Page 59 of I'm sorry, Princess
After a month of carefully keeping my guard up, of keeping things professional, I let it slip. I let him in.
I could’ve stopped him, I tell myself that, over and over, but deep down, I know the truth:I didn’t want to. Or maybe I couldn’t. The line between those two things feels blurred, impossible to define now.
Oh my Gosh. I slept with him.
I slept with my first client.
My heart races as the weight of it crashes down on me. What if he reports me? That would be fun. Explaining to HR why their perfect little employee crossed a line so big it’s practically a chasm. And oh, wouldn’t it be just delightful if my parents found out?
The perfect daughter, the one who worked so hard to build a respectable career, slept with Moretti.
Freaking Moretti.
The name alone makes my pulse quicken. It’s not just the fact that he’s my client, it’s everything about him. The danger in his eyes, the way his presence fills a room, the pull he has over me that I can’t seem to shake.
I sit up, my head in my hands, trying to piece together how I let this happen. Last night wasn’t just a mistake. It was the mistake, and it feels like there’s no way to undo it.
I don’t know what I was thinking. Actually, that’s not true, I wasn’t thinking at all.
But honestly, how could I resist him? He’s illegally hot. The kind of man who could make even the most disciplined saint stumble. The fact that it took me this long to stay out of his bed, or his cell, to be precise, is nothing short of a miracle.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a whore. At least, I don’t think I am.
It’s just… when I was with him, it was like my entire body came alive. My skin burned, my heart raced as if it were trying to break free from my chest, and my pussy, well, she had been begging for him for weeks.
And really, who am I to deny her what she wanted? What I wanted?
I climb out of bed and catch my reflection in the mirror. My breath hitches. His marks are everywhere.
Faint bruises bloom on my thighs where his fingers had gripped me, possessive and firm. His teeth have left ghostly imprints on my breasts, and my lips are swollen, tingling with the memory of his touch.
I run my fingertips over the marks, feeling their heat beneath my skin. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to get through this day like nothing happened.
It’s Friday. Our weekly meeting is in two hours.
I stare at my closet, my mind racing. What should I wear? Would he notice me? Would he even look at me? My thoughts spiral. Does he think about me the way I think about him? Does he feel anything at all, or was this just another moment for him, something fleeting, something disposable?
No. I can’t do this right now. I can’t let myself think about him.
I step into the shower, the hot water cascading over me, covering me in a comforting warmth. I lather up, scrubbing at my skin like I can wash him away, his touch, his smell, his presence. But no matter how hard I try, the scent of mint lingers, faint but inescapable.
My vanilla shampoo doesn’t stand a chance.
Two minutes later, I glance down and realize my skin is raw, flushed red from scrubbing too hard. My hands freeze, trembling slightly, as the reality of it hits me.
And then, without warning, my eyes well up.
Tears spill over, hot and silent, blending with the water streaming down my face. I lean against the tile, my chest heaving as the weight of it all crashes down on me.
What am I supposed to do?
What do you do when you can’t escape someone who’s already inside you?
I step out of the shower, wrapping myself in a towel, and reach for my phone. A single notification lights up the screen, a text from Ian: “Meet me in 30 min.”
My chest tightens for a moment before I shake it off. Ian doesn’t ask without reason.
I dress quickly, opting for a long, tight skirt paired with a crisp white top. My signature high heels add the final touch. My hair goes up into a loose bun, effortlessly neat but far from perfect. Grabbing my keys, I head out, making my way to the parking lot where my white Range Rover Evoque waits for me.
