Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Did I want “the want of him”? The “rich elusive taunt of him”? I was afraid I did. Our date was over but he still occupied far too many of my thoughts.
He’d said it was “a little bit of an apology,” but I didn’t see the apology. I pored over commentary about the poem, its theme of obsession and unrequited love, as if that might explain something, or help me understand him. It didn’t.
I wondered if he knew all these poems by heart, or if he only memorized snippets that were meaningful to him. I tried to picture W in love. In unrequited love. I tried to picture him sitting and memorizing poetry.
No. I couldn’t see it at all.
The Gansevoort Session
I knew W better now. I knew his face, if not his name, so I felt a little more relaxed as I walked from Times Square to the Gansevoort Hotel on Park Avenue. It had been a week since our last date, a wonderful, relaxing week with no other clients, thanks to our exclusive arrangement. He was literally paying me not to see other men.
It felt nice to be wanted that way.
It felt so nice that I’d dressed up for him. I’d bought my outfit with his tastes in mind: a classy little black dress with a matching garter belt and stockings, and gorgeous black velvet stilettos. I thought it was pretty safe to spend the money, since he hadn’t cut anything off me in a while. We’d had a pretty bad scene last time around, but we managed to salvage things between us. I had looked into his eyes and seen a man there, a man who cared about me, for all his rough edges.
Now that we were exclusive, I imagined a comfortable closeness developing between us. Well, not comfortable. Sex with W would never be comfortable, but I imagined us moving to something more...intimate. Or affectionate. I imagined longer, more playful sessions, culminating in even better orgasms, for him, for me, for both of us. Now that we were exclusive, I could focus all my energy and attention on him.
And he deserved it. Thanks to him, I had free time now to nap, to primp, to go shopping, to wander around Central Park and bask in the sun. Thanks to him, I didn’t have to accept dates with men I didn’t like that much.
There was only one date—him—and I actually found myself looking forward to seeing him, because he had chosen me. He liked me enough to want me to himself. I didn’t even have to put on the simpering, airheaded Miss Kitty act, because W was the first client in ten years who didn’t want to sleep with Miss Kitty. He wanted to sleep with me. Chere. He’d yanked my name out of me within the first minute, and he still used it every session.
The fact that I didn’t know his name didn’t deter me in these escalating fantasies. I traipsed into the Gansevoort Hotel fully believing that our exclusive arrangement meant that he cared about me. I should have known better after all my years in the business.
I took the elevator upstairs to the room number Henry texted me. I knew something was off as soon as W opened the door. He didn’t smile at me in welcome, didn’t take me in his arms and kiss my forehead the way I pictured. He frowned down at his phone and pointed me to the bed. I sat on the edge of it and awaited instructions. I’m not sure he even noticed what I was wearing. If he did, he didn’t seem to care.
Whatever, Chere. Don’t be vain. Don’t worry about it.
The brightly colored, modern room decor made my head hurt. I studied him instead, trying to figure out his mood. In a way I still felt blindfolded. I mean, I recognized his golden blond hair, his piercing blue eyes, his fine body and sculpted features, but that was all I understood about him. I looked out the window, at the view of the Empire State Building.
“I’ve never been at this Gansevoort before,” I said. “Only the one in the Meatpacking District.”
He didn’t answer, just threw his phone down beside the room key and went to the table to pick up a drink. He wasn’t drunk—he seemed too sharp and irate to be drunk—but he was still drinking, and he didn’t offer any to me. When he turned around, I crossed my legs and did my best to look enticing.
“I was glad you finally called Henry,” I said. “Have you had a busy week?”
“Yes. Not that it’s any of your business.”
His gaze traveled up my legs. No smile. No kisses. I would have put on the blindfold again, if he would have kissed me. Maybe he was already getting bored with me. Maybe we already knew too much about each other to suit his tastes.