The Thorn Of A Rose

Chapter Seven

It's Friday which means 2 things; 1. I get a lie in tomorrow and 2. it's the day that I go out with Lloyd and listen to his apology.

I have to tell myself that I'm going simply to hear his apology because I'll be too scared to go otherwise. A fear of relationships due to previous relationships is common in a lot of people. I don't hate Sam for making me dislike relationships. I think to hate someone you genuinely have to care about them and I just, don't.

Out of sight, out of mind. This was also my approach with Lloyd. I told myself that I'd never see him again, that two nights of pleasure were over and it would be back to the toy box if I wanted to seek another orgasm. I've bumped into him too many times to ignore this now, and by this I mean whatever tension there is between us.

I'm in denial but I'm not stupid, I know tension when I feel it. It's the tension that scares me, it's the feeling of having that general buzz from being around someone, the feeling of getting excited when they're close, excited when you lock eyes with them, the feeling in the pit of your stomach and the pulsing between your thighs.

I gulp, clenching my thighs together as I do my makeup at my dressing table. I can't get ahead of myself so early on in the night. It's obvious that there's sexual chemistry, that's obvious when you sleep with someone. I pause as I apply my mascara. it's not completely obvious, I've had experiences where I've slept with someone who I wasn't as attracted to as I thought and it shown.

He was thrusting with one rhythm, I was going at another, it was like two dodgems, painful and pretty tragic to recall. I shake the memory from my head. It's something I've not struggled with when it comes to Lloyd. His rhythm matches mine, the positions he wants me in work and well, they work extremely well considering my 100% orgasm success rate.

I look at my reflection. My long brown hair is in loose curls down to my breasts, the dress I'm wearing shows my pushed together cleavage and my collarbones are protruding as usual. I've opted for a dress because showing your legs on a first outing with someone is a must. We all hear of 'arsemen'and 'boob men', but there are such things as 'leg men'and most men don't realiseit but they are them. Besides, my spin class yesterday has my thighs feeling as muscular as ever so why wouldn't I show them off.

I reach for my coat, reminding myself of why I may not show them off, it's winter in England and the current temperature outside is 5 degrees. I don't know what he has in store for us but I do know that it needs to be a meal or a bar with how I'm currently dressed.

The buzzer goes and I quickly wrap my scarf around my neck, rushing to the intercom. "Be there in a sec!" I call, taking my clutch bag from the dresser in the hallway and Turing the main lights in the apartment off, leaving just the hallway lamp on.

I keep reminding myself that I'm not nervous, there's no reason to be nervous. The butterflies that have been flying in and out of my stomach seem to think differently, swarming my belly with flutters that make me want to hide in my bedroom and tell Lloyd that I'm sick. It's ridiculous that a woman like me can go out, meet strangers and spend a night fucking them but is too scared to go out in public with them in what could be classed as a date.

On the other hand, mate dates exist. Father daughter dates exist, so why am I putting such a daunting spin on these? Especially when I've never even been on one before. It hits me that I put such a daunting spin on it becauseI've never been on one before. 24 and never been on a date, I'd also like to keep it that way.

As I walk down the stairs in my heeled boots, I remind myself that he's just a guy, nothing special. It's like I'm repeating my daily affirmations to myself but they're more like how to go out with a guy and not freak outaffirmations. I pause in front of the door, taking a deep breath just like last night, although this time I'm going to have to walk out of my building and go into the unknown.