Buy Me, Sir

But I’m nervous. Too nervous to enjoy it.

I pace back and forth in my stupid heels, sipping water from the complimentary bottle in the minibar.

Forty minutes. Thirty-five.

Twenty.

Fifteen.

I check my makeup. Reapply my pale pink lipstick and fluff up my hair.

I check Dean’s phone is on silent and screen-locked. I check I have my crystals and fake ID in my clutch bag.

I adjust my tits in the stupid lacy bra I wore for my video.

Five minutes.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I turn off the lights on the way out.

And I head up to the top floor.The corridor is empty, the thick burgundy carpet soft under my heels as I head to the mahogany door at the far end.

Suite twelve. Its gold lettering looks so regal.

My belly is a twisted knot of butterflies.

Moment of truth.

I tap gently. Once, twice.

And then I breathe.

Please, God. Please, please.

The door opens so slowly and I see the cream carpet first. I don’t even know I’m looking at the floor until I clock the freshly shined shoes, the tailored trousers.

The shirt I pressed yesterday before I left. The tie I hung on the inside of the closet.

He’s immaculate.

Perfect.

I look up at the face I’ve been dreaming of, and I have to check myself, squeezing the clutch bag in my hands as though this whole thing is going to vanish into a cloud of dust.

His eyes are dark, his jaw tense as he steps aside to let me in.

“Amy,” he says, and I can’t stop staring, not as I brush past him and step into the room, my eyes wide open and fixed on his.

The door clicks shut.

“Hi,” I say, and it sounds so lame.

I drag my eyes away to take in the room, and it’s amazing. Everything is amazing. The lighting is low and warm, and there’s champagne in ice on the dresser. I don’t know what to do, so I do nothing, just balance on my stupid heels, shying away as he steps by so close.

I’m gripped by this terrible impulse, this crazy urge to gabble it all out, the whole thing, tell him who I really am, and how much I wanted this. I want to… I really want to…

“Champagne?” he asks, and I nod.

“Please.”

He pours me a glass and my fingers touch his for just a moment, just like they did when he offered me his cigarette packet all those years ago.

There’s a weird lump in my throat I can’t swallow down, not even with a mouthful of champagne.

He doesn’t take a glass for himself. He stands still and easy, his gaze piercing. Judging.

I realise in that one shuddery moment that he doesn’t know me, and I know it’s crazy that somewhere deep down I felt like he would.

His stare is cold and unfamiliar, his face stern and guarded.

Dangerous.

“I don’t enjoy small talk,” he tells me.

I nod. “Sure.”

“You specified you had no hard limits. Is that true?”

My belly lurches. “Yes…”

I sip my champagne and try to ignore the disappointment inside. The horrible little spark of disillusionment.

I’m not the woman he left a thank you cookie for. I’m not the woman who ate muesli in his kitchen. I’m not the woman he chased down the street last night.

I’m not even the schoolgirl he shared a cigarette with outside the school gates.

I’m a prostitute.

I’m a hooker who’s staring at the man she wants more than any other dream she’s ever had, staring him right in his cold eyes and wishing hers weren’t welling up.

“Are you ok, Amy?” His question is demanding, his tone is brusque.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

I don’t sound fine and I know it, my voice is thick with stupid tears that threaten to spill, and my legs are all shaky and pathetic.

“Do you want a moment?” He gestures to an armchair by the dresser.

I perch myself in the seat with my knees together, cursing myself for how ridiculously wrong this is going.

He looks unimpressed, reaching down into the minibar and pulling out a bottle of mineral water. He fills a tumbler and swaps it for the champagne in my hand.

“Amy, I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to answer me honestly.” He rests on the arm of the chair opposite and his tone is so curt.

Oh shit.

I nod, gulp down some water.

“Do you want to call this off? The door is right there, one chance only.” He tips his head to the exit, and I feel myself pale.

“No!” I insist. “No, that’s not what I want. Please. I’m just…”

“A virgin who’s sold her first time to a stranger, yes.”

His words hurt, a wash of indignation at the thought he assumes I’m so cheap. But why wouldn’t he?

“That isn’t… it…” I say. “I, um… I want this.”

He smiles for just a second. “Amy, darling, you don’t know what this is, I can assure you.”

I’m losing him. I can feel my dreams unravelling and slipping away. And I can’t let them. I can’t let that happen.