Just standing there looking tall, dark, and delectable is enough for me to start climbing him like a tree, riding him like he was my favorite vibrating mat that I keep in the special armoire in my bedroom.
The way he looked at me, smirking, cocky, knowing exactly what he was doing to rile me up, somehow that only made him hotter, which is really just salt in the wound.
Does he have to be the sexiest man to walk into the Heightsanda fucking prick? He could at least have a hideous face to match that awful personality. But no, somehow every flaw on his stupid face makes him even more attractive.
The thought pisses me off and I don’t mean to take my frustrations out on my toys (well, I certainly took them out onmy collection until the wee hours of the morning), but as I’m cleaning the vibrating mat, the dildo, and the plug I used last night, I end up being violent in my movements.
Slapping the mat into the bowl of the sink, I scrub at it with the foaming toy cleanser and end up spraying my entire front with suds as I attack it, like it’s the mat’s fault I mistook my new chef’s thigh forit.
The saltiest part of that voice in my head says that the mat didn’t even feel that good now that I’ve had the thickest thigh God’s ever graced this earth with. Muscular, firm, and the way he clenched it right as I was getting close, to push me over the edge?
Fuck him.
No, I shouldn’t fuck him.Heshould get fucked. By a cactus, or…something else that isn’t me.
The suds splash in my eye.
A wordless scream rips through my throat as I stomp away from the sink and collect the rest of the toys (the ones that didn’t end up doing the trick) from the bedside table in my bedroom.
My collection might be a bit more extensive than your average small-town girl, but when you’re a year and a half from forty, completely out of prospects in your hometown, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
In my case, that’s an inordinate amount of silicone.
My libido is only getting stronger with time, and a certain asshole who won’t be named isn’t helping the frustration around here. I had to go through half a dozen toys before I got what I needed.
This can’t keep going this way, I’ll run out of space in my house.
Instead of the lonely woman eaten by her cats, I’ll be known as the woman who got buried alive in her own sex toys.
Having slept in far too late on my Sunday off after such a restless night, I don’t have time for a relaxing bath to calm myself back down. It’s already past noon, and I was due at Rory’s by then.
I make quick work of showering, not giving time to fantasies or drifting fingers across soapy skin—my little skank of a vagina needs to calm herself down after the trouble she got us in—and then spend a few extra minutes doing my four-step routine for my 3A curls.
Normally, I’d throw it up in a ponytail or a claw clip without bothering and get out of here, but today, I need the boost to my self-confidence.
Something that tells meLexi, you’re a fine bitch and you don’t need Wilder Amante to get you off.Something that’s louder than my kitty purring.
Frizzy hair ain’t it.
The fact that he’s still under my skin, almost a full week after that mishap in the walk-in, just means I need to remember I’m the one in charge here, not him. Of the restaurant, and my sexual pleasure. I don’t need him for either.
I deserve a trophy for the way I’ve managed to almost entirely avoid him this whole time, locking myself in my office, showing up as he’s leaving for the day, or working from home wherever I can get away with it.
If I have my way, I’ll never see him again.
The fourteen emails he’s sent me this week begging for a meeting are getting harder to dodge, but I’ll keep finding ways. All he needs to do is coordinate with Samuel and Charlie, make sure we have what we need to launch the menu, and not burn the food.
He doesn’t need me for that.
Once the restaurant is open, we’ll all be too busy to worry about things like sneaking in quickies in the walk-in, and life can go back to normal.
By the time I’m dressed, just a touch of minimal makeup (not much more than a swipe of eyeliner and a dot of lip stain on each cheek), I’m feeling better about myself already.
Even my sister won’t have shit to make fun of today, in these light, high-waisted jeans she bullied me into picking out, a red and white gingham crop shirt with ruffle sleeves, and the same white sneakers I wear every day.
The eldest Weiss sister isn’t looking half bad.
I might be running an hour late to the second annual summer kick-off party at my sister and Wyatt’s cottage, but it’s not a good enough reason to skip my weekly plant routine.
