Torment Me (Rough Love 1)

“But that wouldn’t really be a client-customer relationship anymore, would it?” he asked. He touched the tip of one of his fingers, then pinched it, the way he pinched my nipples. “We’d have to figure that out.”

“We could definitely figure things out,” I said too quickly. “And none of this is happening right away. I just wanted you to know that even though my life is going to start changing, things between us don’t have to change. I don’t want them to change. I look forward to our sessions. I mean, I do now. I know we had kind of a…a rocky start, but I really enjoy…now…” Stop babbling. Shut up, shut up.

“I enjoy our sessions too,” he said. “We have fun together.”

“But school, and a better career…it’s good, right?”

“Yes, it’s good,” he agreed with a genuine smile. A small smile, but a genuine one. “I’m sure you’ll be great at anything you pursue.” He finally stopped pinching his finger, and lifted his briefcase. “Are you going to stay here tonight?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” I grinned at him. “I have a really nice place of my own to go to now.”

“Yes, you do.” He walked over and touched my arm, a fleeting caress. “You brought some extra clothes?”

“Yes. I always do, thanks to you and your scissors.”

“Good. Because I’m taking the dress. I doubt you’ll be wearing it again.”

I watched as he crossed the room and picked up the scraps of my bodice and skirt, and shoved them into his briefcase with everything else.

“That was one of my favorites,” I said mournfully. “What are you going to do with it?”

He shook his head. That smile again. “You don’t want to know. Have a good week, starshine.”

He gave me one last kiss, a soft, lingering kiss that ended in a bite. Orgasms, kisses, and…

“Oh.” I stopped him on the way to the door. “Aren’t you going to give me some poetry?”

He looked at me, then dug in his overstuffed briefcase for a pen. “Come here,” he said. He pulled me against his chest, my back to his front, and took my arm. He ran fingers up the pale underside of my forearm, from elbow to wrist.

“I already gave you some poetry,” he said against my ear. “You don’t listen.”

I watched as he wrote. The pen tickled, and sometimes scratched.

Look at what you do for me.

You’re so beautiful.

“That’s nice poetry,” I said when he was done. “I wonder who wrote that.”

“Some self-absorbed, perverted jerk,” he answered, smacking my ass. Even through the fluffy robe, it hurt. He kissed me and departed, leaving the room quiet. Too quiet.

Although the room was luxuriantly gorgeous, I decided not to stay the night, because I’d just sit around missing W. That was one downside of leaving Simon. I had too much time on my hands to daydream and think about impossible things.

I glanced at the words scrawled on my skin. Maybe not so impossible.

Maybe someday he’d tell me his name, when he trusted me better, and knew me better. In the meantime, orgasms and poetry were enough.

I got out my phone to take a picture of my forearm, standing next to the window to find the perfect amount of light. It seemed important to save everything W gave me, to archive it and analyze it. These words would eventually fade, but I’d have a picture to remember.

Poems, pictures, memories.

I wanted so much more.

In Between

Henry met me Thursday afternoon at a cafe on West 3rd. I hadn’t told him yet I was quitting, but I think he knew. He hugged me extra hard before he sat down across from me.

“So what’s up, love?” he asked, once we’d ordered some coffee and sandwiches. “How’s your life?”

“It’s good.”

“How are things with Mr. Cumming? It’s been two months. Is he mellowing at all?”

“Mellowing?”

He poured sugar in his coffee and looked up at me. “Mellowing. I remember you described him in less than glowing terms after your first date.”

I thought a moment. “He’s mellowed a little, maybe. But he still hasn’t told me his real name.”

“He just set up a date for next week, at the Gramercy Park Hotel.”

I stared down at my coffee. Henry wasn’t going to make this easy for me.

“Listen, I asked you to lunch today to let you know that…well… Mr. Cumming is going to be my last client.”

In the awkward silence, the waitress sailed by and dumped our plates on the table. “Need anything else right now?” she chirped, eyeing Henry.

“No,” he said. “We’re good.”

I pulled the toothpick out of my sandwich and laid it at the edge of my plate. “Are we good, Henry?” I asked. “Are you angry?”

“Not angry. Disappointed. You’re leaving the business?”

“Yes. I’m getting older—”

“Older? You’re not even thirty. You’re in the prime of your escort life. Young enough to be gorgeous, and seasoned enough to know the sexiest techniques.”