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I hope he’s not.
I think he’s not in a mood to play with me.
My suspicion is confirmed when I see his eyes again, and he locks my gaze.
He does seem to want to brush it off and help me somehow. That must be it. Because I’m failing miserably, showing feelings the size of this building.
I might need to go back to the hotel, take off my dress, tuck all these beautiful things back into their boxes, and hide under the covers for a while.
Maybe hop on the next flight to New York tomorrow morning, quit my Wall Street job, rescind the agreement and go back to my old life.
Perhaps I need to sell the house and move back to New Jersey or convince Giana to accept me as her roommate.
I feel like shit indeed.
What’s worse, he doesn’t even make me feel like shit. I’m doing it on my own.
He wants to make me feel better. Or maybe feel more. More than I already feel??
His fingers move gently, stroking a patch of skin.
He nods in response to my shocked expression. I can’t even make myself smile. It’s like my lips are petrified.
I’m petrified.
I’ve done well? Based on what? What metrics has he used? Satisfying them? Having fun with them? Earning some serious money in the process? Or having a nervous breakdown?
The jury is still out on that.
‘So far??’ What does he mean by that?
And what’s next? Will things be even more intense? Less intense? More satisfying than they already are? Or less?
More tormenting?
Or… Will we sail some calm waters for a change?
“By now…” he says before he pauses.
I can’t breathe.
He tips his gaze to my lips, smiling, unusually tranquil.
That’s how he always is when he delivers news to me, unlocking the next chapter of my story.
“You got to know all of us…” he says. “Not only as a group, but also individually.”
I suck in too little air.
“So now it’s easier to take your pick,” he murmurs, not even smiling.
My jaw hits the floor.
“But––”
“Shh… Don’t say anything, please.”
Why does this feel like punishment again?
