Page 50 of Howl You Doin?
Think, fucker.
“Right. I am sorry.” My sock-covered feet touch the worn wooden floors as I snatch up my suit jacket from the nearby chair. I sweep my shoes into my arms.
I glance around the room and frown at how sparse and empty it is. Realization dawns as I recall her pained expression any time the bonus came up in conversation, making me feel like a complete and utter ass. This is why she would never leave any time we would argue, no matter how apparent I made it that I wanted her gone. Idiot. Stupid fool!
I should never have threatened her bonus; she so obviously needs it. It doesn’t look like a woman has been living here for three months in the slightest and the place is almost bare.
“I will make it up to you,” I mutter, unsure if she’ll hear or even understand what I mean.
A frown puckers her brow, and guilt makes my stomach dip.
I make a grab for my jacket to put it on, avoiding her gaze as shame flushes the back of my neck. Suddenly the room feels too small, and I need to escape.
“Don’t you think we should talk about all this?” she asks, gesturing with a wave of her hand.
I try and fail to quickly come up with any excuse for my actions with her up until now. My breath is choppy when I inhale.
I stride back to the bed, ignoring how her gaze widens as I lean in to kiss her forehead.
“I have to run, but I will find you later and try to explain,” I say, avoiding the conversation because I don’t have a proper answer.
I mentally add ordering her some new clothes to my growing list of things I can do to ensure she has an easier stay here at the hotel.
“Umm, okay.” Her voice wavers, but she doesn’t seem overly upset, just mildly confused.
“Don’t worry, we will have plenty of time to talk tonight.” I hastily exit the door, knowing I won’t be able to keep my hands from her if I stay. I can’t think with her near, but I, apparently, can’t be too far either.
I’m absolutely fucked.
Whitley Whitt
I breathe in deep,trying to relax my stiff shoulders while resting a hip against the kitchen counter, and blow out a harsh breath. Irub at the tightness in my shoulder with one hand and twist my neck, pulling at the heavy white fabric of my uniform there.
“So what if I cuddled with my boss, right?” I mutter to the empty kitchen, wishing I had someone sane to talk to because, apparently, I’m severely attracted to walking red flags.
Should I put my two index fingers up above my ears and start bellowing like a bull?
It usually takes me an hour before my brain shuts off to even allow sleep.
With Connor, I just drifted off without issue, likepoof, and off to freaking dream land. I haven’t been able to do that for years, and last night was the best sleep I’ve had in ages. My mouth goes dry at how he looked this morning, his hair all mussed and cute. It made me want to run my fingers through it, but the mixed signals from him are driving me nuts.
I’m in way over my head, and I have no idea what is happening. I’m now having sleepovers with my asshole—somewhat—boss.
Throwing my hands up because the empty kitchen never answered me, I move to make coffee by filling the pot at the sink. I take another deep, calming breath. It’s fine.
I just need to keep my shit together long enough to ask him a few questions, and I have several. What was he doing in my bathroom the other day? Why did he have my vibrator? Why was his head between my thighs out in the garden? And what are we doing? I have no idea how to react to him making me orgasm and then asking for sleepovers with cuddles.
It was sonicewaking up in his arms, almost too nice.
Trevor and I never really cuddled because he didn’t like to be touched while he slept.
It took about a year after my divorce to realize that while me and Trevor were the best of friends, there was no passion between us, and my agreeing to marry him was out of fear oflosing him and myself. Fear of moving off into the unknown kept me there, safe in the town I grew up in, and that’s also why I said “yes” when he asked me to marry him.
Cuddling Connor is something else altogether, and I’m not even sure wearefriends. I’m pretty sure friends don’t wake up with a friend’s dick pressed against their ass cheeks. Thank god I woke up before I did something absolutely shameless, like trying to ride it in my sleep.
The idea of seeing him later sends equal waves of anticipation and apprehension through me, but he usually doesn’t pop into the kitchen until after lunch. It gives me some time to think alone.
I just hope that when I do see him, he will be the Connor I’m getting to know, and not “O’Doyle rules.”
