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It was essentially what had ended their marriage.
With thoughts like this troubling her, it wasn’t surprising she slept for shit and when she finally did sleep, it was cruelly cut short by her alarm. To add insult to injury, “Here Comes the Sun” pulled her out of another very satisfying sex dream. It was reminiscent of the one she’d been having yesterday morning starring David, only this one had gotten beyond nipple warfare. There had actually been some clit warfare going on (very good and very satisfying warfare) and as the remnants of the dream faded away, Paige again cursed the boys from Liverpool.
“Fuck you John, Paul, George, and Ringo! And fuck this song!”
Rolling over, she blindly reached for her phone, only to accidentally knock it off the nightstand and onto the floor.
Sighing, she lay there in the dark, torn between the need to kill the song she never wanted to hear again in her life, or relieving herself and rubbing one out. It didn’t take her long to decide that making herself come was the top priority, and her fingers were down between her legs and working their magic before she remembered she was no longer allowed to do this.
Gah.
It took every ounce of willpower Paige had to stop, and for a moment, it was literally touch and go. But she did it—she wasn’t happy about it, but she did it.
Then, even though she knew she didn’t have time to lay around she continued to do just that, her thoughts churning. How did people deal with sexual frustration like this? For her, it was a new and unpleasant phenomenon, something she had zero experience dealing with. Would this feeling of wanting to kill someone go away in the next few hours, or would it plague her all day?
And what if it didn’t go away? What if it would only go away after an orgasm … which might be days away? Or, God forbid, weeks?
She’d worked really hard to reach a point where orgasms were an important part of her life, so the possibility of going without one was something that really bothered her now. It was abhorrent, actually, especially when she considered she didn’t know when the next one would occur.
Damn David and his stupid, unreasonable no self-love rule. She could only hope that it had already bitten him in the ass, too, because she shouldn’t be the only one suffering.
Releasing an unladylike groan of frustration, she threw off her covers and retrieved her phone from the floor, then turned the alarm off. With zero energy, Paige shuffled into the bathroom, only to stare at herself in dismay when she saw what three hours of sleep looked like.
It wasn’t a good look.
Pale skin? Check.
Bloodshot eyes? Check.
Dark circles under her bloodshot eyes? Check.
She basically looked like she’d won the hammered-shit trifecta and grudgingly accepted that it was on her and her inability to quit overthinking. However, being able to masturbate would’ve gone a long way toward improving her mood and that was all on David.
Before she could think better of it, she took her phone and fired off a text to him.
PAIGE: You’re the devil. I just want you to know that.
Then, with a long, drawn-out yawn that actually hurt her jaw a little, she tossed her phone down and turned the shower on. While the water heated, she got undressed, which took no more effort than pushing her panties to the floor, since they were the sum total of her sleeping attire.
As she was grabbing a towel, the distinct sound of a FaceTime request brought her up short. Frowning, Paige backed up and slowly glanced over at her phone, shocked—yet not shocked—to see it was from David. Because of course it was.
You poke the devil and he FaceTimes you.
Knowing he would keep calling until she answered, she did so reluctantly. While not an overly vain person, that still didn’t mean she wanted him to see how craptastic she looked; if there had been a dimmer switch in her bathroom it would’ve been dialed all the way down. Unfortunately, though, there wasn’t and the small space was lit up like the stage at Caeser’s Palace, so she did what she could to avoid giving him a close-up of her face, by keeping the phone a fair distance away, and not looking directly at it.
“Why am I the devil?” David immediately asked, his voice a little raspy.
Paige took a quick moment to note he looked pretty damn good as he reclined in bed. His ash-brown hair wassleep-tousled and sexy, instead of resembling a rat’s nest like hers did, which was totally unfair.As was the lack of dark circles under his hazel eyes.
“What are you doing up?” she countered. “It’s not 7 a.m. yet.”
The instant the words were out of her mouth, Paige cringed. On a good day she wasn’t a morning person but throw in shitty sleep, getting up at an ungodly hour, and orgasm denial, and apparently she became salty. She was on the verge of thinking maybe an apology was in order when he spoke.
“Your text woke me up,” David told her dryly, overlooking the insult. He didn’t feel at all guilty for not typically being awake until a reasonable hour. In his opinion, unless you were fighting a war and getting ready to storm the beaches at Normandy, there was no need to be up before dawn.
“It did?” To cover up her mortification at the childish act, she turned her attention to the towel still in her hand and busied herself with the task of hanging it over the top of the shower door.
“Yes.”
