Page 34 of Judge Me Not

Then she moves toward me. It's only an inch, but it might as well be a mile. All resolve I have to hold back dissolves in an instant.

I weave my hand through her hair. Our lips and tongues collide. Her lips barely part before my tongue slides against hers, flicking and stroking, needing anything she's willing to give me.

I'm a greedy bastard for it. I don't know what's wrong and why she broke down. She's in a situation where I should be giving to her, whatever that situation is. But I take. And I take. And I take from her some more until she can hardly breathe, and I'm on top of her with my raging hard-on.

"If you don't tell me to stop, I'm not going to," I warn her. My dick aches and pushes out of my boxers against her heat.

She scrunches her forehead and whispers, "I don't want to be your whore."

"You aren't," I sternly reply.

She turns away.

The realization of what I've done hits me like a brick to the face. In all my years of doing underhanded things, this is my most significant offense. The world I live in is full of ruthless businessmen who will screw you over in a minute. At times, you have to be the first one to make a move, or you'll get eaten alive. But my obsession to make her mine and keep her away from the other men in the club drove me to do something so stupid, I'm not sure how to recover from it.

I degraded her.

I made her feel like my whore.

Fuck.

"Jasmine."

"Hmmm?" She continues to avoid my eyes.

I stroke her jaw with my thumb. "Is this why you were crying?"

Her voice comes out scratchy. "No."

"Tell me why."

"I can't."

A new thought occurs. "Is someone harming you?"

"No." She slides away from me and sits on the edge of the bed with her back to me. "I need to get ready. My makeup is probably a mess."

"Jasmine, we don't need to go." I do need to be there, but she's so upset.

"Can we forget this happened and return to our agreement? I'm sorry I added drama. It won't happen again. Please... I... I need this job. I can't go into the long-term arrangement yet." Her voice is desperate. Her shoulders and arms shake.

"Jas—"

"Please." It comes out broken, and she grips the edge of the comforter, as if to steady herself.

"Okay. You don't need to worry about our arrangement," I tell her.

What exactly is our arrangement?

How am I getting out of this with her?

I don't want her as my prostitute. I've never wanted any woman as such. I'm trapped within the gravity of my actions and the agreement I've made with her.

"Why don't you just tell me what you need, and I'll give it to you. Then we can—"

"I don't have a lot. And I may have reached the bottom, but I'm not looking for handouts. As long as I do my job, and you stick to your part of our arrangement, I will earn what I need." She rises, walks into the bathroom, and shuts the door.

Self-loathing consumes me. I've never hated myself before. At this moment, I understand what it feels like. And I think I've done the unforgivable.

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