Filthy Dirty Laundry (Filthy Dirty Laundry #1) by Kailin Gow

hotter.
              “So, you don't want me
to fuck you, Miss Stone?”
              “I didn't say that,” I
look down, unable to meet his eyes. “I mean...I'm not saying that I do, either.
Or that...even if I do want to, that I think it’s a good idea.”
              “Giving into your
desires is always a good idea, Sidney.”
              “Not when it's with my
boss,” I say.
              “Ah. Yes. That.” He
looks slightly wounded. For the first time, he shows vulnerability. “I told
you, I'm a professional.”
              If we were
professionals we wouldn't be in this situation to begin with, I think.
              “Look, it's your
house,” I say. “Be naked, or not naked...it's up to you. But...I work for you,
Philip. And whatever's going on with us...” I sigh. “I love my job. I really
love it. And I don't want to risk it...”
              “By you touching my
cock? Looking at it like you wanted more than anything to taste it?”
              “Stop it...”
              I'm embarrassed,
overwhelmed, ashamed of my behavior. At how drunk I got. At how I let all this
happened.
              “I have to go...” I
murmur.
              “Must you?”
              “I need to get to the
dog story,” I say. “Do whatever I can. You know – this whole job thing? I need
my job.” I don't have a rich family to bail me out whenever the going gets
tough.
              “Let me at least get my
driver to drop you off...”
              “No!” I say. My voice
notches higher. “Please. Just let me...I can't accept anything else from you,
Philip. Not until I figure this out.” Not until I get control over myself
again.
              “I have to go, sir,” I
whisper, tears streaming down my face.
              Then I bolt.
     

 
    Chapter 13
     
     
     
              I run out into the
street. Like a crazy person, I think. I'm probably the only
non-multi-millionaire on this street. I probably look like a hooker, I think. A
call girl hired for the night, doing the walk of shame in this stupid too-short
dress. Everyone who sees me is probably thinking the same thing: stupid
whore.
              I'm flush, crying, as I call
Kiley. I can't call Johnson now. Something in me stops me from taking that
crucial step. I don't know why. We've been best friends for years. But somehow
I can't let him see me like this. There's a darkness to Johnson, a possessive
streak, I don't touch. He'd rush into Philip LaFleur's apartment and beat the
shit out of him for having dared to touch me. For having taken advantage of me.
But I'm not sure how I feel about what happened. Was I taken advantage
of? Did I want to be taken advantage of? Was everything that felt so
wrong also, in a sense that goes beyond flesh and into the deepest and most
primordial parts of desire, right? My body had been awakened to all
sorts of sensations, desires, needs, hungers, cravings I didn't know I had. And
there's something freeing about that feeling. About knowing that my body is
more than...a receptacle for other people's desires. A picture on whom men can
project their longings.
    My whole life, even the men who
wanted me felt like they just wanted...an image of me. They wanted to get their
pleasure out of me: like I was some sort of box holding galleons of treasure
and they wanted to horde it for themselves. My sexual experiences, limited
though they were, were all about feeling like I was giving something to someone
else. Like I was doing it for them – like it was a favor or something.
Maybe because I liked them. Maybe because I just wanted to be polite, I don't
know. But being with Philip, despite the power differential, despite the
wrongness, turned me on in unimaginable ways. Made me conscious of what I
wanted to do. Made me conscious of myself, my body, my needs.
              “Kiley,” I wheeze