Amara
I couldn't sleep.
It was past midnight, and I was pacing my apartment like a caged animal, still wearing the clothes I couldn't wait to get out of the moment I walked through my door. My feet were killing me—these stupid heels that seemed like such a good idea this morning, armor disguised as footwear. Now they just felt like torture devices.
The black skirt that felt like protection earlier now clings to my legs, restrictive and uncomfortable. Yet here I am, haven't changed, haven't showered, haven't done anything except pace and replay that moment in his office repeatedly.
"Is there anything else you'd like me to do for you?"
God, why did I say it like that? My voice went all breathy and weird when I was trying to be professional. And the way he looked at me—Jesus. I don't eve
