“The red fits you.”
“More than the blonde?”
I twist my lips to avoid smiling. “I didn’t say that.”
“Interesting,” she drawls, boldly holding eye contact.
“If you like it, then obviously it was worth the change. You’re beautiful regardless of what colour your hair is,” I state, voice so deep it’s husky.
Jesus fucking Christ, I need a muzzle. Or to lose my tongue. Possibly both.
Yet there’s that smile again. The one I’ve seen too many times to count on both hands in only the last couple of weeks.
I can’t decide if I’m ready to lose the sight of it just yet.
Brielle Hayes might be generous with her affection, but there’s something about that reminder that pisses me off. The thought of anyone but me receiving it shouldn’t feel like razor blades in my windpipe, yet here I am, nearly choking on every inhale.
And that’s a problem I have no idea how to fix.
16
BRIELLE
My latest videofor After Hours sits on the screen in front of me. I should have published it an hour ago, yet here it is, haunting my draft folder.
Recording it last week was . . . not planned. After getting home from Summit Field, I was so wound up that I reached for my bucket of toys the moment I stepped into my bedroom. It felt like a missed opportunity not to record what I knew was going to be an explosive orgasm, so I did what I always do.
I set up my tripod and recorded every single touch and cry as I brought myself to climax three consecutive times.
By the time I was too tired to continue, I finally felt like myself again. Gone were the thoughts of climbing Roman like a tree and riding him on that plush office chair of his until his thoughts were too full of me to even contemplate denying our connection again. Instantly, my head was in control rather than the greedy organ between my legs.
Editing it only turned me on again, so I abandoned it for two days and put my focus into other things instead. My latest design is hanging on the mannequin in the corner of my bedroom, crafted with the softest fabric I could find at my favourite shop,yet it’s still not perfect. I want something more flowy and with a bit of extra stretch around the bust and backside.
For now, it’s enough to know where to go next.
My apartment, however, is a complete disaster in the aftermath of my success. Bits of fabric have somehow flown from my sewing table all through my living room and into the kitchen. I even found my peach-shaped pincushion on the bathroom counter, which I definitely don’t remember putting there.
I should have cleaned everything up already. Instead, I’m staring at a still image of my bare tits mid-swing as I shove a hot pink dildo between my spread legs. The darkening effect I applied to the video does absolutely nothing to distract me from the truth of what I was doing.
Or why.
Bringing my finger across the track pad, I release a frustrated growl. Instead of posting it like I know I should, I return it to my drafts folder for the thousandth time and open my messages instead. The immediate lack ofQuiethours’ username frustrates me enough that I slam my laptop closed and toss it to the end of the bed.
Is the reason this stranger got rid of his account the same one Roman keeps turning me down? Am I just . . . not what either of them is looking for?
“Fuck off, Brielle,” I curse myself, immediately shaking my head.
I’m not going there. Not after everything I’ve done to gain the confidence I have in myself. It took years of nurturing the small seeds of it that I’d lost amongst the self-hatred I lived with in my teen years before I could get here. My flowers are blooming too brightly to let a man pluck their petals.
My phone vibrates with a text, and I snag it eagerly. Hoping for a distraction, I’m instantly disappointed when I read the message.
Evie
Your photos are ready!!!!! Wanna pick them up or have me drop them off? I’ve got time tonight.
No offense to her, but all this does is draw me right back into my conundrum. Evie’s just as much my friend as she is Roman’s niece. It’s impossible to think about her without him.
Here I go again.
