Page 24 of Swim To Me

My scalp prickles from the sharp tug of my fingers, but the slight pain only trickles down into my nipples, grazing against the satin material of my bra.

I only barely manage to hold back a whimper.

With deft fingertips, I raise my mass of hair away from my neck. Heat pools in my lower stomach, skin becoming achy and taught.

Christ, have they turned the thermostat up to roasting in here or something?

My breath is shaky as I exhale, mouth dry, reaching for my-probably-now-cold cup of tea.

I’m not naive. I know what’s fucking happening to me.

After just one chance encounter, I’m attracted to him. To Grey.

And this? This is simply a physical reaction to those pesky feelings. No, not feelings – plural. Feeling – singular.

Attraction.

Want.

Desire.

That’s all.

It’s my baser instinct lashing out, maybe I’m, I don’t know, ovulating or something?

Milky tea coats my tastebuds, I leave a bright pink lipstick residue upon the reusable cup, and my hands squabble to grab my planner sitting beside the keyboard.

Focus, Delilah.

Mind back in the game. Eyes back on the prize.

Repositioning my grip on my pen, I jot down next week’s video call and then, out of simple curiosity, check to see if I am ovulating.

Nope.

Fuck.

Never mind.

Thepingof an incoming email distracts me enough to move my attention back to work for the day.

Enough fucking daydreaming, Delilah.

Hovering the mouse, I click on the email icon, eyes flicking up towards the time sitting in the top, right hand side of the screen.

4:55 PM. Almost time.

Skimming the paragraph in front of me, I quickly type out a reply, logging out of my computer for the day just before the clock can strike five.

My stomach rumbles as I stand, brushing down my pencil skirt and wishing my blood would stop running so bloody warm.

From beneath my desk, I grab my monogrammed handbag, sliding my planner, pen, phone, and bundles of paper manuscripts into the confines. I loop the bag over my shoulder, picking up my other, much smaller bag too, unlocking the door and heading towards the exit.

At this time of day, during the week especially, central London is swarming with bodies. The heat only seems to make it worse; more people come out in droves; walking, hailing taxis, and riding the underground, to enjoy a drink in the pub or in the park.

Personally, I wish the little smattering of rain we’d gotten on Sunday had stayed for a while longer.

The click of my heels is lost in the hum of London, even as I descend the concrete stairs of Bond Street underground station, happy to be moving. I find it keeps my thoughts at bay.

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