~~~This is a prequel, spin-off from Ties~~~
Briar Hayes has lived her entire life being polite, never daring to express the crazy and wild thoughts running laps in her head. At almost twenty-five, stuck in the throes of monotony, she finally snaps...
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* You'd think I'd be sick of this at my age.
Living in a frat-infested college town, graduated over a year ago, can't find decent-paying work in the interior design field. A degree in fine arts should make me more marketable, right? Actually, degrees—plural. Nope, no one gives a shit. They all prefer someone with experience. How can you get experience if you can't get a job?
My parents had offered me a position at their realty firm—they'd pushed for me to study business—but that would require change. And change is hard, not to mention, uncomfortable.
Anyway, I've been content with my barista gig at a local coffee shop; it's paid the bills. The limited responsibility, pretend-I'll-be-young-forever college life used to be a good time, but lately, I'm over it.
This same old song and dance isn't fun anymore.
"You like that?"
"Mm-hmm." I study my fingernails with shockingly obvious disinterest. Not in my nails. These bitches need a manicure. Pale pink paint is chipping away at the corners. I should do better with self-care.
I balance on all fours—knees and elbows if we're getting technical—while the scorching Arizona sun shines through the window, making me itch. Why's it always so bright here? Internally I groan after taking in the obsessive and orderly state of his room. My boyfriend—ish.
"How 'bout this?" he asks. Only he's not asking. He's saying it out loud, probably assuming that's hot. I'd be willing to bet he has a premium subscription to some porn site and is repeating scripted words.
I'm sure dirty talk or whatever could be sexy. However, I think that depends on the partner. And this guy doesn't know how to ram it home.
Here's the dilemma. I've never had an orgasm from the physical anatomy of another. Fingers, tongue, dick—Nada.
Not that I haven't ever. Got power tools for that. But from sex, or even foreplay, batteries not included? Negative.
Fucking. Buzzkill.
A sharp—not reading the audience—palm slaps my bare ass, and a shockwave zaps straight to my brain, clapping like a deafening cymbal, screaming, what the hell are you doing?
"Feels. So. Good." He hammers into me and grunts with each clumsy, non-fulfilling thrust.
"Maybe for you." I smack my palm over my mouth—was that out loud?—and go statue-still on the white comforter, military-style corners tucked under the mattress.
"Huh?" Confusion crackles from behind me, but he doesn't stop.
I recover from my filter malfunction, and say, "That's nice."
That's nice?
A steamy cup of coffee early in the morning. A vibrant bouquet. A new outfit—that shit's nice. This is fucking blah!
