
I quickly down the rest of the vodka in my glass as she approaches.
“You’re early,” she says as she leans her arms on the bar and gazes into my eyes.
“I didn’t know you had a client right before me.” My voice is cold and flat. I hate the way I sound—jealous and petty. This isn’t me. I’m not thisguy.
But with her, everything is out of my control.
“Stop it,” she says in a clipped, authoritative manner, as if she’s already giving me orders.
“Stop what?” I ask without meeting her gaze. “I’m just having a drink, making an observation.”
“Follow me,” she says in the same tone. Without even looking at me, she turns on her heel and heads toward her room on the other side, past the hallway. Part of me actually considers not following her. I’ve never been obstinate or rebellious with her, at least not since I fully committed. But now, the idea of making myowndecisions feels enticing.
I do follow her, of course. Because…I don’t know. I’m weak or stupid or head over heels for a woman I can never have. And maybe I’m a masochist who loves to torture himself. It doesn’t matter.
When we reach her room, she closes it behind me, and I find myself gazing around the space, looking for signs that he was here before me. There are none.
“Sit,” she barks, pointing at the bed. The way she refuses to look at me and snaps her commands without emotion tells me she’s angry with me.
I hate that.
So, I sit and watch her with my teeth clenched.
“You’re clearly feeling insecure today,” she says, standing between my open knees and staring down at me. “Do you need me to remind you how good you are?”
My teeth grind even more. I don’t want the formalities today. The charade. The performance.
I tear my gaze away, staring straight ahead at the black fabric of her tight dress. “No, Madame.”
Her fingers press under my chin, directing my face upward. Before my eyes meet hers, I jerk my face from her touch. My heartbeat becomes rapid, and my breathing is labored.
“Yellow,” I mumble as I feel my temper rise.
She immediately backs away, and I hear the hitch in her breath. I just used the safe word, and we haven’t even done anything.
“Talk to me,” she says softly. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“I’m feeling…” I grit my teeth. “Like none of this is real. Like it’s all a bunch of bullshit.”
