Page 122 of Good Touch, Bad Touch Collection
He turns toward the door, shaking his head as flames flick over my skin, my fingers curling into fists, and the way my vision turns dark I know I’m about to punch the smug look off his face.
Except, I promised.
No hitting anyone until our next session.
To my surprise, I let him walk out, nodding as he passes me, not even washing his fucking hands.
I glare at the empty space as the door closes behind him.
I don’t want him opening up to her. I sure as fuck don’t wantheropening anything tohim. I don’t want to think about her asking to touch his shoulder or his fucking chest. He shouldn’t get to feel her tits pressing against him.
No one gets that privilege from now on except me.
Walk away. He’s her next client.
My fingertips twitch, staring at the bloodied cuts across my knuckles. I consider punching the mirror againsince I can’t do what I really want, and knock a few of his veneers down his throat.
Why would I make a promise like that to her?
What’s really bugging the shit out of me is, nobody has ever made me second guess my instincts before now.
I shoulder through the door back into the hall, just in time to see him disappear behind the door to her little lobby. Even the way he walks infuriates me.
The urge to grab him by the throat and throw him through a fucking window is overwhelming.
Instead of following my instinct, I turn around and start down the hall. Because I’m an asshole in an infinite number of ways, but I keep my promises.
But, I’m not leaving until I know he’s not going to touch her with those unwashed hands.
Chapter 9
Emee
This is like a fever dream, I think as I shake my head, wandering in an aimless circle around the bed.
Never in a million years would anyone have convinced me I would let a client hold me down and dry fuck me until I came. While calling himMy King,no less.
I'm not mad, though, because that was the best orgasm of my life.
As well, I can’t quite shake away the protective sense of comfort he gave me when he mentioned the lack of a peephole and security system.
I have time for a breath at least. I always schedule a break between clients. Sometimes I need to change bedding and swapout pillows, but also, you never know when a client might spill something heartbreaking or enraging.
I also use the time to make notes in client profiles and hydrate.
This is the first time I’ve had to deal with a pair of ruined underwear.
Luckily, my closet is stocked with backup clothes. I can’t meet one client with another’s tears still drying on my shoulder, or occasionally vomit—it happens. Stress is complicated.
Outside of the need for fresh underwear, I also strip down and change everything, grabbing a pair of gray sweats and a fresh white t-shirt, and do a deep breathing exercise to get my focus back.
I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anyone else with his scent on me for the rest of the day.
After I’ve changed, washed my hands, and splashed some cold water on my face, I slip my feet back into my tennis shoes and head out toward my desk to grab my water bottle and get my head straight.
My phone buzzes on my desk as I drop into my chair, releasing a long groan with my fists to the ceiling as I see my brother’s face and phone number on the screen. “Whaaaaaat now?” I say to no one, before popping my finger on the green accept button.
“Hel—” I start, but he’s talking before I get the word out.
