Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
A woman to forget.
It occurs to me then that I’ve thought of Fin less and less these days. How long does it take to fall out of love with someone? I’m not sure, but I don’t think it can be measured in days. I take a moment to reflect on this. But the thoughts of her, and of her marriage, don’t leave me with the same bitter taste. I suppose that’s not surprising, given everything else I have going on right now.
Ah, Ella.
I feel a bit of a twat for coming onto her last night, no matter how many times injudicious ran through my mind. I suppose the fact she chose to hang out with my drunk arse is just another example of how inevitable our eventual coupling is. We’re like stars orbiting the same moon—let’s call it planet fuck—destined to collide again and again. Orgasming multiple times.
I shrug, my shirt suddenly uncomfortable, then pull up some quotes on my laptop. It’s just a pity as far as my workday is concerned that I can’t see anything beyond her arse in those little shorts last night. The buttoned-up pyjama top with candy pink stripes . . . the long line of her thighs . . . the V between her legs where the shorts pulled tight as she sat. All I could think about was touching her there. Lifting her onto the countertop and wrapping her thighs around my head. Letting her feel how fucking hard I got just thinking about her.
I blow out a breath of air, reaching for the cup of coffee Carly made earlier. It was either reach for my cup or my cock, and the second seemed a wee bit perverse. How long had the coffee stood on my desk while my brain mentally undressed Ella, ready for me to do unspeakable things? Long enough to go stone cold, certainly. Long enough for me to almost be able to taste the salt on her skin as I recount dragging my tongue across her neck, loosening the buttons of her little girl nightwear.
Little girl. Fuck me, the daddy talk seemed to turn her on, her nipples hard peaks beneath the thin cotton of her shirt. And I still haven’t seen her in her underwear yet, not that I’m complaining. I’ve enough material in the wank bank to get by on for now. I wonder if she’s into satin and lace, and if receiving knickers as a gift would offend her? High heels, lace, and silk. The fripperies of fuckery.
Christ, yes. Struck by an idea, I close the spreadsheet I’m supposed to be looking at to open Google, searching for something far less safe for work.
No, not porn.
Lingerie stores.
I’m immediately baffled by the number of suppliers the search engine lists. Some names I recognise; A quick scan of La Perla and Agent Provocateur—the pricey stuff—to stores that seem a little more avant-garde. Maybe retro? I open one which looks like it could stock a bit of a mixture and spend the next forty-five minutes looking at lady’s knickers. Of course, I don’t know her bra size, I think, looking down at my hands. But I reckon I could make a bloody good guess.
I pull out my credit card. In my virtual basket, I’ve ended up with something called a Rosy cami set. As pink as Ella’s nipples, the two-piece looks soft and sort of floaty. And apparently very 1950s in design. A bit closer to this decade, I’ve chosen something labelled as a playsuit. Aye, and I’m sporting a semi at the thoughts of her wearing this. Not that there’s much to actually wear. A little more than a few bits of black ribbon, it comes with a collar and a lead . . . At least I don’t have to guess her bra size wi’ this. Pasties are one size fits all, it seems. Pasties. I’ve never heard of them before. Well, other than the kind made of pastry. They’re like nipple tassels without the dangly bits. I suppose if your girl has nipples the size of doorknobs, you’re both out of luck, maybe.
When my phone rings, I’m so engrossed in my shopping that I don’t look at the display to see who it is.
‘How’d you measure hipsters?’
‘That’s a bit abstract as far as greetings go, Nat.’ Natasha works for my sister and is friends with both her and Fin. She’s also as mad as a box of frogs.
‘Go on, guess,’ she demands.
‘I’m at work,’ I complain. If you can complain and smile.
‘You’re probably surfin’ porn.’
‘We’re not all wasting our workday.’
‘You kind of are.’ She’s right. I should’ve just played along, or else she could be running me in circles all bloody day.
I sigh and prepare my answer, sounding much like a Punch and Judy performer. ‘All right, Natasha. How’d you measure a hipster?’