Chapter One
The Introductory Session
There are a lot of fucking weirdos in the world. I know because some of them are my clients. Something about money and privilege turns men into perverts, and you don’t want to expose the wife to those unseemly urges. Not when you can hire a high-class call girl and meet her in an upscale hotel.
It was the W Hotel today, near Union Square. I crossed to the elevators and checked Henry’s email again. New client, two hours. Super asshole about privacy. Put on the blindfold before you knock on the door.
I slid a hand into my designer bag, past condoms and sex toys, to locate the black eye mask the client had provided. It couldn’t be a pink, fuzzy, soft blindfold, or one of those cucumber-scented spa things. No, it was heavy black leather with a buckle in the back. Like I said, fucking weirdos. Here’s some news for the privacy assholes of the world: We escorts are as concerned about our privacy as you are. The escort-client relationship is a covenant. You don’t out me, I don’t out you. Let’s keep things pleasant and professional. I know how much you’re paying. To the best of my ability, I’ll treat you well.
I stopped outside a corner room on the eighth floor and double-checked the number. My stomach jumped a little. You never knew what you were going to get with new clients. Henry checked them out pretty thoroughly, but still, you never knew. Money and respectability didn’t mean you weren’t going to death-choke a whore on the eighth floor of the W Hotel.
I’d had pretty good luck the last ten years, so it wasn’t that hard to pull out the blindfold—okay, let’s be honest, leather fetish mask—and strap the thing onto my eyes. Maybe he was really that concerned about privacy. Maybe he had some kinky games in mind, which might be fun. Maybe he was butt ugly. There was no way for me to find out. I couldn’t see a damn thing.
I knocked on the door and hoped he answered before someone came strolling down the hall. What would they think of me in my pale pink, skintight, high-class-whore business suit and stilettos, with the black blindfold strapped onto my head? They’d probably think, pfft, New York, and go about their business.
I heard the lock click and I felt very, very nervous, since I couldn’t tell if or when the door opened, or who might be standing there to guide me inside. I jumped when the client took my arm.
“Miss Kitty, I presume?” His voice was deep and lacking inflection, or maybe I was just lacking the vision to see his expression.
“Meow,” I said, flirting into the darkness. “That’s me.”
Miss Kitty. Sweet, petite, sensuously feline, but not in a pet-play kind of way. Unless the client was into it. I had long, white-blonde hair (fake, so fake) which I straightened to a bouncy shine twice a week. Unlike my hair, my size D boobs and curvy body were all natural. I was a friendly, pretty, brown-eyed, bleach-blonde kitty, ready to crawl into your lap and blow your mind.
The faceless stranger pulled me into the room and collected my wrists behind me in a rough, strong grip. “I’m not going to call you Miss Kitty. What’s your real name?”
And my real name—Chere—came spitting out of my mouth. I can’t say why, except that his forceful grip compelled me to reveal it.
“Chere?” he repeated, like a taunt. He was cinching my hands behind my back with, oh my fucking God, zip ties. I could hear the susurrating sound of the tiny tabs and feel the unforgiving plastic. Jesus. Zip ties. So murder-y.
“Since this is an introductory session, we should talk for a minute before we go any further,” I said in a firm voice.
“Oh, I think I’m going to run this rodeo, especially considering what I’m paying to have this ‘introductory session’ with you.”
Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Just because his voice was deep and harsh, just because he felt big and muscular, just because I couldn’t see a thing, just because my hands were zip-tied behind my back…it didn’t mean I was turning my last trick.
“Don’t struggle, or those ties will hurt your wrists,” he said. He picked me up and deposited me in a chair, one of those slick, padded, modern chairs they had at all the W hotels. I usually liked being manhandled, but I didn’t like it as much when I couldn’t see or move my arms. The room was silent. He was still. I didn’t know if he was close to me or far away.
“Will you take off the blindfold?” I begged in my sweetest voice.
“No.” Not his sweetest voice. More like his deep, rough, mocking voice.
“Pretty please? I’m dying to see what you look like.”
“I’ll describe myself, then. I have black hair, piercing blue eyes, a chiseled jaw, and an 8-pack. Or maybe I have white-blond hair, high cheekbones, bronze skin, and a smattering of freckles.”
The latter part was describing me. He was lying, which clients always did, but I felt too powerless to be okay with it. I thought about ending the date. Henry would be angry, but panic was crowding in on my dark world. I took a shuddery breath. My heart was beating too fast, and my brain was thinking too fast.
I felt his palm against my cheek, cool but warm. Static. Non-violent. “Calm, Chere. Be calm. I’m not a bad guy. I just like to be in control. Breathe in. Breathe out.”
“Okay,” I whispered.
“You’re not doing it. Breathe for me.”
Sharp voice. Dominant, demanding voice. He was clearly a liar, and might machete me at any moment, so I sucked in a big breath and let it out nice and slow.
“Good girl,” he said. “It’s not like I’m going to hurt you. Or kill you. Your agent has all my information.” He chuckled. “All my bank account numbers, anyway.”
“I hate this,” I blurted out. “I hate this date so far. I want to take off the mask.”
“No, you’ll leave the mask on, and I’ll keep my identity secret. You’ll sit there and let me do things to your body, and we’ll keep it civilized. Okay?”
Civilized. More sarcasm.
“Are you still breathing?” he asked. “I paid for two hours, and I’m using two hours, whether you’re passed out or not.”
His jokes weren’t funny. His voice was too intent and too scary to be funny. I could feel him close to me but I didn’t know what he looked like. He ran a hand up my leg under my pencil skirt.
“Why are you wearing panties?” His voice was smooth now, like silk.
“It’s a thong.”
I gasped as he twisted it in his fingers and ripped it off. “Which is a form of panties. Don’t talk back to me, Chere. I don’t like it.”
So that thong was history. Okay, I had a thousand of them. More pressing: this guy was terrifying me.
“I think we should talk about what you like, and what you want to do,” I said, before my courage left completely.
“Talk is cheap. Basically I want to fuck you.”
His fingers were inside me now, probing through slickness. Why was I wet when this guy was freaking scary? “Well, what kind of things do you like? I mean, what kind of fucking? What positions? Do you like toys?”
“I should have made you wear a gag in addition to the mask.”
I wasn’t making any headway at trying to get this guy in line. Henry was my agent (because high-class call girls did not have “pimps.”) He was supposed to protect me from these kinds of situations.
I was just summoning the words to end the date when his thumb pressed my clit. Ah, God, he’d found my spot. My legs opened wider of their own accord. This was the part of the date where I was usually thinking what to do to get the client off most quickly. Right now, I wasn’t thinking about anything except that he knew his way around a clit.
Then the fingers were gone and he was gone, moving around, doing something. Rummaging. He returned and knelt in front of me. He zip-tied one of my ankles to the chair before I knew his intent. I tried to save my only remaining free limb but he grabbed that ankle in his big, firm fingers and zzzip. Tied. Fuck.
I tried to stand up but he pushed me down again. “Don’t move.”
The stern voice. The control. I wanted to hate it, but I also wanted him to finger fuck my pussy until I came.
“What’s your name?” I asked. “What do I call you?”
“Nothing. You don’t get my name.”
“But you know my name. My real name,” I said in my cutesy Miss-Kitty whine.
“It’s not my fault you told me your real name like a fucking idiot.” He touched my chin, my hair. “If you want, you can call me W.”
I knew from the way he said it that W had nothing at all to do with his real name, and everything to do with it being the name of the hotel. He moved away. More rummaging. This time when he came back, he put something thin and cold and metal against my thigh.
“What are you doing?” I asked in a panic.
He clapped a hand over my mouth. “Undressing you. Hush.”
He let go of my mouth, and I heard the snip-snip of scissors through fabric. Your hearing really is heightened when your other senses are dulled, because I could hear every thread of my thousand-dollar designer skirt being cut in two.
“Stop,” I yelled. “What the fuck are you doing?” This was one of my best, priciest outfits, a classic Lanvin number that fit me like a second skin. It was ruined now. “You’re paying me for this suit, motherfucker. While you have the scissors, cut these zip ties and let me go. I’m leaving.”
“You’re not leaving yet.”
“It’s a designer suit.”
“I know. Shut the fuck up and sit still, or I’ll graze you with the scissors.”
His calm voice confounded me. He got through the skirt and started cutting away the blouse. He could have just unbuttoned it. He was doing this out of spite.
“This isn’t sexy,” I spat at him.
“Good.”
“I would have taken my clothes off when I got here, if you’d only asked.”
“I like cutting them off better. Now shut the fuck up.”
One of my favorite lace bras was removed with a snip at the front. The cool air hit my breasts, tightened my nipples to rebellious peaks. I didn’t want to be turned on. My pussy shouldn’t have been clenching at the cool, selfish hauteur in his voice. He cut right up to my collar and then through it. I turned my head to the side because I didn’t want to get stabbed in the neck.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” I said.
“That doesn’t sound very classy. I thought you catered to a finer clientele.”
“I do, usually. I cater to clients who’d never destroy a Lanvin suit.”
His hand replaced the cold metal of the scissors against my neck. He squeezed a little. I could feel his body against the front of me, clothed, not naked. He smelled rich, like power and money. I felt his lips against my ear.
“The only thing you like more than this designer top, Chere, is the feeling of me cutting it off when you can’t do anything about it.”
“That’s not true. And you can’t do this. You can’t bind me with zip ties and use scissors on me, and make me wear this black leather mask.”
“I think I can.”
“You’re not supposed to.”
“Your pimp didn’t say anything about limits. He said I could do whatever I wanted for two hours. Oral. Anal. Fingerfucking. Pussy fucking. Mindfucking. Clothes cutting.” His hand left my neck but he was still close. I reeled from his heat, his presence. “Don’t be scared,” he said. “You’re going to like it. Or remember it, anyway.”
“Jesus.”
When I sucked in a breath, my bare breasts brushed against the fabric of his shirt. I tried to picture how I looked, sprawled back in the chair with my clothes cut open, and how he looked in…whatever he was wearing.
“Why are you still dressed?” I asked, trying to gain control. “When’s this fuckfest going to commence?”
“Wondering how big my cock is? Do you want it, Chere?”
“Yes,” I snapped.
“Too bad. You don’t get my cock yet. You might not get it at all. You’re kind of a bitch.”
A bitch? That hurt my feelings, and clients didn’t get to hurt my feelings. Clients were nothing, men to exploit. Cocks to service. Whatever. Fuck him. I inched my thighs together as far as I could and sat there, and tried to blank my expression so he wouldn’t see he was getting to me. We were what, fifteen minutes into this scene? I felt wrung out already.
“Oh, no.” He pushed my knees apart again. “You don’t close those legs unless I tell you to. Answer Yes, Sir.”
“Yes, Sir.” You fucker.
He slapped my cheek. Fucker slapped me. “Try again. Nicer this time,” he barked.
I swallowed and leaned my head back. “Is this some kind of BDSM shit?”
“This is kinky shit, yes. I’m waiting.”
“Aren’t we supposed to negotiate first?”
“I’m waiting.”
“Yes, Sir,” I said, like a pussy. “But we’re not supposed to do BDSM scenes, not without talking about things in advance.”
“We’re talking, baby. Otherwise you’d have a gag in your mouth by now.”
The way he said it, I could tell he really, really wanted to put a gag in my mouth, which was so not what I wanted. The only BDSM I’d ever done with clients was the kind of BDSM where they’re the bad boys and I’m the mistress in shiny latex, standing over them with a novelty whip. I didn’t know how to do this kind of BDSM. I didn’t know how to not be in charge.
I felt his body move in front of me. He took off one of my shoes, then the other. “All right, if you want to talk, let’s talk,” he said. “Ask me your questions.”
“What are you going to do to me?” That was the number one thing.
“I’m going to fuck you, I promise. I know you want my cock. Patience, Chere.”
He kept using my name, rubbing in the fact that he knew it while I didn’t know his. Worse, he kept insulting me. What the fuck? I was Miss Kitty, whore extraordinaire, and he was paying dearly for the privilege of being with me. I wasn’t used to being mocked by clients. I tried to think of some equally cutting response, but I didn’t know where to aim. His confidence seemed all-consuming. If only he was ugly. If only he was toadlike, I could deal with him so much more easily. Maybe he was. I didn’t fucking know!
“Can I please take this thing off my eyes and look at you?”
“No.”
I could pretend he was ugly and toadlike, but somehow I knew he wasn’t. He wouldn’t talk and act this way if he wasn’t beautiful as sin.
“What do you look like?” I pleaded.
He sighed, long and loud. “You’re not getting what you want, Chere. You don’t get to know what I look like. You don’t get to know my name. You don’t get anything but what I want to give you. Cock, yes. But first, a little pain.”
“I don’t like pain!”
“Good.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “It’s more exciting to me if you don’t like it. But don’t worry, I won’t do anything to you that you can’t bear.”
My whine triggered answering laughter. He liked that I hated this. He wanted to give me cock and pain. Sicko. Henry was going to hear about this crazy fuck, and Mr. W wasn’t ever going to date an escort in this town again.
“No one ever hurts you?” he asked. “None of your clients?”
He was stroking my leg again, and my pussy. Ahhh. Fuck. “No one hurts me like this,” I said. “No one zip ties me to chairs and cuts apart my favorite outfit.”
“Does anyone ever hurt your breasts?”
I jumped as he slapped first one and then the other, and pinched my nipples between vicious fingers. I tried to writhe away. “Oww! No. No one ever does that.”
“I’m doing it.”
“Fuck you.” The expletive popped out, because my nipples really hurt.
“Fuck you, Sir sounds more polite.”
“Oh, God, stop, please.”
He stopped, but my nipples went on aching. He got up and started rummaging again. I hated that rummaging sound. I hated him.
No, that’s a lie. I was excited. And scared shitless of what might come next.
“Let’s try this,” he said, moving closer to me. He grabbed my breasts, or more accurately, my nipples, pinching each one between his fingertips. It felt bad and good at the same time, thrilling and sexy and yet threatening as he pulled and tugged at them. He let go, and I felt a brush of fingertips. Then I felt the most excruciatingly acute pain, like hot metal skewers being poked into the tender tips of my breasts. While I flailed in my zip-tie bonds, he held me down and afflicted my other nipple with the same ungodly pain.
“What did you do to me?” I screeched. It felt like he’d pierced my nipples, which was so, so against the client rules. “Ow, fuck. Oww. Oh, God, am I bleeding?”
He chuckled. “I only put nipple clamps on you. You’ve never worn nipple clamps? Aren’t you a prostitute?”
Oh yeah, I’d worn nipple clamps before—the sparkly, decorative ones that barely pinched. “It hurts. You put mega clamps on me. I’ll have to go to the hospital.”
“They’re just clamps. I’ll take them off in ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes!”
“The pain will be more bearable by then. Of course, as soon as I take them off, you’ll feel a totally different kind of pain, which is part of the fun.”
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, motherfucker.
“I told you, Chere. I won’t do anything you can’t bear. Hey, that rhymes.”
Motherfucker was rhyming while my nipples screamed in agony. Moving made it worse, so I sat as still as I could, rigid and trembling.
“God, that’s beautiful,” he said in a soft voice. “I’m a sadist, as you might have guessed. I like hurting women, but only as much as they can bear. I don’t break them. Well, not very often.”
Oh, that was comforting.
“Can’t you make me feel good at the same time?” I asked. My pussy was wet as anything. It was clenching as hard as the damn nipple clamps. Where was his cock? I wanted him to put it in me and get himself off, because once the clients got off, the scene was usually over. Please, God, don’t tell me this guy plans to torture me for the whole two hours.
I heard a zipper going down, clothes hitting the floor. Thank you, God. I felt his cock against my lips, and the tang of a candy-flavored condom. My hands made fists as I opened wide. And wider. Jesus. He had a big fucking cock.
“That’s right,” he said as I moaned at his entry. “What a professional. And a cock works great as a gag in a pinch,” he added, tweaking one of my aching nipples.
In a pinch. Ha, perverted and funny.
He drove straight for the back of my throat. When I resisted, he grabbed my hair and made me take it anyway. I protested, making huffing noises when I came up for air.
“You’re not allowed to kill me,” I gasped.
“I’m not killing you.”
“You shouldn’t—We haven’t negotiated anything. Not nipple clamps, not scissors, not deep throati—”
He shoved his cock back in before I could finish my sentence, and I choked and teared up behind my blindfold.
Okay, I could survive this. I’d sucked a lot of cocks, all sizes. I’d had a lot of men shove deep into my throat in the throes of passion. It happened all the time, but I wasn’t usually blindfolded and bound.
Still, in some sick way I wanted to please him. I wanted to make it good for him, and I swear to God, I usually don’t care that much. I mean, I care about getting the client off, because that means we’re finished, but I don’t usually care.
He didn’t say anything, and I wasn’t physically capable of saying anything. I felt powerless in a way I’d never experienced before. I got the feeling he wasn’t fucking my face because it felt good for him, but because it felt scary for me. He yanked my hair when I tried to lean away from him, pulled it so hard I yelled, at which point he shoved his cock right back into my open mouth. He was so badass, so good at this. My throat hurt. My hair hurt. My nipples were killing me.
I wondered what he looked like. I wondered so hard.
I started to drool and imagined it dripping down onto my cut-open blouse. I couldn’t stop the drooling any more than I could stop the tears leaking out of my eyes behind the leather mask.
When I was sure I couldn’t bear for him to drive into my throat one more time, he pulled out. I felt his shoulders against my knees as he crouched to free my ankles. Snip, snip, goodbye zip ties. Okay, fuck me now. Please be quick.
But I knew he wouldn’t be quick. He liked playing with women. He enjoyed tormenting them. I’d learned over the years to read clients like books. The title of W’s book was Take It, Bitch.
He removed the clamps next, then grabbed my thighs, yanked my legs apart, and tilted me back in the chair. While my previously-numb nipples came alive with the biting pain of re-invigoration, he drove inside me balls deep.
And I can’t say how, or why, but after he drove into me two or three times, I experienced the most powerful orgasm of my life. It was a shaking, twisting, sobbing, protesting orgasm, because there was no way I enjoyed this. There was no way that pain and pleasure could mix so exquisitely, while he filled me up with his rough, thick cock. No way. Oh God, yessss…
His mocking laughter barely registered as I gritted my teeth and rode out the aftershocks. I was lifted out of the chair and carried, still impaled, still orgasming, across the room. He pushed me back and I braced to hit the floor, but I landed on the bed. He came over me, driving my bound hands down into the mattress. I fought to escape him; my pussy felt too hot and sensitive to have him inside. But the more I fought him, the more powerfully he fucked me.
“I want you to come again,” he said.
I shook my head. I was still recuperating from the previous orgasm, still trying to deny the scintillating pleasure lighting up every nerve.
“Yes,” he said in his commanding voice. “Again. This isn’t over until you do what I want.”
“I can’t come again.”
“Why not? You like pain. You like force. You like getting your throat fucked.”
“No!”
He was wrong. I didn’t like those things. I was Miss Kitty. Meow. I liked being petted. I liked pretty things. I liked calm, sensual encounters where sex-starved men worshipped me and eased their cocks into me and contentedly got off.
Unlike them, he was intense. Demanding. His cock invaded me while his fingers played over my clit. I may have mentioned this earlier…he knew his way around a clit. He used the perfect touch, not too hard—because I was still sensitive—but not too soft. I threw my head back and shook it back and forth. Meow, motherfucker. This is not me.
But that didn’t matter, because I was going to come again. My pussy felt like a living, blooming thing, like it had been dead all these years and he’d just now brought it to life. He was the Resurrection Man. Or the Erection Man.
I writhed on the bed, trying to fight him, because when I fought him, it felt that much more exciting.
“Come on. Come again, damn it.” He slapped me, a firm, stinging crack across my cheek. It hurt way more than the first time he’d slapped my face. It also made my second orgasm explode.
I think I cried nooo, but he said yes, and kept a grip on my shaking thighs. It occurred to me that I was experiencing the most powerful climax of my life, and I still had no idea who was inside me, or what he looked like, or why the hell he found it necessary to slap my face.
While I pondered this craziness, he cupped my cheeks, put his fingers right over the place he’d slapped me, and kissed me.
My pussy still pulsed around his cock, and now his lips were on mine and his tongue was in my mouth, and my hands were bound behind my back, and it was like he was inside me everywhere, making me feel more female and excited and sexual than I’d ever felt in my life. In my dark, blind world, his pleasure and scent transformed me. His rough kisses grounded me, but made me feel like I was flying at the same time. I didn’t want the blindfold off anymore. I wanted it on. I wanted to hide and exist in this world forever.
I trembled while he came, because he fucked me so intensely. He didn’t make any sound at all, just ground against me and pressed his cheek to mine. I felt completely possessed by his fucking, and strangely pleased that he came so hard.
Fuck. I lay still, breathless, satisfied, knowing there might be more, but not really caring. Whatever. I’m yours. Whatever your name is, whatever you look like.
“Please let me look at you,” I whispered. More than anything in the world, I wanted to see him.
“No.”
A minute later he pulled away, got up off the bed, leaving me alone in the center of it. I turned on my side and curled into a ball. I was still partly dressed, the top of me, anyway.
“Will you unbind my hands?” I asked.
“Yes. Just before I leave.”
“Now, please.”
“No, because the first thing you’ll do is take off the mask so you can see me.”
He was right. I would do that.
“Are you someone famous?” I asked. “Some famous politician, or movie star?”
“Yes.”
The way he said yes, I knew he was lying again, yanking my chain, shoving my desire to know him back in my face.
“Whatever,” I said bitterly. “I don’t care. What does it matter? What does anything matter?”
“Are you PMSing? Shut up.”
He was such an asshole, such a jerk. So good in bed. I hated him. Hate, hate, hate. I lay there honing my hate, hoping he wouldn’t want anything else from me now that he’d come.
The bed dipped and he was back, lying behind me. He was dressed again, smelling of understated but yummy cologne. I felt his lips against my nape.
“How am I going to go home without a skirt?” I asked.
“Shut up.”
“I can’t just traipse naked through the W Hotel lobby and out onto the—”
His hand closed over my mouth, firm fingers muting me. Big hands. He was either a big person, or he seemed big because he was so aggressive and mean.
“You’re mean,” I whispered against his fingers.
He kissed my nape and my earlobes, and my shoulders, and my spine. His lips were warm and strong, and his face was smooth, just a hint of stubble. I hated him, but this was kind of pleasant after all the violence. His fingers massaged my hips and ass.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
I couldn’t say thank you, since one hand was still over my mouth, and I couldn’t return the compliment, since I couldn’t see him, but in my mind W was dark and seductively handsome. In the twilight of my orgasm, my whole body relaxed. I think I was half asleep by the time he leaned away and said, “I’m going.”
Going…no. “I need clothes,” I said.
“I’ll send up clothes. Next time, bring something to change into. And you can have this room for the night, if you want to stay here.”
“I don’t.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
“And there’s not going to be a ‘next time.’ Forget it. No way.”
He made a soft, mocking sound. “Was it that bad for you?”
Was it? No. He was the bringer of violent and shimmering orgasms. But… “You cut up my favorite outfit.”
“Jesus Christ.” It was the first time he’d really raised his voice, and it startled me. “Your fucking outfit. I’ll bring a replacement to our next session.”
“You won’t be able to find a replacement. And we’re not having another session.”
“I know where to find one, even if you look shitty in that color. Come on.”
He hauled me off the bed and guided me across the room, and left me there. I heard a few more sounds while I stood, blind and shivering, trying to see his actions in my mind. Shoes on? Snapping a briefcase? The whisper of a necktie? I jumped when he touched my arm. His other hand wrapped around my neck as he held me against him.
“Listen, Chere. I like you. You’re reckless and conflicted. Your body is perfect and your breasts are real. I want to see you again.”
I leaned as far away from him as I could. “No.”
“And next time,” he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken, “you will bring the eye mask, and extra clothes.”
“I’m not going to see you again.”
“The correct answer is Yes, Sir.”
I stood very still with my lips clamped together. After a moment he put his hand against my cheek. He’d slapped that cheek—twice—but this was a caress. “Don’t be an angry hooker,” he said. “I adore you.”
I felt metal against my wrists, and my hands were cut free.
“Don’t touch that mask until you hear the door close,” he said. “The fantasy’s better, anyway.”
What fantasy? He shouldn’t flatter himself, but I stood where he left me and did as he instructed. I didn’t move until I heard the door’s latch click into place. My fingers reached up to the mask and then fumbled behind my head at the buckle. I wanted it off, but in some way I was afraid to take it off. I didn’t know what I’d see. Shreds of my clothing? The walls drenched in blood?
No, none of that, just a clean and empty luxury hotel room. The bed was made and my shoes were arranged neatly beside it. My skirt and panties were gone. I pulled the two sides of my blouse closed. He could have just unbuttoned it. Asshole. At least my jacket was in one piece.
Jesus, what had just happened?
I went to the window and looked out from the eighth floor, like I could pick him out from the people below. Nope. I could pass him on the street tomorrow and I wouldn’t know him, but he would know me. I found that idea horrifying.
I went into the bathroom and took a thirty minute shower, and washed all of W off me. Every slap, every kiss. By the time I got out and put on the robe, someone was knocking on the door. Thank God he’d come through with the clothes—a casual dress and scarf from a boutique across the street. The pale amber-beige looked perfect with my light brown eyes. I still had no panties. Fuck him. Good taste didn’t make him any less of an asshole.
I got dressed, put on my shoes, and took one last look around the room at the W Hotel.
And for some reason, I made sure the mask was tucked in my bag before I left.