Page 9 of King of Rhythm
That’s enough to make me mentally flip him the bird whenever I see him, but it’s him getting the promotion that I wanted that was the final slap in the face and firmly cemented my dislike of him five months ago.
Except nobody knows I wanted the promotion because I never spoke up or went around currying favors like Trevor did. I had hoped the promotion would be based solely on the merits of hard work and dedication to the company.
That experience educated me fast in the ways the real world works and clued me in to how unfair life is, something I should have remembered from high school. I thought college was how the grown-up world works. What a laugh.
And now ass-kissing, jerk face Trevor is getting yet another promotion while I’m still in the same position I’ve held since I started working there two years ago.
I’m sure my face looks like I took a bite from a lemon because Sarah starts laughing. “Oh, you want to keep your new guy to yourself for a while? Fair enough. But don’t hide him away forever.”
“I won’t,” I say, going along with her misunderstanding. And why not? I never told her about the Trevor thing, and she didn’t know about my desire for the promotion either.
Dragging a fry though a puddle of ketchup, a bit of guilt nags at me. How good of a friend am I if I’m not sharing these things with her?
Those doubts continue to swirl in my head even as I set the bags of takeout on the counter and tidy up my apartment waiting for Bryce to arrive. I’m generally a neat person, so I don’t have a lot to clean, which means I can spend a tad longer than I normally would on my appearance.
I unbraid my hair, and shake my head, liking how the softer waves give my normally straight hair some much needed body.Tinted moisturizer, lip gloss, and mascara is the extent of my workday makeup, but I feel the need to play up my eyes more. They’re my best feature and why not accentuate them?
Gotta work with what we have is something Helen, my least favorite aunt was constantly imparting to me during my awkward teen years. And maybe she’s correct. I change out of my work clothes into a flattering pair of black slacks that cling to my long legs and rounded hips and a well-loved lavender shirt that gives the illusion of an hourglass figure when, in reality, I’m more bottom-heavy.
The way Bryce’s dark eyes light up when I open the door tells me that perhaps I should have listened to more of Aunt Helen’s not always welcomed advice.
“Avery,” he breathes, stepping into my space.
Thankfully, taking things slow doesn’t seem to include not kissing, as his warm mouth envelops mine and his tongue teasingly sweeps between my parted lips. Pressing my body to his, I thrill at how firm he is while the taste of him sends my pulse pounding. The rising dig of his erection into my pussy leaves me shuddering, and it’s tempting to say to hell with slow and just drag him into my bedroom.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BRYCE
My job teaching and watching the love of music reach children is a pure joy. A loud, unharmonious crashing joy, but something I love. Today was no different yet I wasn’t fully there as thoughts of Avery filled my mind all day and now, she’s standing before me, a vision in sleek black pants and a purple shirt that teases at the curves that lay beneath her clothing.
The bouquet of long-stemmed pale pink roses in my right hand is forgotten, as are my intentions of not rushing things, when her eyes lock on mine. I’m helpless to everything but the crushing need to have her in my arms.
Once I’m holding her, her soft lips parting beneath the hungry pressure of my mouth, rational thoughts cease, and I just feel. The softness of her body against mine, the light floral scent of her that I draw deeply into my lungs, and mostly just the rightness of having her here with me.
Stroking my tongue along hers, exploring the hot recesses of her mouth, my cock fills to straining hardness against the soft mound of her pussy and it’s so easy to imagine thrusting up into her silken depths. Far too easy as I feel the slippery heat of pre-cum welling out and coating the head of my dick. My balls pull up tight in their sac and that brings me back to reality.
Coming in my pants isn’t something I’m eager to do, and I truly want to give time for our relationship to grow before we have sex. Years ago, I would have rushed, but I’m older andwiser now and there are parts of my life I have to share with Avery so she can decide whether to continue with this or not.
With a sigh, I end the kiss.
Avery’s tiny mew of disappointment pulls at me strongly and unexpectedly leaves me feeling happy that she wants me as badly as I do her.
My eyes drop to the slightly battered bouquet still clutched in my hand, and I fluff up the baby’s breaths before extending the flowers to her.
Back in my twenties, I would order dozens of flowers delivered to girlfriends and one-night stands. It was just something to do. These I went to the florist and picked out myself and the smile of delight that breaks out on Avery’s face as she accepts them warms me in ways I never knew I could be touched.
I’ve done a lot of things wrong over the years, but I think I’m finally getting things right.
Leading me into the apartment, Avery hurries to the kitchen and pulls out a vase to put the roses in. As she arranges them, I glance around at her place.
Her apartment is the end unit of a squat, dirty brown building across the street from other, equally ugly, apartment buildings. It’s small inside, but everything is clean and orderly. Having talked with Avery for a while, I didn’t expect anything less. A place for everything and everything in its place is the type of woman Avery is. I’m more an organized chaos embracer, hence the need for Mrs. Davis and also for her to stay out of my office, where I let my creative nature explode.
“Thank you so much for the flowers. I’ve never gotten flowers before. Well, other than from my parents and brother.” Her blue eyes flare wide and a stain of pink, the same shade as the roses, blooms on her cheeks.
I cannot believe her past boyfriends never gave her flowers. I’m sorry I was the first, only because she deserves to receive them daily, yet I can’t help a bit of possessive pride at being the one to forever now hold that distinction in her memories.
She rushes on, “And sorry, dinner is takeout. I’m not much of a cook.” She gets plates out of her cabinet and opens the white Styrofoam boxes on the counter, their spicy aromas filling my nose and warring with the dainty floral scent of the roses.
