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Fiona
My father never returns to the office the day I almost attack Chelsea, and part of me is glad on the one hand, because I don’t want what happened between Boyd and me to be tainted by the fury I feel toward my father over his affair.
I spend the rest of the afternoon curled up in the armchair in Boyd’s office, alternating between stealing glances at him while he pours over his work and scrolling through Stonemore Community’s online course catalog, trying to figure out what to take in conjunction with repeating stats.
Easy classes are probably my best bet, ones that won’t challenge the workload in statistics, but I’m also afraid of falling farther behind than I am now. I don’t want to get to a point where I can’t catch up at all, and trying to fit the next semester into a world of uncertainty has anxiety spiraling again in my gut, renewed even after the pleasure Boyd managed to wring from my body.
The high was nice while it lasted, my mind flattened like roadkill at the touch of his hand, his belt, his tongue on my skin—but now it’s over, and since I can’t very well live with his mouth attached to my pussy, I need to move on and get back to coping.
Chewing my gum, I hold it between my teeth and wrap it around the tip of my index finger, lost in thought. Lost in the sensations from hours before, Boyd’s harsh and demanding tone, the way he played me like a fucking instrument designed just for him.
I’ve never felt any of that before—the vulnerability that came with trusting him not to hurt me, the euphoric waves that erupted in my core when he forced me to relax.
To let go, completely.
It’s like this unspoken essence tethering me to him, one that makes me trust blindly and without question, just as I hope he trusts me, considering I seem to already know more about him than the average person.
More than my brother even knows.
Still, the longer I sit and stew, the quicker my insecurities come flooding back in, a massive tidal wave taking me under. I can’t concentrate on my iPad, switching from one app to the next before stuffing it between the seat and my leg and pulling my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them.
I watch Boyd work in silence, his lips curling around a joint as his tattooed hand moves the black computer mouse in different directions, concentration etched into his brows.
His jaw flexes as he inhales, his cheeks hollowing out, a muscle beneath the skulls inked on his neck jumping as he sucks smoke into his lungs. My stomach clenches in jealousy, though it’s hard to tell if it’s of the joint or of him.
Glancing around his office, I note the minimalistic vibes that seem to echo his home decor; aside from the chair I’m in and the desk, there’s a single wall of filing cabinets back by the bathroom, a table with his joint tin and a decanter of amber-colored alcohol, and a lonely black rug just large enough for the desk to sit on.
His master’s degree hangs on the wall, but there isn’t a single other shred of memorabilia, and I realize that other than the time he mentioned his sister, he’s really never talked about his life before he worked at Ivers International.
What do I really know about him?
What do I really know about anyone?
Shifting in my seat, I pull my knees tighter against me, my thoughts spiraling as I swing my gaze back around, meeting his. Hazel eyes bore into me, seeing straight into my soul and stealing the feeling from my body, the implication terrifying.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, pointing at me with the butt of his joint. “You’ve got that weird look on your face that says you’re about three seconds from launching yourself off the cliff of sanity. Do you need me to make you come again?”
Scrunching my face up, I roll my eyes. “I was just wondering how many girls you’ve been with.”
“Three.”
I blink, my head jerking back in surprise. “Three? That’s it?”
“Yep.” He licks the tip of one finger and pinches the end of the joint, setting it on the little glass tray next to his computer. The gesture makes my core clench, wanton even though it hasn’t been that long since he had me.
Boyd pushes back from the desk and walks over, perching on the arm of my chair.
“Is that surprising?”
“Yeah, kind of. I mean, look at you.”
He smirks. “What about me?”
“You’re two degrees short of being disgustingly perfect. It’s insulting, honestly.”
Threading his fingers through my hair, brushing some leftover dirt out of the strands, he shakes his head. “I am far from perfect, Fiona. Far from having it together. Don’t start idolizing me.”
I lean into his touch, letting his fingertips soothe the looping thoughts. “Is that why you’ve only had sex with three people?”
