Page 2 of On My Side (Quiblings #3)
Audrey
Playlist: Skin and Bones | Cage the Elephant
Sky’s Sluts
MeetMeInStarsHollow: every time i think this man can’t record something hotter, he proves me wrong.
AshBash69: GUYS. GUYS IT HAS THE GOOD GIRL TAG. AND CHOKING.
SkysMainSlut: thank GOD. last week he was subby which is fine but dominant sky is where it’s at.
MeetMeInStarsHollow: omgggg not the husband tag i’m gonna die.
MeetMeInStarsHollow: okay i gotta take a listen before i get out of bed. i’ll report back later, sluts saluting emoji
“You like my hand on your throat and my fingers in your pussy?” he groans into my ear.
I dig my teeth into my lower lip as my back arches, climbing higher and higher toward my release.
“Uh, uh.” His chuckle is dark and deep. “Use your words. Do you like my hand on your throat and my fingers deep in your cunt?”
“Mmhmm,” I manage to whimper. I’m so close, I’m right on the edge, right on the precipice between heaven and earth. I thrust my hips and turn my head, biting my pillow between my teeth to keep myself quiet.
“I know, baby. I know. Be a good girl and come for me,” he coos, triggering my orgasm. I come hard and fast, like I’m falling from the peak I’d been teetering on before. No wonder the French call it the little death—this freefall truly might kill me.
“Good girl, such a good girl when you come for me.” His voice is breathy and husky. “God, I could watch you come forever. The way you clench around my fingers is fucking heaven.”
I inhale shakily as I come down from my high, and the sensation is too much. I fumble with my clit-sucking vibrator and turn it off.
“I love you,” he says, quiet and low, and for a fleeting moment, I let myself believe it. “I always want to take care of you like this.”
Then silence, the way it always ends, and I sit up, taking my noise-canceling headphones off and grabbing my phone from my nightstand.
Tuesday is my favorite day of the week, because I always wake up to a brand new audio from my favorite 4Play creator, Sky.
His newest one that dropped today was hot as hell, though to be honest, he could upload a recording of him reading the dictionary and I’d be able to get myself off to it.
This one, however, was a scenario where Sky was the listener’s husband and he comforted me after a hard day.
There was body worship, light choking, hard fingering… it was a good time.
I force myself out of bed and shrug into my marine blue bathrobe before going to the ensuite bathroom to brush my teeth and do my morning skincare routine.
When I enter the kitchen, Piper, my newly fifteen-year-old daughter, is already at the table, eyes glued to her iPad and a bowl of Reese’s Puffs in front of her.
“Morning, Pipe.” I lean down and kiss the crown of her head before playfully ruffling her hair.
She squawks and shoves my hand away. “Mom! It took me thirty minutes to get my bangs to look like this!”
“I’m sorry.” My apology is genuine. My parents never apologized when I was growing up, and it was something I promised Piper and myself she’d always get when needed. “It looks great, birdie.”
“Thanks.” Her eyes are on her iPad as she takes another bite of cereal.
I wrap my robe tighter around myself and walk to the coffee maker, scooping in my favorite French roast and pressing the button to brew, the same way I do every morning.
“Do you need a ride to school?” I ask, eyes on the coffee’s slow drip into the glass pot.
“No.” Her voice is muffled from her mouthful of Reese’s Puffs. “I’m riding my bike.”
“Sounds good. Don’t forget to text me when you get there.”
Piper groans and rolls her eyes the same way I did at her age, because fifteen is simply too old for your parents to still worry. “Mo-om.” She stretches the word to two syllables, the same way I did.
“Hey, I try to be the cool mom. I don’t check your location, but I need you to do your part, too.”
She sighs heavily. “ Fine .”
“Thank you.” When I was a teenager, I rebelled against my parents to get the attention I never got from them.
The only time they paid any attention to me was when I had done something bad enough to warrant their discipline.
It started with little stuff, like staying out past curfew, but my attempts became more extreme over time.
This is why it’s important to me that Piper knows she always has my attention, and I’m never too busy for her.
I make it a point to talk to her before school, even if I worked late the night before.
Not only to keep her out of trouble, but because I genuinely like the kid, and she deserves a mom who gives her all.
“Don’t forget you have OT after school!” I remind her as she pushes her chair backward, the legs making a scraping noise against the linoleum floor.
Piper’s been in occupational therapy for the past decade or so, learning how to exist in a world that wasn’t made for brains like hers.
She’s learned coping skills, has a sensory menu, has improved communication, and has increased her confidence when it comes to stimming or and her other autistic traits.
I turn off the coffee maker and pour it into a mug decorated with disproportionate, lopsided butterflies Piper painted in second grade.
It’s my favorite.
“I know.” She exhales a long-suffering sigh. “I’m riding to the office after my meeting with Ms. Santiago.”
I turn to her after stirring in cream and sugar, brow furrowed. “Why do you have a meeting with Ms. Santiago?” I have yet to meet Piper’s beloved music teacher, Ms. Santiago, mainly because I graduated high school with her husband and I prefer to keep that part of my life locked away in a box.
After my parents kicked me out, my great-aunt Olivia took me in.
She was the exact opposite of her sister, my late grandmother, in all the best ways.
I lived with her and worked at the inn for three years, until she encouraged me to move out of town to find my own way.
I packed up Piper and her things and moved into a shady two-bedroom apartment in Norwalk.
It was far enough away I could escape from my past, but could still frequently see Aunt Olivia.
She paid for Piper’s childcare, and once she was in kindergarten, insisted on paying for me to take classes at the community college.
When Aunt Olivia got sick two years ago, against her insistence we stay where we were, Piper and I moved back into that little cottage so I could be her primary caregiver and take over her work at the inn.
I dyed my naturally blonde hair auburn to blend in, and was surprised at how well it worked, how almost nobody recognized or remembered me.
Once, I made eye contact with my former best friend’s dad over the produce at Stop I tried to convince her, and myself, I didn’t need to be there, that I wasn’t depressed and that I was taking care of myself and Piper just fine.
I wasn’t. I’d been getting two hours of sleep and passive suicidal thoughts were constantly in my brain.
She saw through me, and sat quietly while I insisted I was fine until I finally broke down into heaving sobs.
I admitted for the first time how hard it was, how afraid of my feelings I was, how I loved Piper but I felt like I loved her the way my parents “loved” me, and the idea of continuing that cycle devastated me.
“Sleeping a lot,” I admit to Eva, who nods understandingly. “But I’m still making it to work and taking care of Piper.”
“How are you taking care of yourself?” she asks, and I grimace.
“I don’t know that I am,” I admit.
“That makes sense. You’re giving so much to others that there’s not anything left for yourself. How do you think it will hurt you, Audrey? How will it hurt Piper?”
Damn this woman. She pulled out the big guns by mentioning Piper, and she knows it.
“Try to take some time to focus on yourself. Why don’t you go out with your friends?” Eva asks innocently, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
“You know I don’t have friends.” I haven’t had friends since B.P.—before Piper.
“Why don’t you make friends?” I stifle a groan.
I do like people, which makes running the inn a good career choice.
But the people I interact with are either my employees or my guests.
I love my employees, but the idea of hanging out with them outside of work and work events feels like crossing a line.
“I mean, I really don’t want to make friends with people in Port Haven,” I say, realizing how true this is. “It’s too small, and most people my age…well. They’ve already made their decision about me.”
“Sounds like a conundrum,” Eva says, tapping her pen against her chin. “Let’s circle back to that and we’ll brainstorm ideas. Besides sleeping, how else is your depression manifesting?”
I reluctantly tell her about how exhausting showering is, how cooking, my favorite hobby that usually energizes me, has been stressful and draining.
How my bedroom is filled with dirty dishes, food wrappers, cups, and dirty clothes.
We discuss baby steps for me to take, and Eva doesn’t bring up the friends thing again, thank god.
“Don’t think I forgot about you making friends,” Eva says at the end of our session.
I internally groan. Goddammit. “But,” she continues, “we need to get you to a healthy baseline before we add more goals. You’re going to be okay, Audrey.
And once you’re okay again, we’ll work on getting you to happy. ”
“You’re going to cure my depression?” I tease.
“I would if I could,” she answers earnestly. “But the best I can do is help you find the things that make you happy, the things that make you want to feel better.”
God, even that feels unattainable.