Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
“I’m trying to work,” I mutter, unable to completely ignore her as I continue physically abusing the keys on my laptop. I’m working from my dining table and while I wish I could say I usually keep my work life from bleeding into my personal life, it would be a lie. The lie being I have a personal life. Work is all-consuming, and I often work from this space on the weekends and evenings. More so since a certain off-limits blond bombshell became a permanent fixture in the office.
A permanent fixture = a semi-permanent hard-on. A semi-permanent semi?
In other words, I can’t seem to concentrate when she’s around. My brain seems to revert to its teenage state, becoming a morass of pornographic thoughts and perpetual fucking longing. It’s not even like I can send her away because she does her job brilliantly. Other than that one report I was a complete dick to her about, I don’t have to ask her for anything. She pre-empts my work needs; everything is as it should be. She hasn’t slipped up once.
She’s impressed the fuck out of me for someone so young. Impressed me with the quality of her work, her diligence, and her work ethic. Then last night, she impressed me in an entirely different way.
I’m worried I’ll never get this chance again.
Her honesty cut right through me, slicing me to my very core. Mimi, I’m sure, is pure, sexual alchemy. She’s honesty and naivety, mixed with blatant desire. I’ve fucked some women in my time, women who’ve owned their own desire, who know that they want and go for it. But they had nothing on this woman. Nothing for me.
But she can be nothing to me.
“Why are you working from there and not your super posh home office?” Lavender doesn’t make actual air quotes, but I hear her sneery intention anyway.
“A change of scenery,” I answer without biting. Working here feels like a concession of sorts, not that I bother explaining it to her. I can’t spend all my waking hours in one office or another. I know I’m probably just fooling myself, but work is all I seem to do these days. I mean, I haven’t even made it to a certain club I’m a member of. A club where I find like-minded women. Women who are down for a session of no-strings fucking.
“Could you just, like, not ignore me? I said I was sorry.” The spoon clatters against the granite as Lavender drops it. Her shoulders suddenly hunch over the kitchen island as she rubs the heels of her palms against her eyes.
“Apologies don’t count when you don’t mean them.” I continue taking my frustration out on my email. “You’re just hungover and feeling sorry for yourself.” Not at all regretting your ridiculous life choices or any kind of stress or inconvenience you might’ve caused.
“I am sorry,” she retorts, not quite shouting. “Sorry I dragged you away from your very important job.”
“My very important job pays for your university fees along with your accommodation,” I grate out as my volume increases, “the car that was impounded last week, not to mention your fucking love rival’s window!”
“She’s not my love rival. She’s just some skank I caught blowing my boyfriend.”
“Such wonderful choices you’re making, Lav.”
“Fuck you, Whit. Just because you’re a cyborg who lives his life above the need for human contact.”
I shake my head. I get all the fucking human contact I can take from this family. It’s little wonder I’m not interested in relationships given the shit I put up with from my siblings.
“Life is supposed to be messy. We’re emotional beings—you should try it sometime.”
“I’d rather you try not to drown your emotions in a bottle of Belvedere. Maybe next time, try an adult conversation before you decide to commit criminal damage.”
“Talk?” She verbally holds the suggestion between her thumb and index finger. “I’m not talking to him after what he did to me.”
“Did you catch him, or was this intel from your so-called friends?” She glowers my way. “I thought so. You just got drunk instead, then lashed out. Again.”
Why do people have relationships? Why do they get involved? I can barely deal with what I have on my plate already.
“Why do you have to be such a—”
“Watch it, Lavender. I suggest you choose your next words very carefully.”
“Or what?”
“I’ll cut you off,” I answer simply. “You can do what everyone else does, what I did, and work to pay yourself through university.” Though I did a proper degree, not the ridiculousness she’s studying. The Psychology of Fashion. What’s she going to do with that? Help a Vivienne Westwood dress deal with its existential crisis when it goes out of style?
Lavender turns her back to me, muttering about the injustices of her world and being treated like a leech. I don’t bother to answer, mainly because I have nothing pleasant to say. If I did answer, I’d tell her she leeches my bloody energy. The money means nothing. It’s not like I haven’t made enough not to share. Though sometimes I do wonder if we’d be better off living a normal life, paying off mortgages and car loans, being in thousands of pounds of university debts. It might’ve helped steer Lavender away from this self-destructive streak because she might be too busy growing up to act so ridiculously.