Buy Me, Sir

“I’m glad I’m not going to be around to see what a whirlwind of shit you get yourself into,” she said.

And so am I.

For all the insight and tips I got from Cindy during our handover, I’ve never been as excited as the moment she hands me her work mobile, loaded up with Mr Henley’s real-time schedule, and finally says her goodbyes.

I feel the craziest rush of freedom, this weird naughtiness at the thought that it’s just me in his space now, me on my own, free to rummage and root through his life as much as I like.

It takes me two days without her to pluck up the courage to strip naked in his bedroom and slip between his bedsheets. My heart is thumping, right between my legs, my thighs all clammy and jittery as the cotton brushes my skin. I press my nose into his pillow and breathe him in, and I can smell him there, that same deep scent, gorgeous enough that I never want to breathe normal air ever again.

I play with myself in his bed on my third day alone. And again on my fourth.

I drink out of his whisky tumbler and put my lips around the cigarette butt in the inkwell.

I run my fingers around his toilet seat, knowing his bare ass has been right there.

I put on his worn shirt from the laundry hamper, wrap his tie around my neck and imagine him choking me with it as he takes my virginity.

I smell his boxers. I smell his bedsheets where his cock must’ve been.

I put his toothbrush in my mouth, and my reflection in his bathroom cabinet makes me feel so sick, so out of control that it takes my breath.

So I stop. Stop doing this crazy shit and focus on something more practical – on finding out everything I need to know to be close to him for real.

I clean and snoop in tandem, working so hard I get blisters on my fingers. I buy some big white orchids for the empty vases in his living room just because it looks so cold and bare, and just hope my streak of initiative doesn’t get me fired. I gain the confidence of Brutus as best I can, and by the end of the week I’m sure I see him wag his tail when I open the door, just one sweep, but it’s enough to give me hope that we really can be friends.

Friday evening comes around so ridiculously quickly. I turn down his bed, just so, and take a lingering look at the room before I leave.

I say goodbye to Brutus on my way out and check the orchids have enough water to survive until Monday.

And then I wait.

I linger just down the street, pressed in the shadow of an ornamental hedgerow with a decent view of his front door, the work handset in my hand as his schedule switches from court to clear and the sky turns dark overhead.

I wait for almost an hour until he shows, and it’s worth every second to see his car pull onto the driveway. I’d have waited an hour all over again just to watch him climb his front steps and unlock the door I cleaned so thoroughly this afternoon.

I watch the lights come on, imagine him walking from room to room. Imagine the pad of paws as Brutus follows his master around the place.

Imagine the scent of orchids in the air.

Imagine the scent of Alexander Henley with my nose nuzzled into his neck.

I’m about to leave for home, really I am. I’m tired and sated and ready for real life. Ready to cuddle with Joseph on the sofa and get him bathed for bed. Ready to drink coffee with Dean and tell him all about my latest adventures at Henley’s palace.

I’ve turned on my heel and taken a step in the direction of the underground when I hear the familiar thud of that heavy front door closing.

I hold my breath as he locks up behind him, and my eyes are wide, because I can’t believe it. It can’t be.

But it is.

Alexander Henley, whose dressing room consists almost entirely of tailored black suits and ties, is wearing a baseball cap, jeans and a scuffed old coat that’s seen better days. I dip behind a parked car, crouching in the darkness as he passes.

My skin prickles.

All of me prickles.

And I follow him.

Because wherever he’s going, I’m now on a mission to get there too.Chapter TwelveAlexanderI hate taking the underground. It reminds me exactly why I have a driver.

It’s a strange phenomenon that when I’m dressed to be incognito I feel more noticeable than ever. The discomfort is palpable this evening. I feel observed. As though every pair of eyes on this carriage are boring into me. Staring.

They aren’t, of course.