Breaking up with My Boss - Alexis Winter Page 0,23
up the charade?
Nine
Poppy
When I woke this morning, memories of last night flooded my brain. I could still taste his lips on mine and feel the heat of his body pressing against me on the couch. I could still remember the feeling of his silky softness in my hand—how hard and big he was, and how I wished we could’ve gone further. And even though I knew what I was doing and wanted it, I’m glad it stopped. Had it continued, I’m sure I would’ve fucked up and confessed my real feelings for him, and that can’t happen. He doesn’t see me as someone he can spend his life with. No, he sees me as the woman who beat the shit out of his expensive sports car. The one who was always late to work. The woman he hates more than anything else. This little game is his way of torturing me. He wants to see me uncomfortable under his thumb. He wants to watch me suffer just like I caused him suffering over his precious car. Getting mixed up in any other way is not acceptable.
I go outside and find my Uber waiting. I climb in the back seat and say a quick hello before popping in my AirPods, not wanting to have to deal with unnecessary chitchat. I look out the window as we speed through the city. My thoughts, as always nowadays, go back to him. Fucking Matthew Lewis III. It’s still a ridiculous name no matter how good-looking he is. No matter how good of a kisser he is, no matter how big his—no, don’t go there, Poppy. You’re only torturing yourself. But dammit, he’s such a good kisser. Not too much tongue . . . just the perfect amount. His hands felt so good on my body—knowing when to caress and when to squeeze. Just thinking about grinding myself against his hard length has a chill racing up my spine.
Before, it was easy to escape him and my thoughts of him. I just left work and kept myself busy with my life. But now, escaping him is impossible because not only do I work with him, but I also live with him. I have to see him in the morning at the breakfast table. I have to see him at night in his thin pajama bottoms, always noticing the outline of his manhood beneath. And even now as I sit in this uncomfortable chair with more foil on my head than can be found at any backyard barbecue, I still can’t escape him. My thoughts range from everything to yelling at the bastard to watching as I slide down his length. How can one person be so perfectly right in one way and so completely wrong in another? It’s beyond infuriating.
I spend the whole day at the salon/spa. The highlights they add to my auburn hair light up when they catch the sun. I get a manicure and a pedicure. I have a facial and more spa treatments than I even knew existed. And now, I’m lying on the table, prepared to have every hair yanked from my body. I’ve already had my face waxed of all its peach fuzz. My legs and downstairs area are next. Lord, help me.
The legs are a breeze and that part goes by pretty quickly, but when it’s finished, I’m asked which style I’d like for my lady bits. I’m confused by that. I didn’t realize there were different styles.
“What do you mean?”
“Would you like all of it gone? Or would you like to leave a patch down the center? We can do anything, dear. Hearts, stars . . . hell, even lightning bolts.”
I smirk. Have my pubic hair waxed into a lightning bolt? Hell yeah! “Lightning bolt, please.”
She nods and goes about her work. I have to admit, the warm wax feels nice, but then she rips it away without warning and I let out a string of curse words as my hands wrap around the edge of the table, squeezing it through the pain.
“Only a little more, dear,” she insists.
Every time I think she’s done, she keeps going and going and going. She’s like that damn pink bunny on all those commercials. I’m about to take the wax paper out of her hand and say “enough!” but then she wipes the area with a cool, wet cloth and says, “All done.” She hands over a mirror and I check it out. I smile at its awesomeness.