His breathing is laboured, like he’s gasping for air. My heart races out of control as anticipation of his next move thrills, excites and petrifies me all at the same time. I sigh gently, and my eyes close as I roll my head to the side to allow him greater access to my neck.
“So beautiful,” he whispers. My god, if someone had told me two weeks ago that I would be here, doing this with him in the middle of the night, in a tent with both sets of our parents only thirty metres away, I would think they’d need their head read. I can’t believe it myself. What the hell am I doing? I am way out of my depth.
He smiles into my neck, “Precious girl can you feel me? Feel how ready you are for me?”
Mechanical meltdown. “Josh, you feel so good,”
“I can make it feel better, precious…let me.”
…
…
“Josh,” I whisper. His eyes are closed, he’s breathing heavily.
“Yes, baby,” he answers, his lips against my cheek.
“I love you,” I whisper. His eyes fly wide open.
***
“Been a big week hey?” My eyes fly up nervously to Simon in my office doorway. I nod and quickly rearrange the papers on my desk. I try to rein in my now pounding heart, guilt written all over my face. Bloody hell. I need to stop thinking about this shit when I’m at work.
“It has been a big week, Simon. I’m tired. Do you still want to go for that drink?”
He frowns and shakes his head. “Don’t try to weasel out of it. We do this every Friday.”
I give him a resigned smile. “We do. Give me a minute to freshen up, will you?
He smiles. “Sure, meet you out front.”
I wander over to the large arched window overlooking the park. It’s just on dusk. Large magnolia trees surround the manicured lawn, which has four stone benches in the centre. An old man is reading the paper on one of them. It’s a beautiful haven in the middle of a city. I’m lucky to have this view from my office. I blow out a breath as I take out my ponytail and redo it. What are you doing now Joshua? Who are you with? Why do I remember him in technicolour but live my life in black and white? I drag myself up and change my clothes. I feel like going out like a hole in the head. Why do I constantly agree to do things I don’t want to do?
Saturday at Mum’s is always the same. Bridget, my younger sister, who also moonlights as my best friend, goes on and on about her dickhead boyfriend. Mum and I always sit and listen while she vents or at least we pretend to listen. We drink coffee, eat cake and read the papers, roll our eyes at each other and occasionally add our two cents’ worth. Which goes unnoticed I might add. It’s a Saturday morning ritual, an excuse to catch up.
“Oh,” Mum claps her hands in excitement. “I got my outfit for the wedding.”
“Oh yes,” I answer, blowing out a deep breath as I brush the crumbs off my shirt. My inability to get excited about anything is beyond rude.
“Don’t listen to her Mum-she’s in a shitty mood this week,” Bridget snaps. I open my eyes wide at her. Implying Shut up. “What?” she snaps.
“Don’t start,” I scowl.
“Well, what’s with you this week?”
“You are very preoccupied lately, honey. Is everything all right?” Mum asks.
“Yes,” I roll my eyes and blow out a breath.
“Is it work?” she questions, cocking her head to the side and resting her coffee cup on her chest.
“Anything juicy?” Bridget asks excitedly.
“You know I can’t answer that,” I sigh.
“God, you’re no fun. Can’t you tell me about some hot nymphomaniac sex god you’re treating, one who’s looking for a blonde travel agent? You know I’m living vicariously through you,” she smirks. Mum rolls her eyes.
“I wish I did treat s*ex gods,” I mutter. “I could do with a sex god or two in my life. Besides only women are called nymphomaniacs, men are called satyriasists.”