Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
As if she could commit it all to memory.
As if we’d never get a repeat.
As if I’d ever let her go after this.
But she’d nodded just once, reassured, and climbed into the car. I stood on the sidewalk and watched the rear lights grow smaller and smaller. A wave of melancholy had washed over me. I’d felt bereft. Until I’d found her panties in my pocket. Tiny, frivolous things that I hadn’t paid any attention to as I’d slipped them off. But I’d paid attention then, bringing them to my nose with a deep inhale.
I don’t know how to describe this feeling. I just know I’ll never get my fill.
And now, the following morning, I stretch out in the bed as a warm happiness spreads through my insides. I can almost feel her still in my hands and almost certainly taste her on my tongue.
Today is going to be a good day.
FEE
“Bye, sweetie! Don’t forget to fasten your coat. And tighten your scarf!”
Lulu doesn’t answer. Instead, she waves over her shoulder as she excitedly hurries down the hall after Sophia, who’d come back this morning after the pair made some deal about going to the café on the corner for smoothies while I was out last night. Maybe I should feel bad for shoving twenty dollars into the older girl’s hand, but I would’ve paid ten times more just to get Lulu out of the house before she begins to wonder what the heck is going on with her basket case of a mother.
I close the door behind the pair and sag against it, then take the kind of deep breath that seems to begin at the tips of my toes. Relief. And little guilt for feeling that way? But it’s been so hard to be myself this morning, hard to be Fee, the sensible. Fee, the mummy. It’s like my equilibrium has been shattered. Saturday mornings are usually nice and chilled for Lu and me. We putter around in our jammies, eat breakfast, read or watch TV before heading out to do something. A park. A museum. A movie. Dependant on the weather and where we are, I suppose. Instead, this morning, I’d turned into some manic and overly bright version of me. I’d pranced around the kitchen like I was auditioning for a part in a kid’s TV show, cracking jokes and making pancakes when all I wanted to do was take myself off to my bedroom, wash my stiff feeling face, put on clean pyjamas, and eat my body weight in chocolate.
Or maybe reminisce.
Because I’m not sad. And it’s not guilt or shame I’m experiencing, strangely. But the temptation to close my eyes and let my mind drift is so bloody strong. Maybe I’m just overwhelmed, and that’s why my body still feels the ghost of his touch, my heart tender with feelings I’d ignored for far too long.
Tears might be cathartic and better on the bum than chocolate, I tell myself as I push off from the door. But housework might be more useful. A little bit of ordinary. Boring. The usual life of me.
I make my way to the laundry room, pulling out a tangle of socks and T-shirts from the drier and begin to fold. My eyes are still dry, and my skin oversensitive. The task should be soothing, or mindless at least, something humdrum to take my attention elsewhere, but I just can’t force myself to focus on anything. I want to think about last night and examine everything that he said. Scrutinise the possession in his kiss and his fingertips and make sense of every tiny nuance. If I close my eyes, I can still see myself in the mirror, revelling in the power he gave me. Maybe it’s the knowledge that last night was a one-off that makes me feel so off-balance. Maybe I want to revel in the memories because I know I can never do it again.
Would it have happened if I hadn’t stopped to watch the trio? Threesomes have never been my thing, fantasy or otherwise, and I struggle to make complete sense of it. I think it was how powerful she seemed. She wasn’t a woman being used by two men; she was their queen. And she was worshipped.
As Carson worshipped me.
I do feel the first sting of tears as I bundle the still warm laundry into my arms. I bustle through the kitchen and past the maid’s room to the other side of the apartment that houses the bedrooms.
If only he’d just left us in that room.
If only he hadn’t turned up, upsetting the apple cart that is my life. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this, that I wouldn’t throw myself at a man until I could trust him with my heart. And instead, I end up having sex with a man who may or may not be responsible for some kind of sex club.