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Fiona
Emotional whiplash.
Rubbing my thighs together beneath the warm blanket, that’s the phrase that plays on repeat in my mind as I watch Boyd walk outside, leaving me frustrated in more ways than one. I’m a sticky disaster between my legs, the moisture pooling there cool against my skin, my entire body vibrating like I’ve been hooked up to a tens unit and left to fend for myself.
The stuff about my mom long forgotten, now all I can do is stare at the dormant fireplace and wonder how long it’ll be before he comes back. If I have time to attempt some relief, or if he’d walk in before I finished.
More importantly, why did the word whore stoke such a rapid, raging fire inside of me?
As a feminist, the notion that I’d enjoy being called that should’ve offended me, but for some reason watching Boyd’s lips curl around the single syllable turned my bones into melted butter.
Still, I don’t think it’s a kink, so much as the way he said it.
Like I belong to him already.
And even though I’m still not exactly sure what’s going on here, I can’t deny that the idea pleases me.
His switch flipped so suddenly, though, going from concerned and considerate, back to the raging asshole I grew up pining after. I’m not really sure how to reconcile the two, but maybe that’s not the point.
Maybe everyone has two sides to them, and our job isn’t to determine which is real, but to figure out how to coexist with them both. People create personas to wear as armor, as a means of protection, and it’s dangerous to try and strip that away for our own personal benefit.
Besides, he didn’t push me tonight, so maybe I should cut him some slack, just like Bea was saying. Anxiety bleeds into my thoughts, making me believe there’s an ulterior motive to everything, and maybe that’s the only real issue here.
Glancing at the back door, I settle down under the blanket again, basking in the warm cocoon as I wait for Boyd to return. There’s an analog clock hanging on the wall above the dining room, reminding me of the spots in his wallpaper that need touched up and sending a wave of restlessness down my spine again; with each second that clicks by, I search the room for a new tear or worn area, counting thirty in total.
Three minutes pass with me counting the spots one-hundred-eighty times, wishing I knew if he keeps plaster or paste in the house somewhere. I take a mental inventory, recalling the closets from the short tour he’d taken me on, noting that if he doesn’t return soon, I’ll be forced to take measures into my own hands.
My arousal flees as the itch creeps in, and I kick my feet on top of the mattress as my body grows uncomfortable, trying to regain the control I just had over myself. But it’s no use—my brain is looping on everything leading up to this moment, hyper-focusing on the wallpaper, and it’s starting to pull me under.
Scratching at my scalp, I shift up against the back of the couch, the sofa suddenly lumpy and uncomfortable. The house is so quiet, a stillness present that I’m not used to, as if this place isn’t haunted at all.
The ghosts must be haunting Boyd directly, instead.
As if I’ve conjured him, the back door squeaks open just as I think his name, his tall, muscular frame appearing against the backdrop of the cotton candy sky. He doesn’t say anything as he walks to the stairs, shuffling up them and returning a few moments later with a long-sleeved Patriots T-shirt and a pair of gray sweats.
Tossing me the shirt, he starts to strip from his jeans, raising an eyebrow when he notices me not moving. “Are you planning on sleeping in leggings?”
I swallow, squeezing the soft material between my fingers. “I’m staying here?”
“Unless you’re planning to walk home, yes.” Yanking his shirt over his head, he lets it drop to the floor, then unbuttons his jeans and shimmies them down over his hips.
My core pulsates as my eyes explore the defined ridges of his chest, his tapered waist, abs so sharp and defined I could probably slit my wrist on them. The black boxer briefs he has on do little to hide how I affect him, and it makes my heart somersault realizing that he’s as into all of this as I am.
Words are one thing, but the physical proof is hard to ignore.
And even though the words should mean more, there’s something satisfying in the evidence.
There’s a light bruise coloring one side of his ribs, and I think back to the black eye he showed up at my house with last week, wondering what it is he does that leaves him so battered. Stepping into the sweatpants, he slides them up over his hips, marring my view, and crosses his arms.
His jaw clenches as he stares at me, something primal and angry lurking within him that wasn’t there before he went outside. Something dangerous. I see it in the tic that forms, in how tight he holds his arms against his chest, in the frown that creases his forehead.
It feels directed at me, but I don’t know what I did.
Shifting my gaze to the shirt, I sit up straight and let the blanket fall around me, lifting my arms and pulling my sweater over my head.
His eyes fall to the lacy pink bra I’m wearing, glazing over as they absorb the image, and I reach behind my back, using my thumb and index finger to undo the clasp. It falls off my arms into my lap, baring my breasts to him for the first time.
“Jesus.” His throat bobs over a swallow, the tension in his arms relaxing slightly. Taking a few steps closer, he kneels on the mattress, extending his hand to gently roll his thumb over one nipple. His expression is subdued, almost reverent, and it sends sparks of excitement through my body.
