Page 56 of The Opposite of Romance
“Good night, David.”
I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. I took the easy way out, giving him a plausible explanation. One that isn’t quite the truth. But the thing is, the hair doesn’t bother Liv’s physical comfort, it bothers her emotional one. She doesn’t like her long hair. I don’t think he would understand. And I’m done with making her pretend to be something she isn’t.
Chapter Twenty-One
Logan’s smileis flirtier than ever when he arrives the next morning. The corners of his mouth wrinkle with a smirk, his eyes emanating a biologically unexplainable spark.
“Hope you had a good weekend.” His gaze catches on me a second too long, and I realize I’m dressed only in a pair of loose-fitting shorts and an old, see-through t-shirt. I’m wearing a sports bralette underneath, but I fear it’s no match for my nipples that decide to awake.
“Sure. Yes. Yes.” I take way too long to add, “You?”
“Ah, since Saturday, it only went downhill.” He sticks his tongue between his teeth, fully distracting me.
“Oh, yes.” I let out an awkward chuckle, realizing he means our date on Saturday.It wasn’t a date.Well, you know.
He shakes his head with a smile, probably contemplating if I’m having a stroke, and heads to his temporary workstation in my backyard.
He was always flirty, and he was always hot, but after Saturday night, it’s harder to ignore it. That damn white tank top doesn’t help one bit. Especially when it gets wet with his sweat. The temperature is on the rise and the wood he carries around must be heavy, but why does it have to look so good?
My eyes barely connect to the screen of my computer, following his every step, like I’m bingeing my favorite Netflix show. When my phone alarm beeps, signaling my writing time is done, I realize I barely wrote anything today.
“Shit.”
I can’t afford to get behind schedule again. Abby will kill me. A pang of guilt hits my stomach as I shoot her a text, lying that everything’s on track. But it would be pointless for her to worry.
Sandy would understand. She knows me. She knows how I work. Some days, I’ll write ten thousand words. Others, barely a hundred. But Abby … Abby lives by the book. And gets super concerned when the execution differs from the pre-approved plan.
On my to-do list for tomorrow, I double the amount of words I need to write because I can’t keep lying to her.
By Thursday,my period is done. Goodbye cramps and bleeding and hello elevated estrogen levels of the follicular phase.
Usually, I’m a writing machine in my follicular phase. Not only a writing machine, I’m productive all around. But it’s also the phase where my horny levels rise. It was the time of month where David’s complete unawareness of me would hurt the most. Where I was most hoping for a kiss, a touch … or something more.
Since the divorce, it’s gotten ever worse. And I still haven’t gotten laid.
However, I’m determined to get those words out today. I start out strong, but when I get into the middle of a heated sex scene, and Logan wipes his forehead with the bottom of his black t-shirt, showing me his happy trail, the need gets unbearable.
Not wanting to risk him hearing or seeing me, I get upstairs to my room, lock the door and rub one out the old-fashioned way. It takes me just a few minutes to reach the coveted climax, and I’d rather not admit the thoughts that coursed my mind. They couldprobably be used as evidence in a court case of sexual harassment, though.
Not only does the guilt hit me as soon as I come, the relief is practically nonexistent.
I’ve become a master of self-inflicted orgasms, but they’ve lost their charm a few years ago. No, my flesh now craves a less knowing touch, one that it can’t predict since it’s connected to the same brain.
“Fuck,” I mumble, sighing out loudly, as my hands hit my sheets.
This was a waste of time.
The next day,the need inside me is even bigger, but I have a new plan today.
I start by doing a few breathing exercises while I drink my coffee. It’s the ones I learned in birthing classes, but it’s breathing, right? How different can it be?
Next up is the cold shower. It doesn’t do much good, but the plan goes on.
I close the curtains of my office, cutting my view of Logan. It’s something I should have done the first day he arrived, but it was too tempting to have him in the background as eye candy when the work got too tedious.
I chew my lip while starting on my manuscript, but my gaze still flicks at the now closed curtains a few times a minute. Finally, after maybe an hour, I find my rhythm and flow.
I’m on a roll, having already written over three thousand words, when the first strike of thunder cracks the air.
