All this Time

Gabby

1st January

Nathan kisses like he knows what he's doing. Of course he does, he's kissed half of this town's population. Still, he has me replaying that kiss over and over again in my head and we hadn't even used tongue.

I lay in bed, my mouth tingling at the memory of his little bite, soft but sensual. My stomach does a flip flop and I exhale, glad that Lydia got out of bed before I woke up because I feel restless as I reach over to the bottom drawer of the side table and shuffle around for the bullet.

He's literally the worst, he makes nasty comments and walks around like he has a fight to pick with whoever is closest. He definitely pisses me off which is why I'm so somber about my hand slipping under my pants while I think about how his kiss felt.

I would rather die than admit it's that kiss that has the bullet pressed against my centre, the pressure building quickly, the way my legs draw up and I bite down on a moan. Soft whimpers escape before I can stop them, my entire core tightening as the pressure gets stronger and stronger and his stupid arrogant face floods my thoughts.

His strong thighs and shoulders. The way he sits with his legs spread, as if his lap is the perfect seat. His sex appeal is too much, it's too tempting and as release washes over me in violent waves, I feel his name on my tongue.

Panting, I pull the bullet out from between my legs and then shame floods me. Did I really just get off to the thought of my best friends brother? Nathan? Nathan? I never for one moment imagined I would masturbate to the thought of Nathan.

I slap a hand over my mouth, disbelief searing me, like someone could find out about this. Not that I'll breathe a word of it to a single soul.

I can't stand Nathan. He's a busy body. What is wrong with me?

Post orgasm clarity is the worst.

After a shower, in which I scrubbed hard enough that I hoped I could wash off my searing shame, I head out to the kitchen in a big hoodie, leggings and slippers. Mom and Lydia are sitting at the breakfast table, my little girl looks upset.

"What's the matter?"

Momma graces me with her curt, accusatory glance. The one I get for daring to be out late last night. I wish she wouldn't say yes if she's going to throw it back at me later.

Lydia stirs her breakfast with a spoon. Oats. Plain oats. Not even sweetened with brown sugar.

"She doesn't want to finish her breakfast."

Lydia looks at me. "I don't like it," she whispers.

"That's breakfast," momma tells her, tapping something out on her phone. "We don't waste food. Eat up."

"Did you ask her if she wanted that?" I sit down across from my daughter and feel my chest tightening at her dropped lip.

This sort of thing isn't new to me. Growing up, I ate what I was given, if I was full, it didn't matter, I ate until I felt sick. If I didn't like it, too bad, I shouldn't be so fussy.

"She said she was hungry."

"Mom," I bite. "I got her the cereal she likes. She doesn't like oats. Why the hell would I force her to eat a bowl of something she doesn't like?"

"It's good for her."

"So? She doesn't like it."

"Kids have to learn to like food sometimes," she sets her phone down and folds her arms. She's gearing up for fight and I'm not backing the fuck down on this one.