Oh, for fuck’s sake, lady. Don’t eavesdrop if you’re going to get pissed about what you’re hearing.
“Hold on, G.” I stared at Loafers until her gaze met mine again. “Would you prefer I say penis?” I questioned brashly. “Please, let me know how you would like for me to continue my phone conversation.”
She scoffed and stood up from her seat, moving down the aisle to the opposite end of the train.
“For the love of God, don’t get arrested on the subway,” Georgia said into my ear on a laugh. “Chelsea is not shitty. Especially not our building. There’s a fucking elevator and a doorman. And, technically, you’re not even living in Chelsea anymore.”
Thank fuck. I told myself it was just the apartment making me feel that way and not the giant ogre whose bed I shared.
“God, I can’t wait to get out of there. Between the construction, the constant dust, and the overall depressing vibe I get every time I walk through the neighborhood, I’m ready to move out.”
I couldn’t see her, but I knew my little Wheorgie was shaking her head in silent defense of Chelsea. But I was my own woman, goddammit, and if I said Chelsea was shitty, it was.
Especially compared to Thatch’s floorplan.
“Are you going to find a new place once you’re done playing house with Thatch?”
I laughed. “Actually, I am. While Thatch is busy trying to one-up me, I’ve been busy getting our old apartment back up to snuff. I’m meeting with a contractor tomorrow to get the floors and kitchen redone.”
“Well, shit. That’s convenient,” she responded. “But I’ll reiterate…Chelsea isn’t that bad.”
“Oh, puh-lease.” I laughed, loud and boisterous. “You are so far out of the Chelsea loop it isn’t even funny, sweetcheeks. Your opinion means jack shit when you’re living in a goddamn suburban oasis with your mogul husband where all you have to worry about is which room to bone him in.”
A guy had replaced Mickey’s number one fan across the aisle, and he grinned at me. I held his eyes until he started to blush.
Georgia giggled. “Speaking of my husband, he just walked into the bedroom. Are you almost home? I’d sleep better if I knew you were back.”
Right. Like Big Dick was going to let her go right to sleep.
“Wait…which home are you going to?”
“Yes,” I answered as I walked off the train and headed for the steps that would get me to street level. “And my swank new pad in Midtown, of course.”
“Okay, well, call me tomorrow if you’re free for lunch.”
“Sounds good.” I ended the call and slid my phone into the pocket of my jean shorts.
The walk to Thatch’s apartment was about five blocks, and since I was getting home so late, the sidewalk traffic was a breeze. Six minutes later, I was getting off the elevator and unlocking the front door of my home away from home.
“Thatcher, I’m home, and I’m hungry as a motherfucker!” I shouted as I kicked the door shut with my Converse-clad heel. My mind was already one-tracking straight for the special delivery of roses I had sent around two this afternoon, and I didn’t give two fucks if I woke him up.
I probably should have cared, but I wanted at least one interaction with him. Now that, wanting it so bad I didn’t really have control of my actions anymore, I cared more about.
Perfect, I thought to myself once I saw the outrageously large bouquet sitting on the kitchen table. They looked ridiculous in his neutral apartment, their blood-red petals damn near blinding compared to the black-and-white décor. I plucked the note from the center of the vase and couldn’t stop myself from grinning as I read the brilliant words.
God, I’m a fucking genius.
Well, a horny genius.
I had come up with the flower delivery plan on my break, while I was three spanks deep into my fanfic scene. My brain had been so goddamn fixated on Thatch while I was writing that I could not stop thinking about having sex with him again. Hell, my pussy might as well have written that chapter. If only she could hold a pen.
But I wanted Thatch to ask for it. And if I couldn’t have that, I wanted some outside reason, like a floral offering from his dick.
“Well, look who’s home,” Thatch greeted as he walked into the kitchen, wide awake and completely fucking fuckable. He was freshly showered and dressed comfortably. It should’ve been illegal for a man to look as good as he did in a simple pair of black jersey shorts and a white cotton tee. His eyes caught sight of the note in my hand. “You’re getting in a little late. Busy day?” he asked with a knowing smirk.
“Very busy day,” I answered and held the note up for his amused gaze. “It looks like someone else was busy too. And thoughtful, I might add.”