Zander
Monday evening, two days after Adelaide left Beaver Creek out of pure frustration, we work side by side at my sad, grey desk. Lucy lies at our feet, oblivious to the shitstorm of the outside world. Not for the first time in my life, I kind of wish I was her. Being the anxiety dog for the guy who’s made a lot of mistakes seems like a much better deal than being the guy who made them.
My fingers pause over my keyboard. My thoughts keep derailing off the train tracks. I stare at Addie’s profile. Her brows are furrowed behind her adorable glasses as she smashes the backspace button. I accidentally let out a snicker.
“What?” She turns my way. “Why’re you staring at me?”
“I wasn’t expecting to get caught,” I admit. Her lips quirk. She takes off her glasses and digs her palms into her eyes. “I can’t think.”
“Well, that’s probably the most relatable thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“I saw that keyboard slam.”
“Whyare the words not coming?”
I groan. “Probably the same reason they aren’t for me, combined with you being in my sad grey apartment.”
“Your apartment isn’t that sad,” she says reluctantly.
“Not with you in it.”
“Flattery will not finish this book for me.”
“Mmm, no, it won’t.” I rove my eyes over her body, cloaked in another one of my shirts. She came here with only the kilt and sleeveless blouse for an outfit. A steady diet of my boring shirts are her only option. “Maybe I have another idea.”
I pull my chair out and lower myself to the floor. Lucy hops up, huffs, and scurries away to her dog bed.
“You’ve displaced your dog.”
“My dog is positively sick of us,” I say, shifting underneath the table and over to her chair.
“She isn’t the only one,” Addie mutters.
Her dad has called at least twenty times since she left. I respect it, but I also know he’s a small part in a larger group of people against me. I rest my head against her knee and attempt to recentre myself. Addie runs a hand through my hair, massaging my scalp.
“What’s the plan, Mr. Browning?” she asks.
I take her hand and place it between her legs. Another benefit of her leaving with only the clothes on her back: no extra underwear. “This.”
“Oh.” She gasps. I swap her hand with mine. “I should have expected that. Words, not coming. Me, definitely.”
“That’s the goal,” I say, bunching up the shirt so I get a full view of that pretty pussy. “Though, I did think it would be fun to do both. Let me have my way with you down here and you can keep writing up there.”
She laughs like I can’t be serious. I grab the backs of her thighs and scoot her lower, spread her legs wide just for me.
“See how long you can keep writing for.”
“You know my brain turns to mush the second you touch me.”
“Which is why I’m offering you this challenge. I know how much you like those, too.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then, “You suck.” I hear her pick up her glasses and resume typing. “Proceed.”
I smirk. There are so many things I want to do to her. I start slow, running my hands over every square inch of visible skin. Goosebumps rise on her thighs. Her beautiful clit bounces as her pussy twitches. She glistens.
“How are you already this wet for me?” I whisper, more to myself than anything.
“I think we’ve established I’m always wet for you.”
