I don't know why, but I imagine him sitting at his desk, with a cigar in his hand and leaning back against the leather chair that I bought him. Damned...
The mere thought of being in his presence turns my stomach, and imagining it makes me want to disintegrate my brain.
"Talk now, stop beating around the bush," I blurt out with a bit of anger.
I feel him start to click his tongue, as one usually does when one disapproves of something.
"No no girl, be very careful how you address me," he says seriously.
I hope I haven't touched his balls, because the son of a b***h is just that, a son of a b***h.
“I'm sorry,” I say in a whisper, biting my tongue to control my temper and try to speak as calmly and compassionately as possible.
"That's the way I like it baby, that's the way I like it."
