Page 28 of Our Little Cliche

Chapter Twenty-Seven

HOLLY

I swear I am biologically wired to make an utter fool out of myself, ironically in front of the hottest man on earth, and on multiple occasions too, by the way. I mean, sausage roll crumbs all over my head, really?

When we finally catch our breath, he finishes his wine and stands.

The image of those gray sweatpants makes my belly heat.

Crap . I hurriedly look anywhere but his junk.

Apparently the red and white Christmas stocking with a C hanging over the fireplace mantel is so interesting according to my brain.

Spoiler alert, it’s not, but it’s better than looking at him like he’s a crème br?lée that I want to slurp up in one go.

All in.

Deep. In my throat.

And the other hole… down there.

Oh my god, what is wrong with me?

I have never had such dirty thoughts in my life until I laid eyes on Cyrus.

I’m not the most sexually experienced gal out there.

I mean, I’ve done dirty stuff before—if you count a one night stand as dirty, or masturbating with hidden toys behind Adam’s back.

But as for the actual sex part, missionary is what I’m familiar with, since I’m probably too heavy to do anything else.

Adam never explored anything with me. I gave up asking.

I don’t understand how I was in love with a man for so many years, and never had sex dreams over him, but a million flooded my brain the second I met Cyrus.

I can’t stop picturing us together like what happens in movies when they break through the front door, undressing each other and knocking everything off the walls and tables as their tongues annihilate one another.

Then when they have sex, it’s on every surface in the whole apartment.

From every angle possible. For hours, and hours. And it’s the best they’ve ever had.

But you can’t do that.

I squirm as the heat continues to flood between my thighs, getting the feeling that it’s only going to get worse.

Cyrus says something about a plate, but I’m too far gone in my head to hear it.

I imagine him slowly teasing the strap of my bra down my shoulder, then snapping the back clips with one hand.

You know, like the movies, and stuff. I picture the way he would grab my hips, where his thumbs dig into the apex of my waist with need, kissing me from under my ear to the tips of my toes.

Oh .

I think of all the ways he might fuck the absolute sense out of me… in my sleep. But that’s just a fantasy, only meant for books and my dreams… people don’t do that in real life, right?

Cyrus speaks yet again, and I shake my head, pulling myself from my heated thoughts, aware that he’s taking my empty plate.

“Ah, she’s back. Thought I lost you for a second.

” Tell me why this man spins back around as he leisurely scoots to the kitchen, walks backwards, and says, “Must be the wine” then winks at me, and in one swift moment swings on his feet to continue walking.

Ugh. He’s right—it is the red wine.

I squeeze my thighs together to stop the build up of arousal, but it does nothing. What do I say back to that? “I’m just… tired, that’s all.” My nose grew ten inches like Pinocchio with that lie.

I have absolutely no faith left in myself for the night ahead. Zero trust in my limbs that I possess the self control to not touch him again. Maybe I could make a run for it? Hide in my room, lock the door and rub one out, hope to the gods that my need for him disappears by the morning.

Hmm, that wouldn’t work, since it’s clear my brain is unfaithful at this stage—it’s already made me look at his junk, and kiss him. Okay, it can’t be that bad, it’s been a few hours since I emerged from my room and nothing’s happened. That’s a good sign, right?

Cyrus returns, changing directions towards the corridor, “I’ll be back. I’ll just go and print out what I’ve written.”

Okay, no biggie, this is just business .

Simple. Nothing that I’m not used to. Just two professionals, side by side, making notes on a manuscript.

Two, very single, very snowed in, very sexually tense professionals.

Maybe I’ll set up two blankets… a world apart—like when I had to go through Covid lockdown—just to keep myself away from him.

“Okie dokie.”