Page 140 of Ewan

Ewan.

I turn the shower off, put my slipper on, and slide my bathrobe on without running my towel over my body.

The plush fabric soaks up most of the moisture before I head to the kitchen.

I was so sleepy an hour ago after we fucked for the fourth time. Neither of us wanted to walk into the shower at the motel. There was nothing wrong with it. There was nothing good with it either. It was a small shower, basic.

We couldn’t even fit inside both if we wanted to, you know, have sex again.

I was raw––still am––but I wanted him again.

And he wanted me again.

Ewan.

He is an interesting man with all his secrets. And his back and forth and putting the fear of God into that man at the club.

I bet he won’t talk to me the way he did last night again.

Reluctantly, Ewan said yes to my returning to the club tonight with a condition, though.

He’ll be there, and I get to wear what I want to wear.

Meaning my catsuit.

I won’t be showing much skin, and it’ll be more of an athletic performance than anything else.

That’s all. Which works for me.

This way, I’m not in hot water with Sammy, and I can work my shift and collect my money before I’m done with this type of work.

I cleaned the money that I got so far the best I could. And I mean literally cleaning it with a warm, damp cloth, not using some accounting tactics.

All of it will help me build up my emergency fund.

So today I’ll be free during the day––I’ll catch up on sleep––and then I’ll work at night. And meet him.

And tomorrow, I’m working in Manhattan during the day, and then I’ll be free until next week.

I don’t have any plans for Christmas.

Christmas Eve falls on Saturday, so I’ll see how that shakes out. I didn’t think I’d need to make plans for that day.

I still don’t know whether we’ll see each other these next few days. Probably not.

He might have previous engagements. A place where he’s expected. Family he needs to spend Christmas with.

I won’t hold my hopes high.

Sighing, I pour myself a cup of coffee and slide into a chair at the kitchen table, my drink in front of me and my phone in hand, the screen dark.

Sunk in thought, I swipe my phone, and the screen brightens up. It’s almost five o’clock.

A smile tugs at my lips.

This sort of schedule is so not like me. I’m a stickler for a good routine.

Going to bed at eleven, breakfast at seven, working out at six in the morning or six at night.

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