Page 13 of Room Service
What was the plan?
Is he going to hold me here all fucking night?
I’m about to ask that very question, but then I’m being hauled backwards as he moves to the balcony, pushing me out until I get to the railing where he turns me around and cages me in with his arms either side of me.
“You’re married?” he questions.
“Yes,” I answer pathetically, wishing I could give any other answer instead, and I feebly hold up my hand to show him my ring. He stares at it, like it’s the most vile thing he’s ever seen—and I’d have to agree with him. I usually don’t wear it during work hours, with the excuse that I don’t want to lose it or damage it, but really, it’s because I can’t stand wearing it. It’s usually hidden in the pocket of my uniform, but tonight I had to put it on when I changed from my maid’s uniform to the clothes that Hayley gave me to wear, because I didn’t have time to put it in my locker and there are no pockets in the skirt I’m wearing.
“Do you love him?” he asks, and I drop my hand and frown, because that was not at all what I was expecting.
“What?”
“I said, do you love him?” he repeats.
“I’m sorry,” I begin with a shake of my head. “Do I know you from somewhere previously and my mind has just decided to forget? Because you ask pretty personal questions for just being a stranger.”
“The first time I ever saw you was on Monday,” he confirms.
“So what is this about? Why does it seem like I keep running into you? Why have you come here now? And why did you want me to come to your room? Because, and forgive me if I speak out of turn seeing as you’re a paying guest here, I am struggling to understand what the hell is going on,” I admit, my confusion and frustration getting the better of me.
“I’m a man that goes after what he wants, Elise, and what I want is you,” he says, not stuttering, no timidness, just the straight up truth. I don’t even know why I feel he’s telling the truth, because I don’t even fucking know him—hell, I still don’t even know his name. But something inside of me seems to want to trust his words. Trust his truth. Trust that this is real.
Oh my god, I need to get a damn grip. This is madness. He’s got me pinned against the railing, and he could quite easily be a psychopath and throw me over the damn side so I plummet to my death, but again, I know that he won’t do that.
Call me fucking crazy.
“We don’t even know each other,” I say, voicing my thoughts.
“Do we need to?” he counters.
“What?” I whisper, but he doesn’t answer, and instead he just stares at me, his eyes penetrating mine.
Do we need to know each other?
Do I need to know his name?
Can I really do this?
I’m fucking married. But I don’t love him, never have. Forced to wear a ring to please my parents. Forced to live a life I hate.
Don’t I deserve a little fun? A little crazy? A fucking orgasm that I haven’t given myself?
Haven’t I suffered enough?
Haven’t I given enough?
Don’t I deserve to be selfish just this once?
“Are you married?” I ask, because I’m stalling while my mind continues to argue with itself.
“No.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Explain the empty condom packets then,” I say before I can bite my tongue.
