I walked back to the house in a daze. I think that’s why I ended up in his study. I wasn’t thinking straight.

It was hardly surprising. I’d done yet another thing I’d never done before. I’d walked naked outside just because he’d told me to. Not only that but I’d done it with a tail dangling from me, making me feel somehow more like his pet than ever. Then he’d fucked me. That word didn’t do it justice. He’d ravished me, he’d owned me, he’d taken me to a higher plane of pleasure than I thought could exist. I was still floating when I walked back across the lawn.

My smile refused to fade. He’d been inside my ass. That magnificent, enormous, perfect cock of his had been buried all the way inside my ass. With every step I was reminded of what he’d done, the dull ache of emptiness, of nerves overworked, of muscles stretched. His cum was still inside me. I’d made him come. I’d brought him to orgasm.

He’d done the same for me, giving me two orgasms just from fucking me, without my clit even being touched, something I didn’t think was even possible.

I was still recovering as I entered the house. It wasn’t a door I’d used before and the size of the place meant I wasn’t sure of the best way to my room. I walked slowly, still thinking about how it had felt to have him inside my ass. I pushed open a door, hoping it might give me a clue where I was. It was a drawing room, not one I’d seen.

I closed the door again and continued along the corridor, pushing open the next door which led into his study. I was about to close it again when I noticed the window was open and a bird was flapping against it on the inside, trying frantically to get out. It was small and fluffy with brown feathers all over though that was as far as my ornithological knowledge went. It must have slid through the open section and then got stuck.

I crossed the room as the bird’s chirruping grew more frantic. I slid the window open further and pushed my open hands towards the bird, guiding it towards the gap. It got the hint after three attempts to peck me, flying down and then out the gap into the garden. I slid the window back down, leaving it open a sliver.

I was walking back across the room when I saw the metal tin was still on the desk. It was open. I glanced upwards, wondering if he was watching me. I know I shouldn’t have looked but I couldn’t help myself. The way he’d frantically hidden it from my view told me it was important. I reasoned that perhaps it might contain something useful, something that might tell me why he had been so upset when I’d spoken to him yesterday.

I picked up the photo. It was a woman, early twenties, dark hair, a hint of a smile on her face. Her cheeks were bony, her skin pale. She looked like she needed to eat a decent meal. Next to the photo was a letter. I realised I was intruding on his privacy and I went to turn away but my eye was caught by the word suicide. Then I had to read it.

I picked up the letter. It was a suicide note and it was signed by Ethan.

“What are you doing in here?”

I jumped in fright, dropping the letter on the desk. Ethan was standing in the doorway, looking furious. “What is this?” I asked, pointing at the letter.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Are you going to kill yourself? Is that why you wanted me to go? So you could get on with it?”

“It doesn’t concern you.”

“It damn well does concern me. Why, Ethan? Why would you want to kill yourself? You’ve got everything to live for.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “Have I? I’ve a family who won’t speak to me, I’ve no friends, no kids. I’ve nothing.”

“You’ve got me.”

“For two more days then you’re gone.”

“Not if you don’t want me to go.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not going to do it.”

“Oh? Just wrote it for a laugh? On the off chance?”

“No,” he snapped, shaking his head. “Things have changed since meeting you.”

“I don’t know you at all,” I said, shoving past him and running along the corridor.

I’d had an uncle who’d killed himself when I was twelve. I remembered the funeral. His wife sobbing. Their two kids in pieces next to her. How could he be so selfish?

That was why he only wanted to spend a week with me. Because he had set the time of his death as he set all his appointments. Mustn’t be late. Got to set a good impression and be on time like a good businessman. That bastard. He’d toyed with me. He’d made me want him, made me need him. I hadn’t known him a week ago, I hadn’t known he existed. But now I couldn’t imagine life without him. And yet he didn’t give a shit about me. He would get to the end of the contract and leave me to find out from the papers. Billionaire kills self. No, selfish billionaire kills self. That was more accurate.

I found the staircase at last, running up to my bedroom and slamming the door shut. I burst into tears, throwing myself on the bed.

What hurt the most was finding out how little he cared about me. He had lied to me. All the time I had thought this was a game, that he was doing this for kicks. And then I found out it was his swansong, his goodbye fuck. That was all I was to him, a last toy to play with before he went.

I had heard him say he wasn’t going to do it anymore, that things had changed since meeting me. But I knew that was a lie, just like everything else he’d said to me since we’d met. A person who isn’t going to do it doesn’t keep the letter on his desk, next to a photo of some woman. No doubt she was his first love, the one he still loved, the one who he dumped and never forgot. She was who he really loved. Not me. He didn’t care about me.

There came a knock on the bedroom door. “Can I come in?” he asked, pushing it open. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t.