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No worries.
And then add a smiley face before deleting it promptly.
It’s not lost on me how I yielded to him last night. I mean, I do know it was all about my pleasure not his, but still, the sass I like to subject him to flew off into the sunset about the same time my panties came off, and even though he didn’t fuck me, I felt the need to submit to him.
I wanted to.
I wanted to experience that kind of pleasure again. It’s not every man that makes you want to submit. If they’re aggressive or dishonorable or abusive or if you really feel unsafe and disconnected, no way in hell do you want that.
Or at least, I don’t.
But with him, I felt turned on and safe.
And while I can handle submitting in bed, that won’t be trickling into any other part of our dynamic. I’ll be giving him the same attitude I did before, talented tongue or not.
I sigh out, grabbing a glass of water and drinking half of it down to sober up a bit. I’m psychoanalyzing a relationship which I know won’t even exist after I leave the island.
I need to get a hold of myself and pronto, especially seeing as he’s had all day to work and the fact that he’s going to be late now wouldn’t suggest that I’m that much of a priority for him.
Hell, for all I know, he had another woman with him today. They certainly stare enough at him around here. Frankly, I’m amazed his head even fits through doorways at this point in his life.
I go to the toilet, brush my teeth again, check my make-up and tie my hair up in a bun, glancing down at my cleavage to reassure myself it’s not indecent.
Marilla would be telling me I look like a goddess about now, but the beautiful words she has spoken to me for the last seven years since we met volunteering at that dog shelter in Noma barely drown out the words my biological mother began to speak to me after I turned ten and began to develop.
Whorewas a common one.
Slut,another.
I had a crush on a boy called Stuart when I was fourteen—stupid, innocent stuff involving holding hands and kissing with tongues for the first time. I made the mistake of writingI heart Stuarton a piece of paper that she saw which led to an hour-long tirade involving her screaming at me that I was a slut.
If only she knew what the other girls at my school were doing, saying and thinking, way earlier than me, for the most part.
Only I doubt she’d have cared. I am the source of her eternal jealousy, rage and irritation, with nothing I’ve ever done being acceptable to her, and even now that I’ve gone no contact because I couldn’t take the pain anymore, I still hear her words in my head.
I know when I tell Orpha and Marilla about my balcony adventures, they’ll be in fits of hysterics. So will Harry, Marilla’s brother who lives with them on their little farm near Loch Fyne in Scotland where Marilla is from.
But if my biological mother ever found out about it, she’d snarl every name under the sun at me—the kind of names my ex now calls me. Sometimes I wonder if they weren’t cut from the same cloth as the way they talk to me is so similar…
I just want one day to wake up and not hear the words of evil or sick people in my head.
I flutter about the apartment for a few minutes, heading to the fridge, to the mirror, fiddling nervously with my phone and then drawing the thick translucent curtains across the balcony doors just to have something to do with my anxiety-filled body.
Only this is a different type of anxiety than the one I’ve had of late. It’s not one filled with dread and this fear of endless blackness, this fear that I’ll never get completely free of him.
It’s one that makes my feet lift off the ground, that makes little explosions of light set off in my body, that makes my fingers yearn to touch him and my tongue to taste his body…
The darkness only seeps in when I think of the end of our vacation and the thud back down to reality; the reality of the absence of him.
“I’ve heard of holiday romances addling your brain, but this is ridiculous,” I mutter under my breath as the last of the sunlight dissipates bathing the room in a mix of warm shadows.
The neon light of my phone tells me it’s getting close to seven o’clock, and frankly, if he hadn’t given me an orgasm so mind-blowing last night that he’s probably ruined every battery-operated boyfriend known to womankind for me, I’d be getting ready to chew him out and slam the door in his face for sheer rudeness.
If he even turns up, that is.
Maybe he decided last night was enough for him.
As I glance at the clock on the wall and see that he’s over twenty minutes late, the ire of indignation has me grappling for my phone as I begin to type with shaky hands.
