“I thought this worked both ways?”
“What do you mean?”
“This morning you said you needed to know what I was feeling. I need to know what you’re feeling, too.”
“I really don’t talk about my feelings. Sorry.” He pulls bottled water, assorted fruits and toiletries out of the bag. “I need to know your feelings so I can understand your needs better and help you.”
I take the milk carton he’s holding out of his hands and put it into the refrigerator. “And who helps you?” I ask him pointedly.
“I bought you some clothes,” he replies, completely ignoring my question and gesturing towards a bag on the table.
After dumping out the contents of the bag, all I see are black sweatpants, little T-shirts, and plain bikini panties.
“Geez. This is fashionable,” I joke.
“No need for fashion. I’ll have you naked most of the time and on your knees,” he says, and then pauses. “Or on all fours.”
My traitorous pussy quivers in response.
I try to change the subject. “What about my car?”
“Write down your address and I’ll call a tow truck to have it taken there. I’ll pay for it.” He opens a drawer and hands me a pen and torn piece of paper with a hotel emblem on it.
“Don’t you have a job?” I ask him, writing down my address. “And a name?”
He takes the paper from me and gives me that long stare of his, as if he’s looking right through my eyes and straight into my thoughts, making me feel vulnerable and exposed.
“We’ll talk about that later on,” he finally answers.
“Seriously? We’re going to talk about your name later?”
He doesn’t waver. “That’s what I said.”
“Don’t you want to know mine?”
“No. I’ll call you what I want to call you.”