Page 55 of Our Little Cliche
“Bogan…” Another mind-boggling term. “I thought I was keeping up with you for a second.”
“Yeah. Maybe Google that one,” she offers, taking another bite.
Bitter tomato tangs my tongue as I lick the ketchup off my finger and typewhat is aboganinto the search panel. “Bogan is an Australian and New Zealand term to construe an unrefined or unsophisticated person. The term is most commonly used to define a lower class person by their income (low, or on Government incentives, what Aussies callon the dole,ordole bludger), where they live, how they dress, or even how they speak.” I look back at her, frowning. “Well, you’re hardly unrefined, nor unsophisticated, Holly. Quite the opposite actually.”
I almost don’t hear the words due to her having a mouthful. “Thanks. It’s mostly my accent, I guess. But…” She finishes the last of her roll, fingering the leftover sauce and leaving nothing on her plate. “If you saw how I grew up compared to… well, this house, and you, then you’d probably agree with me.”
Does she think so little of herself?
“Hmm. I see. Well now you mention it…” I stare at the speckles of pastry in her hair. “Dobogansusually put crumbs in their hair?”
Holly panic picks at her hair with a nervous laugh, scratching the scalp, but achieving absolutely nothing. “You’re taking the piss?”
I shake my head, and contentment settles a spot in my chest watching her scuffle, so much so that my teeth are on full display in a smile. This feels so familiar. Like I’ve known her for years. I could spend the rest of my life repeating scenes like this with her. Silly little memories likethisare what last a lifetime. Things you take to your grave when you’re old and gray.
It’s here and now that I realize this woman means so much more to me than I ever anticipated.
She is my heroine.
I just need to find a way to make her mine without either of us losing our jobs.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
HOLLY
I swearI am biologically wired to make an utter fool out of myself, ironically in front of the hottest man on earth, and on multiple occasions too, by the way. I mean, sausage roll crumbs all over my head,really?
Remarkably, Cyrus hasn’t a single care factor that I am this way: a klutz. His wry grin remains split across his cheeks, which turns into a full on belly laugh that’s as contagious as Covid-19. I follow suit, holding a handful of the pastry flakes in my hand as I fit into laughter. I haven’t laughed like this since… well, years.
When we finally catch our breath, he finishes his wine and stands. The image of those gray sweatpants makes my belly heat.Crap. I hurriedly lookanywherebut his junk. Apparently the red and white Christmas stocking with aChanging over the fireplace mantel issointeresting according to my brain. Spoiler alert, it’s not, but it’s better than looking at him like he’s a crème brûlée that I want to slurp up in one go.
All in.
Deep. In my throat.
And the other hole… down there.
Oh my god, what is wrong with me?
I have never had such dirty thoughts in my life until I laid eyes on Cyrus. I’m not the most sexually experienced gal out there. I mean, I’ve done dirty stuff before—if you count a one night stand as dirty, or masturbating with hidden toys behind Adam’s back. But as for the actual sex part, missionary is what I’m familiar with, since I’m probably too heavy to do anything else. Adam never explored anything with me. I gave up asking.
I don’t understand how I was in love with a man for so many years, and never had sex dreams over him, but a million flooded my brain the second I met Cyrus. I can’t stop picturing us together like what happens in movies when they break through the front door, undressing each other and knocking everything off the walls and tables as their tongues annihilate one another. Then when they have sex, it’s on every surface in the whole apartment. From every angle possible. For hours, and hours. And it’s the best they’ve ever had.
But you can’t do that.
I squirm as the heat continues to flood between my thighs, getting the feeling that it’s only going to get worse. Cyrus says something about a plate, but I’m too far gone in my head to hear it. I imagine him slowly teasing the strap of my bra down my shoulder, then snapping the back clips with one hand. You know, like the movies, and stuff. I picture the way he would grab my hips, where his thumbs dig into the apex of my waist with need, kissing me from under my ear to the tips of my toes.
Oh.
I think of all the ways he mightfuckthe absolute sense out of me… in my sleep. But that’s just a fantasy, only meant for books and my dreams… people don’t do that in real life, right?
Cyrus speaks yet again, and I shake my head, pulling myself from my heated thoughts, aware that he’s taking my empty plate. “Ah, she’s back. Thought I lost you for a second.” Tell me why this man spins back around as he leisurely scoots to thekitchen, walks backwards, and says, “Must be the wine” then winks at me, and in one swift moment swings on his feet to continue walking.
Ugh. He’s right—itisthe red wine.
I squeeze my thighs together to stop the build up of arousal, but it does nothing. What do I say back to that? “I’m just… tired, that’s all.” My nose grew ten inches like Pinocchio with that lie.
I have absolutely no faith left in myself for the night ahead. Zero trust in my limbs that I possess the self control to not touch him again. Maybe I could make a run for it? Hide in my room, lock the door and rub one out, hope to the gods that my need for him disappears by the morning.
