"Please," Zayn begs. "Just... let me kiss you."
Diamond gives him that look - the one she always gives him. The one that makes him feel like a small child being denied ice cream. "Sorry, but you know it's against my policy."
She doesn't sound sorry...
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Diamond is walking home again.
It's a routine she's so used to, and yet it's different. Her legs are never this wobbly, for one; nobody has ever made her come like Zayn just did, or fùcked her so well. She can still feel him between her legs, that good kind of post-coital ache. For a few moments after they'd finished and she'd come down, she was worried that she'd have to break a rule and stay for the pure fact that she might not be able to walk. But she could walk, in the end. So she's walking home. Part of her is disappointed.
Once she's out of sight of Zayn's apartment, she leans against a brick wall and just breathes, closing her eyes and reliving every moment. Every moan, every groan, every touch, every breath. Her ear tickles like she can still feel his breath against it, whispering sweet nothings and dirty promises in her ear. About her body, how beautiful she is. About how good she felt, how he was going to make sure she felt him for days. About all the things he'll never get to do, because they'll never see each other again. They can't.
Her apartment isn't as welcoming as she would like it to be. Sure, it's a little more homely than Zayn's, but more often than not the cosy touch and the little trinkets feel more like clutter than anything else. Shrugging off her coat, she tries to imagine it's Zayn doing so again, ushering her in and being worried about her being cold. She kicks off her heels and sinks her toes into the carpet, but it's not as soft as Zayn's. One thing that is similar, however, is the framed picture on her mantlepiece, beneath the TV. She's stared at that photograph so many times it's become engraved in her mind, a constant reminder that there were better days. When her dad was around and her brother was alive and her mother wasn't borderline nuts. When she didn't sell her body for money and she didn't have to say no when literal Greek Gods asked for her number.
God, he asked for her number.
Nobody ever asked for her number. Doing so would mean that it would be more than just work, that she was more than just a prostitute. More than a (not-so) cheap fùck. She'd almost been out of there, too. She could have left, and then Zayn wouldn't be playing on her mind like this. But he just had to stop her. He just had to say the words.
"Can I have your number?"
Diamond freezes, but doesn't turn around, keeping her eyes on the ascending numbers above the lift. "M-my...my what?"
"Your number," Zayn repeats, like he isn't out of his damn mind.
"Zayn," she sighs. "You know the answer to that."
The lift dings and opens, but she makes no move to leave.
"Why?"
"Because I'm a prostitute."
"So?"
"So, we can't do this again."
"Ever?"
"Ever."
He stays silent, and Diamond can practically feel the sadness radiating from him in waves - so strongly that she almost turns around and takes everything back.
"Bye, Zayn."
He didn't say bye back. Somehow Diamond knows that that's just his way of saying that it's not the end. It is the end, though. It doesn't matter how he treated her, how he made her feel like they were the only ones in the world and she was the only thing he'd ever want.
