Single Lady Spy 01 - The End of Me

fucking me.
    He reached forward amid thrusts and rubbed between my legs, circling my clit.
    The felt of the table scratched against my cheeks and palms. The sound left my lips, like it did hers. I could see him, thrusting into her the way he had done to me. I came again, seeing her feet in the air and his strong ass flexing. His thrusts had slowed to make my orgasm deliciously paced.
    Flipping me on my back again, he grabbed my ankles and placed them on the same spot hers were.
    I didn’t notice until his cock was buried deep inside of me. I tried to kick away but he held me there. Only when he had filled me with his orgasm, could I tell the difference between what he done to her and what he had done to me. He cried out, making a sound I hadn’t heard in the room with her, but that I recalled from the hotel.
    He slapped against me one last time and collapsed on top of me, forcing my legs apart again. I wrapped them around him as he breathed into my breasts.
    “You set me up,” I whispered into the heavy, dank air of the giant room, we had somehow managed to pollute with our filth.
    He nodded, “I didn’t force you to like it though.”
    I shook my head, “I hate you.”
    He kissed my belly and stood up, “I need you to hate me, Evie.”
    He left the room and I didn’t feel afraid of him anymore.
    I showered in a spare room and found a smaller room to sleep in.
    When I woke, I looked around the room for something to put on. The other clothes felt wrong, on a bunch of different levels.
    I wrapped in a blanket and made my way back to his room. I could see his foot sticking out of the covers. I snuck into the closet and stole a pair of shorts for jogging and a t-shirt. His clothes hung off me, like they would a kid. I left the blanket in the closet and made my run for the door.
    I found the kitchen from the smell in the halls. It was waffles. My mouth watered.
    A small man in a chef’s outfit grinned at me, “You hungry?” he asked through a thick French accent.
    I nodded and sat at the breakfast table.
    Everything was oversized, marble, and expensive. His house was like something out of a magazine, including the chef.
    He brought me a coffee and a plate of fruit.
    I looked at the fruit and then back at the kitchen. “Can I have some of the waffles?” I asked.
    He shook his head, “Not yet.”
    I didn’t know what to say, he was like the Soup Nazi on Seinfeld. He was holding out on the waffles, until he was ready to give them to me.
    I picked up a chocolate covered strawberry and bit down. I was starving.
    The coffee was perfect. I stirred the cream in and sipped. Even with the strawberry taste in my mouth, it was oh-my-God good. My kids would love this house. I wondered what the cost of the chef was? I couldn’t help but wonder , if I had enough money in James’ sneaky-whore account to have a chef or even a house like this?
    I picked the newspaper up off the table, where it was no doubt placed for him, and gasped when I saw the front page.
    “ PRIVATE JET CRASHES ON MOUNT WASHINGTON”
    “Are you reading my newspaper?” Servario interrupted my reading.
    I didn’t look at him. “A jet crashed on Mount Washington, after taking off from Boston,” I muttered. I paused a moment, as I thought about how possible it was that was Fitz. I felt the burning in my eyes, “Did you do this?”
    He looked confused, “What are you talking about?”
    “Fitz left Boston after dropping everyone else off. He was in a private jet; did you kill him? Is this his jet?”
    He sat and shook his head, “No. I don’t know whose jet that was. What am I psychic?”
    I narrowed my eyes, “Fine.” I stood up and walked away. I could tell he was lying to me.
    “Are those my clothes?” he asked after me.
    I spun around, feeling sickening anger at the possibility that Uncle Fitz might have been in a plane crash. “I’m done with this. This sick, twisted version of playing house with you. Last night was really fun and I have to admit surprising. I have new things to talk to my shrink about now; that’s always good. But I am done. You either level with me, or I am walking out the front door, and I will kill whoever decides to get in my way.”
    He grins at me, “You feel that confident in your abilities?”
    I shake my head, “No. I feel that confident in my anger at the things that happened last night.”
    He watched me and then sighed, “Come and sit and eat breakfast. Pierre makes an incredible Belgian waffle.”
    I