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I’m not a toy for him.
“Don’t you fucking come, MG. If you do, it’s the last orgasm you’ll ever get from me.”
He’s close, his voice is slurring, and I’m close, too.
His words push me to the edge and a searing note of sublime pleasure starts to sing.
“Good,” I mutter, “this is the last time you fuck me.”
And with that, everything goes haywire. I come hard, my entire body convulsing, and he slams so deep, and I can feel him spurt in me. The heat of his cum, and his guttural cry makes me come again.
When he’s done, he pulls out, and I collapse, rolling into a ball.
“Get out,” he says. “Now.”
Everything sore and aching, I get my things and go.
* * *
Jac wrecked my dress, so I stole a coat from the vast closet next to front door.
He had a car waiting, and I gave the driver the address to a place I stay in. Not my home, but a place I can hole up. I use it as a safety net, and a place for the few huge clients who want that feeling of knowing me.
Those are few and far between.
It seems a little moot with men like Jac and Hendrick, but I think I’ll make this my home base for the foreseeable future.
After my third shower of the evening, I pull out some sweats and get dressed, my body sore, spent.
Satisfied.
Tomorrow, I know the shaking and self-recriminations will start. But right now, I can’t give into it. Hell, I can’t think about it. Just like I can’t think about the sex and all the stupid things I managed to do in the last ten hours.
There’s a bottle of butterscotch schnapps here, and I get it and drink, straight from the bottle. It’s sweet, almost too sweet, but it’s high in alcohol and it’ll help me sleep.
I pull out the so-called fake necklace and look at it. The stones are too new, and there’s probably a whole host of things that stand out as being fake. Things I could have seen if I’d had time, and things Harry would know at ten fucking paces.
Dumping it, I get out my phone. There’s a couple of messages from Harry, but nothing in them to suggest she’s under duress.
We have systems.
Physical ones, where something’s moved or taken. My locket and ring—the only things I have of my family, my grandmother, the only things Mom never sold—I’d take them with me. I’d never move them and go. If I did, she’d know something was wrong.
Same with Harry’s engraved silver 1950s loupe on a chain. It slides into what looks like a locket, and the woman who trained her, old, mean, acerbic, gave it to her. If that was left behind, I’d know there was trouble.
Then there’s the ones in writing or in how we do it, or a voice message or call. Happy childhoods, or any myriad of things.
That’s the thing with growing up and surviving together on the streets. We know each other, and we have warning systems that are so subtle it comes down to a misplaced punctuation mark.
But these texts are just Harry wanting to know how it went.
I’m about to toss my phone when it lights up.
I almost don’t answer the call.
Almost.
“What the fuck do you want?” I take a swig from the bottle.
