Page 25 of Stirred Up

“Hey,” I offer a silly grin, “aren’t you gonna be late for work?”

“Aren’t you?” His playful mood returns, lip curling up on one side with his smug retort.

“Not going in today. Gonna veg with some girly flicks, tissues, and rocky road.”

Pulling me back in with an arm around my shoulder, he nuzzles his nose at my temple. It’s a completely innocent and normal action, one he’s done a million times, one that soothes away my apprehension. “Sounds perfect. I’m in.”

So we both call in to work and for the rest of the day and reenact a scene much like the time Eric Bishop calledme the night before the 9th grade formal and explained that he asked someone else before me and forgot, dumping me flat.

We wrap up in a big, comfy blanket and watch movies purposely designed to make me cry, while Brady laughs and hands me more tissues.

But this time, it’s not the same Brady who joins me. I’m not surewhichversion it is—friend Brady attractive and sweet when he wants to be, ordreamBrady. Nor am I sure how I feel about the answer…or which one I’m rooting for.

Chapter 9

The next five days are perhaps the longest, most lackluster that I’ve ever endured. Brady’s at a medical convention in California and besides a “landed safely” text, there hasn’t been a word from him. Not that we usually chat a lot while he’s away, but still, I notice the absence this time more than I’d like to admit.

Dylan’s wrapped up in his new business, which I’m delighted by. I wouldn’t dream of interrupting his newly formed work ethic, but it’s another void.

And even Roscoe, the bloodhound who’d become the “Old man of the clinic,” went to doggie Heaven this week.

On the afternoon of day two, it finally dawns on me—Idon’t have very many friends. None I’m eager to call over anyway, mostly just colleagues at the clinic. But really, aside from Brady and Dyl, I’m damn near the hermit cat lady.

I snatched up the book I’d yet to make it past the first chapter of and skimmed through a few words before realizing readings only fun if youwantto do it, not because you’re a loser with nothing else to occupy your time.

Annoyed that I had no life outside of work and the two knuckleheads, I tossed the thick paperback aside and grabbed my laptop. Scrolling through days’ worth of emails, I was lead straight into the world of online shopping.

Amazing really. There is next to nothing you can’t buy over the internet.

After a brief shopping spree and nearly maxing out my Amex with the gazillion dollars extra for overnight delivery, my toy box arrived in a discreet, unmarked package the next morning. Marking the “cherry popping” occasion into the ownership of “equipment,” I’d gotten a variety. Red, blue, purple, innie, outie, both—you name it, I bought it.

So night three was the best I’d experienced in a while.I learned my love lies with the blue outie flicker, and I finally got some full-fledged, definite crescendo, relief.

Day four and five consisted of nothing but work, then straight home for some Addison and “new friend” time.

Thank fuck Brady gets home tonight and I’m picking him up from the airport or I literally might cause permanent numbness to my hot spot. I could go again right now. As horny as I was before purchasing my corded companion, it’s only been feeding the beast, not fully satisfying it.

All week I’ve done nothing but think of Dr. Reynolds; images of mussed chestnut hair, vibrant eyes, and that smile. Six feet of hard, masculine body with husky, baritone instructions, joined by an electrifying touch on constant mental reel.

While the physical release has been nirvana, it hasn’t filled a deeper, emotional and mental desire. I need the weight of a man on top of me, hard and pulsing inside me as he commands my body as his own.

Once again I’ve lost myself in the vision of just that, head fallen back, eyes closed and panties soaked when a loud bang on the hood of my car startles me.

My head rapidly flies up, wildly blinking eyes meeting familiar green ones through the windshield.

Brady’s home.

My stomach somersaults, reminding me of that whole muddled head trip I’ve got going on. With a confused, overwhelmed sigh, I hit the door lock then reach beneath my seat and pop the trunk. It’d of course be nicer of me to jump out and greet my oldest friend with a “welcome back” hug, but I honestly don’t trust my quivering legs to hold my weight at the moment.

Just as well; he’s sitting in the passenger seat smiling at me by the time I finish the thought.

“Mocifus.” He leans over and engulfs me in a tight hug and lands a kiss at my temple. “Boy, did I miss you. Thanks for picking me up.”

“You smell like you.”What in the name of hell, Addison? Think before you mumble, Jesus!I’m so out of sorts these days, I simply can’t be trusted to speak, ever.

He chuckles and quirks a brow, thrown off, like myself, by my crazy. “Thank you? I’m sorry? No clue on this one, babe.”

Babe? Babe is new...probably residual, or actually noteven being said. First my speech, now my hearing.

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