chances? I’m certain Karma is royally fucking with me right now. I’m not sure what I did to the temperamental little bitchtit, but maybe it’s as simple as she thinks it’s about time I came face to face with one of my conquests.
The barista at Starbucks doesn’t count. I mean, I totally knew he worked there when I slipped him my card. He had just handed me a caramel hot chocolate, after all. I just didn’t expect him to call me.
I sigh and rest my cheek on my hand. I probably should have guessed that my carefree personal life would catch up to my professional one in the end. Just, for the love of fucking God, why does it have to be with Carter Hughes?
Damn it. Damn it all to hell and back again.
This truly is karma at her finest. I can still feel the sweet burn of pleasure from his skillful touch. I can still remember the way he played my body as though I were a piano.
I think I’m still having the goddamn orgasm.
Seeing him is not going to work out.
Shit.
***
I wring my sweaty hands together as I sit in the back of the cab.
This is such a bad idea. Me going to this restaurant and seeing this man is exactly what nightmares are made of. What was I going to tell Mom though? Let’s be real. I could hardly tell her that I couldn’t complete this consultation because I screwed the man on Saturday night.
Shit. Charley’s gonna have a fucking field day with this.
“Ma’am? We’re here,” my cab driver says.
I take a deep breath and hand him the fare before stepping out on the New York sidewalk. The sun is glimmering its way through the skyscrapers, its warmth unbothered by the tall, glass buildings in its way. I revel the in the sensation on the sunshine on my skin and turn my face into it.
For a moment, I can pretend I’m not here. I imagine I’m on a beach in the Bahamas, sipping on a fruity cocktail. I’m stepping out onto the balcony of my hotel in the Jamaican morning sun. I’m dancing in the afternoon Mexican heat.
The illusions are broken by the tooting of horns and distant whirr of a siren.
Ugh. New York can’t even give me two minutes, can it?
My stomach coils in apprehension as I study the outside of the restaurant. With its clean lines and black mirrored walls that are broken by perfectly polished windows, not to mention the thick, block letters proclaiming it to be Carter’s, it’s a wonder I never noticed its striking look at the weekend.
Then again, I never have paid much attention to my surroundings. Ironic, considering my job. Or perhaps it’s because of.
Who knows?
Not to mention that this place apparently has two doors in, because this is the door I came out
The barista at Starbucks doesn’t count. I mean, I totally knew he worked there when I slipped him my card. He had just handed me a caramel hot chocolate, after all. I just didn’t expect him to call me.
I sigh and rest my cheek on my hand. I probably should have guessed that my carefree personal life would catch up to my professional one in the end. Just, for the love of fucking God, why does it have to be with Carter Hughes?
Damn it. Damn it all to hell and back again.
This truly is karma at her finest. I can still feel the sweet burn of pleasure from his skillful touch. I can still remember the way he played my body as though I were a piano.
I think I’m still having the goddamn orgasm.
Seeing him is not going to work out.
Shit.
***
I wring my sweaty hands together as I sit in the back of the cab.
This is such a bad idea. Me going to this restaurant and seeing this man is exactly what nightmares are made of. What was I going to tell Mom though? Let’s be real. I could hardly tell her that I couldn’t complete this consultation because I screwed the man on Saturday night.
Shit. Charley’s gonna have a fucking field day with this.
“Ma’am? We’re here,” my cab driver says.
I take a deep breath and hand him the fare before stepping out on the New York sidewalk. The sun is glimmering its way through the skyscrapers, its warmth unbothered by the tall, glass buildings in its way. I revel the in the sensation on the sunshine on my skin and turn my face into it.
For a moment, I can pretend I’m not here. I imagine I’m on a beach in the Bahamas, sipping on a fruity cocktail. I’m stepping out onto the balcony of my hotel in the Jamaican morning sun. I’m dancing in the afternoon Mexican heat.
The illusions are broken by the tooting of horns and distant whirr of a siren.
Ugh. New York can’t even give me two minutes, can it?
My stomach coils in apprehension as I study the outside of the restaurant. With its clean lines and black mirrored walls that are broken by perfectly polished windows, not to mention the thick, block letters proclaiming it to be Carter’s, it’s a wonder I never noticed its striking look at the weekend.
Then again, I never have paid much attention to my surroundings. Ironic, considering my job. Or perhaps it’s because of.
Who knows?
Not to mention that this place apparently has two doors in, because this is the door I came out
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