Crashing Down Into Flames

Chapter 16

Chapter Song: Older-  Isabel LaRosa

Monday- Afternoon

-Evangeline-
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That fucking asshole didn't even try to hide that we fucked. Instead, he just walked in next to August with lipgloss kisses, hickeys, and bite marks left on his neck. Luckily, his black button-suit shirt and tie covered most of it on the bottom of his neck, but a spot of it still showed underneath and on the top of his neck.

He wasn't wearing his suit jacket. Maybe he found out that I ruined it when I came all over him. I hope he can't get that mess out and he doesn't throw my underwear in the pocket of his jacket inside the wash with his suit jacket. It'll ruin it.

Not to mention, he didn't try to hide his leftover boner either. Even though it was tucked along his leg, it was still hard pressed against his pants like a branch on a street. Maybe his ego ass thinks no one dares to point him out on it. Or maybe he thinks no one's going to look at it. The people who probably are looking at it are dying to get into his pants. What if he wanted him to look?

The thought raises a green boil of jealousy inside my gut, which only makes my typing harder out of anger for being jealous as I finish typing a magazine straight on him. Honestly, I tried not to stare at it. I tried not to think about it, but it's hard -literally and metaphorically- when you're writing an article about him, and you're still trapped in the memory of it pulsing inside you. And you best believe, when I say I'm fucking enraged that he stole my favorite pair of underwear.

My fingers move faster than I can think to distract the feeling of a tender warm coil building up. They move like a skilled pianist playing a song for a competition as if it's their last melody goodbye.

"You're angry typing again," Charlotte speaks out, breaking the thoughts in my head, and I silently thank her for ruining the coil before it built into wetness.

I'm lucky everyone is back from break and chattering while typing, so they couldn't hear me typing hard and Charlotte's speaking.

"No, I'm not," My nose twists in denial. That bitch betrays me more than August.

Charlotte sighs and looks over the small gray wall between us at my computer, "Is it because you're writing about Mr. Winters? I can take the article back if it's making you that-"

"No, it's fine," I stop typing and knit my fingers together to bend, making several pops along my fingers, and popping my knuckles afterward. A bad habit that I need to break, but the less tension on my fingers feels so good after a good pop, "It's not the article that's stressing me out. It's..."

"Oh," She says quietly, reading like a book. Hopefully, the page says Mr. W and the elevator all over.

"I'm practically done with it, so I'll send it to you, and we can go test the print with the rest of your pages," I recover before she feels bad for me.

Once her head pops down from the walls, and I've already sent the pages back to her with my written article, she starts clicking on her computer to send it to the copy machine.