Enemies to 🔥Rom com
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Charles Winston Mayer-Chaz-is your typical trust fund, never gonna grow up playboy. His carefree bachelor existence is filled with women, money, and limited responsibilities in NYC is interrupted by the untimely de...
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Been going on a few weeks now that I've religiously hit the gym every day over my lunch break. Even on the weekends. Sometimes more than once.
Gotta put in those two-a-days.
And by religiously, I mean it truly is like a spiritual awakening—a come to Jesus moment.
And by gym... I mean, Chaz.
It's been easy. He was right.
We do our thing, and I have a mind-blowing orgasm, every single time—pretty sure it's good for him as well. Then we leave it at that.
Nothing more.
Simple; not complicated. Never delving too deep into personal affairs. It's as if he's awoken something in me, sexually, without a doubt. Though, he now has a strict no tie-up policy for himself.
Turns out, I don't hate it—occasionally.
We always go to his place. Chaz has only brought up the idea of going to mine once or twice. For obvious reasons, I shoot those requests down.
He and I have done a superb job, maintaining complete professionalism at work. I'm fairly certain no one has any notion that we're holding these daily meetings.
Well, minus Gloria, who has busted us a few times in the lobby. She gives a pointed look and says to have a productive—cough—meeting. She knows the deal. Hardly took any convincing for her to lure me in with a cup of coffee and squeeze the admission out of me. No shame, begging for every tiny detail.
She continues to warn me I should be forthright, saying it's only a matter of time before he becomes aware I have a kid. I remind her it's not serious. And he doesn't need to know.
This is fun, that's all—it is not a relationship.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I clean myself up in his bathroom after one of our regular Friday meetings... I mean gym sessions... No, I really mean volcanic sexual encounters—let's call it what it is. Absently picking up a bottle of cologne from the countertop, I breathe it in.
Why's he gotta smell so good?
Fun. That's all this is, just fun.
With a glance at myself in the mirror, I attempt to fix my hair, taking that freshly fucked wildness out of it and toning it down a notch. My hands smooth through it, thinking about his hands in it, thinking about his hands everywhere.
Shit.
It's exactly what I thought it would be. I at least need to admit it to myself—fucking feelings.
Chaz has assured me over and over that I'm not like anyone else. Whois this guy? He definitely isn't like I assumed he was. Constantly complimenting. I wonder if he's this way with all women? Who knows, but I do know one thing. I've never experienced this sort of rush from sex, this level of fulfillment combined with insatiable need, with another man.
