Page 46 of Our Little Cliche
My mind trails off in an enraged, panicked frenzy. What if Quinn isn’t even real? What if Cyrus made him up to hire all of these women while his wife is out of town or something to sleep with them, get his fill then fire them and go on to the next?
Am I part of the pattern?
Am I… a mistress?
Unease makes a home inside my gut. I can’t believe I kissed a married manwhore. I mean, I don’t know that heismarried per se. But nonetheless I’m going to find out, because ifI’mthe person at the other end of the stick, and his wife feels how I did when I found out about Adam, then I’ll scream!
Dizzyness finally catches up with me. I’ve been under the blanket for too long so I peek for some air. Thankfully, without sight of Mr. Cheater in my vision. Prying myself away from the bed, I cloak my naked body with the blanket to investigate what he’s left.
I suppose a nice, hot cup of tea might make me feel a little better. Maybe slightly less…emotional. I’d like to say that it’s because I’m due for my period, but “Aunty Flow” isn’t to blame for my attitude—I haven’t had one of those dreadful things in years, thanks to the little plastic rod in my arm.
A serving tray with a teapot of English Breakfast and an array of breakfast foods await me. Saliva pools under my tongue, how had I not smelt this before? I don’t hesitate, digging straight into the meal before me: eggs sunny side up, crunchy rashersof bacon, buttered toast, grilled tomato from his indoor garden with fresh chives garnishing the top, two breakfast sausages and sauteed mushrooms.
“Mmm,” I groan, swallowing my first big bite. I haven’t had a good old Aussie breakfast since?—
A sigh depletes past my greasy lips.
I miss homesoincredibly much.
Hours pass by reading some historical romance book I had taken from the corner shelf beside the bed. The story started out with the backstory of a sweet servant maid that comes to work for a wealthy Duke in an old Irish country town, taking place during the late 1800’s. It was all sunshine and rainbows before she fell in love with him, and he her. But the one night stand of love and ecstasy causes a debacle, having her shipped out and deported after whispers were spread around the palace. It was utterly gut wrenching, gripping, and as I knew it—cliché.
“See? Itneverworks,” I deject, slamming the book closed in frustration and tossing it across the bed. Sadly, I relate too much to this stupid book. But my story isn’t fictional. “Pfft.”
If I could somehow alter the pages of my own life I would.
My misery doesn’t last long though, the sensation of my fingers circling my clit to make me feel better about myself—again—seems to help. Every climax I’ve had since I met Cyrus has intensified, because the more I think of him, the more I want to befuckedlike the girl in Cyrus’s book…
By Cyrus.
If merely thinking of him makes me feel this good, imagine what actually doing it would feel like?
I imagine it: Cyrus breaking into the room I’m in, climbing into my bed while I sleep and taking to my wet core with his tongue, and then his cock, shoving into me with everything he’s got.
Fuck.
Some kind of chemical inside me reacts, my orgasm exploding through my body. My skin sears with chilling goosebumps, yet somehow burns hot. Another orgasm lingers, and it doesn’t take long to coax it through, pressing a little firmer on the swollen bud, rotating circles until oblivion.
When my pulse returns to normal, I wipe the sweat from my forehead and sit up in bed, pushing my back against the headboard and scratch at the plaited mane that is my hair, contemplating a shower.
“Stupid love stories,” I scoff at the cover of the book: a gorgeous, wealthy-looking man locking tongues with a beautiful young woman who has a smear of dirt, messy hair and peasant clothes. I relate too much to Edith for my own liking. A maid, falling in love with a man she absolutely should not, and then getting deported back to the country she came from because she broke the rules and fooled around with him.
I’m Edith in this scenario. I’m the one who’s going to deport myself back to Australia because I kissed someone else’s husband, or because I’m going to lose my job by kissing my boss.
I desperately need a shower, it’s where I do my best thinking, and we all know I need the clarity. I flick the light switch to the bathroom to check if the power has come back on. When the room illuminates I smile, then turn on the shower tap, praying to whatever god exists that the pipes are defrosted enough to negotiate water unlike last time.
I need more than just a scalding shower.
I need to make a deal with the devil. A deal to forget my stupid… hot… irritable… dreamy boss exists.
“Ugh. I hate this.”
If I hate this so much, why did kissing him feel so… right?
While waiting for the water to flow, I consider making an oath to never talk toMr. Multiple Mistress’ Man Whoreagain, and when I sign that oath I should go ahead and write a letter tomy future self, making sure she isn’t still talking to her boss—a married man, or worse, isn’t all the way in love with him.
And yes, that is how much faith I have in myself, to have to sign an oath.
Zero.
