Page 22 of Our Little Cliche

Hours pass by reading some historical romance book I had taken from the corner shelf beside the bed.

The story started out with the backstory of a sweet servant maid that comes to work for a wealthy Duke in an old Irish country town, taking place during the late 1800’s.

It was all sunshine and rainbows before she fell in love with him, and he her.

But the one night stand of love and ecstasy causes a debacle, having her shipped out and deported after whispers were spread around the palace.

It was utterly gut wrenching, gripping, and as I knew it—cliché.

“See? It never works,” I deject, slamming the book closed in frustration and tossing it across the bed. Sadly, I relate too much to this stupid book. But my story isn’t fictional. “Pfft.”

If I could somehow alter the pages of my own life I would.

My misery doesn’t last long though, the sensation of my fingers circling my clit to make me feel better about myself— again —seems to help. Every climax I’ve had since I met Cyrus has intensified, because the more I think of him, the more I want to be fucked like the girl in Cyrus’s book…

By Cyrus.

If merely thinking of him makes me feel this good, imagine what actually doing it would feel like?

I imagine it: Cyrus breaking into the room I’m in, climbing into my bed while I sleep and taking to my wet core with his tongue, and then his cock, shoving into me with everything he’s got.

Fuck.

Some kind of chemical inside me reacts, my orgasm exploding through my body. My skin sears with chilling goosebumps, yet somehow burns hot. Another orgasm lingers, and it doesn’t take long to coax it through, pressing a little firmer on the swollen bud, rotating circles until oblivion.

When my pulse returns to normal, I wipe the sweat from my forehead and sit up in bed, pushing my back against the headboard and scratch at the plaited mane that is my hair, contemplating a shower.

“Stupid love stories,” I scoff at the cover of the book: a gorgeous, wealthy-looking man locking tongues with a beautiful young woman who has a smear of dirt, messy hair and peasant clothes.

I relate too much to Edith for my own liking.

A maid, falling in love with a man she absolutely should not, and then getting deported back to the country she came from because she broke the rules and fooled around with him.

I’m Edith in this scenario. I’m the one who’s going to deport myself back to Australia because I kissed someone else’s husband, or because I’m going to lose my job by kissing my boss.

I desperately need a shower, it’s where I do my best thinking, and we all know I need the clarity.

I flick the light switch to the bathroom to check if the power has come back on.

When the room illuminates I smile, then turn on the shower tap, praying to whatever god exists that the pipes are defrosted enough to negotiate water unlike last time.

I need more than just a scalding shower.

I need to make a deal with the devil . A deal to forget my stupid… hot… irritable… dreamy boss exists.

“Ugh. I hate this.”

If I hate this so much, why did kissing him feel so… right?

While waiting for the water to flow, I consider making an oath to never talk to Mr. Multiple Mistress’ Man Whore again, and when I sign that oath I should go ahead and write a letter to my future self, making sure she isn’t still talking to her boss—a married man, or worse, isn’t all the way in love with him.

And yes, that is how much faith I have in myself, to have to sign an oath.

Zero.

Nada.

Sweet. Fuck. All.

Do you know what? No, fuck this. I’m sick of wondering if this bastard is cheating on his wife. I grab my phone and compose a new message.

Are you cheating on your wife with me?

Delete, delete, delete.

Would your mistress care if I use her toothbrush?

No, that’s just stupid.

Does your wife know about last night?

Nope, backspace, backspace, backspace.

Me:

We need to talk…

Better, I think.

Reading it over a million times while waiting for the water to decide if it’s going to work or not, I un-thread my frizzled, orgasm messed up braids.

I hit send, throwing my phone back on the bed.

A promising sound of rattles, strains and clacks finally come from the shower pipes and I cross my fingers.

Come on water, you can do it, please.

Success!

The heat satisfies my body, and in seconds I’m mentally disappearing into a brainstorming realm, plotting my grand escape.

When my furniture arrives… which will be when I don’t know.

Tom said I’ll be waiting up to five weeks, but I still haven’t heard from anyone.

Maybe I could use Cyrus’s credit card that he gave me to flee back to Australia?

Holly, that’s a terrible idea and you know it.

Ugh, my moral compass is right. It’s not in my nature to rip people off, especially ones who have given me so much.

Hurting Cyrus is the last thing I want to do.

But this needs to stop. I can’t keep torturing myself.

In my thirty four years of life, I’ve never run around stressing myself into the ground with a million unanswered questions as much as this. It ends here.

I switch the taps off, wondering if he’s replied while having an everything shower —you know…

wash and shave the bits, pits n tits. And double cleanse my hair obviously.

When I peer into the bedroom I notice that the door is open a crack again, but no one is there.

Maybe the wind or something did it. Unless Cyrus was snooping?

That seems more like a probable cause, because I realize that my phone is not in the same spot it landed in when I threw it on the bed before.

No notifications, but I don’t trust my instinct on that, so I unlock it and tap on the green message icon, seeing a little red bubble attached to it.

Cyrus Stone aka Sexy Boss:

I couldn’t agree more.

Me:

Are you married?

I hesitate asking, but I need to know. Anxiety riddles my bones for his response. After all is said and done, why do I want him to say no? Three dots appear at the bottom of the screen, indicating he is replying. Then it disappears. Then reappears, and disappears once more.

I knew it.

He is m?—

Cyrus Stone aka Sexy Boss:

No.

That’s what Adam said when I first asked him if he was cheating. But the fucker didn’t know I had receipts. Innocent until proven guilty.

Me:

Then why do you have girl’s shampoo in here? And there’s hair ties and hygiene products in here too. And you have Justin Bieber CD’s. And your house is very feminine.

Cyrus Stone aka Sexy Boss:

Is that what this is about? Holly, I have three sisters. This was our family home that we grew up in. I always have their products here for them for when they visit, and most of the stuff are things I’ve never brought myself to pack away since they left.

And as stupid as it sounds, I don’t want it to look like I live in an empty house. Because if it looks empty, I feel empty.

Oh .

The three dots appear again, so I wait, keeping my thumb away from the keys.

Cyrus Stone aka Sexy Boss:

Addressing the feminine thing, I don’t know what kind of men are in Australia but I look after myself, and my house. I clean, I cook, I collect books and wines. I decorate my house the way I like it. I didn’t think that my style would consolidate me being a married man.

Good one, Holly.

Asshole of the year award goes to… drum roll please.

Me.

Me:

Cyrus, I’m sorry I just thought… Well, I don’t know what I thought. I wasn’t thinking straight. I’m so confused about last night. I’m sorry. It was a mistake.

Wasn’t it?

Cyrus Stone aka Sexy Boss:

Was it?

No.

It wasn’t.