The Chosen One

A few minutes later I was still sprawled across the bed, sore and aching, as though every part of me had been violated by him. He was dressing with the same brisk efficiency with which he had removed his and my clothes.

'What now?' I asked. He stopped to sip the cold coffee.

'You move in. If you want to.'

'With you?'

No,' he laughed, as if I had said the stupidest thing. 'I'll come for you when I want you.'

'When you've had enough -- or when you begin to bore me -- then, you leave,' he said, barely looking at me. 'There's a key on the hook in the kitchen. Don't worry, you don't have to pay rent. Well, not money anyway.'

He walked back to the bed and leant over me. He brushed hair from my face and kissed my forehead. His lips were warm and moist.

I realized that I didn't know his name. 'What shall I call you?' I asked.

'Whatever you want.'

'Sir?'

He laughed. 'That's a good name. I'll call you Five.' I didn't ask why.

Then he laid a wedge of bank notes on the bed.

I began to protest. 'I'm not a ...'

'I know,' he said gently. 'It's a loan until you're sorted.'

He sniffed at my skin. 'Get a shower. You stink.'

Then he was gone. He didn't look back.

I pulled the duvet around me. That was when the weeping started. It wasn't guilt, or sorrow for what I had done to Robert, or even that I was already missing my anonymous lover. It was because in that moment I realised that what he had seen in me was true. And now I knew what I was, what I wanted, and what I had always wanted.

(to be continued)

[Thanks to Sunwyln for her editorial advice]