Page 55 of Our Long Days
I’m a hot, horny mess. My fingers, toys, erotic novellas—they all leave me aching for more. Nothing sates me. My vagina knows exactly what will.Hussy.
May turned into June, and a week has passed since I dry humped Dex like a dog in heat. Not my finest moment but also one of the most mind-numbing orgasms.
Granted, he didn’t reject me, but hearing him call what we were doing a distraction cut deep. Disappointment and humiliation drove me to put a stop to whatever we were about to do next. It wouldn’t have been fair, not when my feelings continue to grow. It might sting now, but I’m proud of myself for protecting my heart and setting boundaries.
Since that evening, we’ve been two ships passing in the night. The summer camp construction is well underway, keeping us both distracted, which is ironic.
The porch swing sways as I kick off the floor and tuck myfeet underneath me. The deck of the A-frame is small, with just enough space for the swing and a side table. A citronella candle burns to keep the mosquitoes away, and the early evening sun streaks through the branches dancing in the wind. I could get used to the 9–5 life if this is how my working weeks end.
The buzz of a saw echoes from the workshop. It takes all my restraint not to walk in there to see what Dex’s doing. He’s not taking it easy since his attack, only allowing two days of recovery before he returned to work. I wanted to ask more about his condition. Do his other employees know? What are the triggers? Are there signs to look out for?
Dex is a Japanese puzzle box—smooth on the outside with no hints at how to get inside, the contents a mystery. I want to crack him open, but that would only complicate things.
Co-workers and friends. Nothing more.
I’m about to call it a night when the man himself materializes. His protective goggles sit on top of his head, thick work gloves tucked into the front pocket of his jeans. Wood shavings fall from his shirt as he brushes them away.
Today’s color is navy.
He squints in my direction, and when we lock eyes, his shoulders draw back. A large hand rises in greeting before he hollers, “Have dinner with me tonight.”
His deep laughter floats toward me as I point a finger at my chest.
“Yeah, you.” He smiles. “I’m making tacos. Come inside; it’s gonna rain soon.”
Well, shit. I can’t say no to tacos. This is good. A bit of normalcy. Friends having dinner together. I glance down at my outfit: a dusky pink romper, white tee, bare feet. Chancing it, I race across the gravel path separating our cabins.
He smirks. “Someone likes tacos.”
I thrust my hands on my hips. “Never come between a girl and her food.”
A large palm settles between my shoulder blades, guiding me inside. I’m a human torch under his touch, my body temperature rising dangerously high with each step. Inside the kitchen, he withdraws, giving me some reprieve.
“Sit,” he orders gruffly, pulling a dining chair out for me. “It won’t be long. The tortillas are just warming up.”
Same, tortillas. Same.
“Want something to drink?” he asks over my inner thoughts.
“Surprise me,” I reply, only because he’s quickly obliterated any rational response.
He nods then reaches into a cupboard for two glasses, filling them from a jug of iced tea. For the next few minutes, I watch this giant man mosey around the kitchen, making normal sized plates look miniature. He’s every bit rugged, from the dark hairs on his corded forearms down to his slightly grown out mustache. He dominates most rooms, but seeing him carrying out such domesticated, simple tasks is oddly endearing.
Every so often, his attention darts to the window above the sink, interrupting his fluid movements. He doesn’t react when the oven dings, and, needing something to do with this nervous energy, I jump out of my seat to retrieve the tray. He frowns when I slide the tortillas onto a plate and set them on the table.
“I didn’t hear it go off,” he mumbles.
“I’m happy to help.” I smile, not wanting to make a big deal out of it.
“Well, tonight is somewhat of a thank you. For the other week. Which means you’re supposed to relax and let me do all the work.” He jerks his head at the table. “Get your ass in the chair.”
“I’ve clocked out, you know? You can’t boss me around outside of working hours,” I volley, chin raised.
That earns me a scowl.
“I’ll boss you around whenever I feel like it.”
My dirty brain transports me back to that night, when he dragged and positioned me to his liking.
