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There’s barely any merit to be found.
Yes, I did manhandle Bryn, but she fucking liked it.
That’s why she was screaming and coming nonstop on my cock for the next two hours.
Our little public rendezvous was wild and loud and honestly the most exhilarating thing I’ve done in my adult life.
However, that decision, which won my girlfriend over – girlfriend being the term we both agreed was best regardless of the preconceived notions about it being “too soon” – did not win any points with the women who control my public relations. In fact, they both demanded that I make an official public statement regarding the situation.
They were even kind enough to send samples.
Truthfully, I hate these even more than the shitty merchandise mocking me across my downstairs office desk.
Letting the device fall back onto the furniture is followed by me reaching for something I know will bring me momentary reprieve. I grab the nearest pen and lean back in leather chair to search for one of the remaining unfound words.
Bryn left it on my bed before work rather than my desk.
Probably because that’s where we’ve spent the majority of the last two days.
We had breakfast there.
Each other.
Lunch.
Each other again.
Sleep was had in between the activities – although not much – as well as a bit of T.V. binging alongside conversations about ex-partners, birth control choices, and circling discoveries in our new comic book themed word search I ordered earlier in the week.
When it came time for her to begin the extensive process of getting ready for the job that I hate that she has, both afternoons, she chose to do it in my bathroom where I could be near.
See that the effort really wasn’t for other men but a simple paycheck.
Watching the process each day led to us arguing – it’s apparently not romantic to offer to pay her to stay home with me instead – and eventually agreeing that she’d let me assist in the cleaning up her résumé this week to get her out of this escort adjacent lifestyle I loathe her having.
It was a small fucking victory, but one I’m thankful for.
My best friend is right.
Her refusal to bend to my will, determination to have a backbone and stand on her two feet is equally infuriating as it is intoxicating.
A light tapping from the doorway redirects my attention to where she’s sultrily leaning against the frame. “Morning, Mr. Wilcox.”
“Try again.”
Bryn snickers, steals a bite of her nude glossed lips, and says, “Morning, Mr. Wayne.”
“Better.”
“That’s as best as it’s gonna get.”
This time laughter leaves me instead.
Only Gotham knows how she always manages to make me smile.
It’s a skill.
And one not many people in my life have.
