Page 47 of The Wrong Brother

Love:It was. Thank you for that. I feel spoiled

Me:Do you have a lot of sessions today?

Love:5 but they’re all over here

Me:I should be home a little after 5 xx

It doesn’t hit me until lunchtime how domestic that whole exchange was. It felt very natural to me, I wasn’t trying to make it that way, but now I’m worried about what Rafferty may be thinking. Or overthinking. I hope I didn’t freak him out. He’s been approaching everything so cautiously and I don’t want to rush him. Adding to the worry is my planned errand during lunch. When I made my plan, I wasn’t concerned about coming on too strong. I don’t like to quit, though, and it is already in my planner—so basically carved in stone. Instead of eating, I run over to the big Ala Moana shopping center. I’m not on the hunt for sexy lingerie, per se. I mean, maybe one sexy thing would be nice. But that might be too much too soon. I’ll have to think about it. That’s likely an unnecessary amount of pressure for this lunch hour.

My plan is to get better pajamas. I’ve never had to consider what my sleeping things look like. Oversized t-shirts don’t feel particularly nice sleeping next to Rafferty. I feel a little silly admitting it to myself but I want him to think I’m pretty. But I also want to be comfortable. I find some nice, light camisoles with thin straps and soft lace. They won’t be too hot to sleep in. That’s a plus. They have a line of matching panties in different styles. I’ve never given much thought to my panties either, truthfully. I have that one pair of lace ones and everything else is mildly embarrassing. Who was looking at them anyway? Now though? I want them to be looked at.

I look through the styles critically. I’m sure Mina would already be shuffling impatiently, wanting me to hurry up. I don’t want to be rushed and make a mistake Rafferty likes my pear shape. I narrow on a cut that shows a little cheek and cuts high on the hip. I pick out some to match the camisoles I selected, plus some more to replace my older, headed-for-the-trash pairs. Then, because I’m here and I’ve used my time efficiently, I browse the real deal lingerie. There are so many options. I don’t know what feels like me and what would simply say I’m trying too hard. I walk slowly, running my fingers over the lace, sliding the silky ribbons through my fingers. Looking is fun but I can’t decide. Maybe that could be a fun couple activity, later. I pay for what I’ve already selected and head back to the office. On a whim, I snap a picture with a little peek inside the bag and send it to Rafferty.

Love:I’m with a client Kitty Cat!

Love:Now I’m going to have to work to focus instead of imagining how those look on you

Love:How many hours until you can show me in person??

Me:too many

Because playing these games with him is so much fun, I decide to take it one step further. I select a pretty pair and put them in my purse, leaving the bag in my car. Before I head to my office I stop in the bathroom and change. I inspect them in the mirror, feeling pleased with my purchase. These make my ass look good! I snap a photo in the mirror, my skirt lifted up, hip cocked, cheeks on display. I send it quickly before I chicken out.

Me:do you like?

Waiting for his reply is its own kind of sweet torture. I go back to my office and do all the minor tasks needed to settle in for my afternoon. I’m sitting at my desk, scrolling through my schedule, when I hear the alert.

Love:holy fucking maiden of Laka!

Love:how am I supposed to get anything but jerking off accomplished?

Me:No sir. I’m the only one that gets to touch that cock today

Love:I’m so fucking hard, this is not fair

Me:see you at home xx

I’m smiling to myself, my body tingling with anticipation when my office door opens and the ultimate mood killer, Connor, walks in.

29

rafferty

Who is this sex kitten and what has she done with quiet, ladylike, unassuming Catherine? The older dude I’ve been helping to rehab now that he’s post-physical therapy after hip surgery thought it was hilarious. I didn’t show him the photo, obviously, but my sudden discomfort was pretty fucking noticeable. He was laughing so hard I thought he was going to choke when I admitted that my girl sent me an unexpected dirty photo. I spent my day doing mental gymnastics to avoid walking around with my cock standing at attention and obsessing over whether or not Catherine is actually, in fact, my girl. She is, right? This all feels like more than a fake relationship. I can either stop worrying and trust she likes me and wants me as I am, or I can ask her straight out and know for sure. No use pretending I’m brave enough for the latter and it’s going to be a challenge allowing myself to do former. I’m enjoying every moment of this current phase and I’m not going to let myself miss out on any of it because of worry.

I don’t know what the plan is tonight but Catherine mentioned seeing me after work more than once. I’m done before she is and my work has to be less stressful. It makes sense, to me, that I should have things ready for her when she gets home. It’s an easy way to show her I care. I shower off the day’s sweat and pull on a pair of shorts. I could get dressed but Catherine seems to like it when I’m not. And I like doing what she likes. I throw together a quick stir-fry and set the table before I turn on my love song playlist. It should surprise exactly no one that I have a playlist solely for love songs. I also have one of mopey shit that suits me when I’m feeling that way. I am who I am.

I’m dishing everything up when I hear the door opening. I’m expecting a warm smile, something to indicate the level of anticipation I’ve been nursing all day, maybe some of her unexpected flirty fire. That’s not what I get. At all. Catherine drops everything on the floor, chewing on her lip as if she’s trying to hold her emotions in. She looks at the table, set with food ready to eat, then at me, and she bursts into tears. I hurry around the table, pulling her against me and wrapping my arms around her.

“Baby, what happened?” Her hands are shaking against my back and she’s crying quietly into my chest. “Here,” I direct us towards the couch, “let’s sit.”

“The food will get cold!” she wails against me.

“I can reheat it. No big deal. It’s just food. Tell me what you need.” I pull her down into my lap, cradling her close. It takes a few minutes before the tears slow and she reaches for a tissue.

“Can I have some Kiss Therapy, please?”

“Kiss Therapy?”Is this an actual thing I’ve never heard of before?

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