potentially ugly into something beautiful.
Of course, Tripp thought the tattoos that ran around her hips and waist were trashy, unlike the stupid Greek letters of his frat that he had on his foot. What a waste of ink. Em secretly thought that he hated her tattoos because he was jealous that he couldn’t handle the pain of getting a large piece.
He truly seemed embarrassed by the tattoos. No one other than someone she was intimate with would see the ones on her hips, which, in Em’s opinion, was sexy. Tripp had even shamed her enough that she stopped wearing skirts. She’d had the tattoo on her calf since she was 25, getting the colors and lines touched up every few years. It’s not like Tripp didn’t know about that one.
Hmph. Good grief, she was getting herself riled up into a righteous fury over a man that she hadn’t seen or heard from in almost a year.
Em finished her glass of Scotch and chased it with a spoonful of ice cream. She poured more Scotch and got a bigger spoon.
She sat on the couch, watching a movie about Tokyo car racing and petting Beauregard. She liked how the actor didn’t have to soften his natural Southern accent in the film.
That was another thing about stupid assclown Tripp. He was always getting on her about her accent, wanting her to talk elocution lessons. Elocution lessons! That made her so mad she could spit.
Em always made sure she toned down her accent and curtailed her cursing and idioms when she was dealing with outsiders or partners. Except for Ed, Tripp’s father. Ed seemed to appreciate Em exactly how she was, hick accent and all, even if he was a wealthy Brahmin from Boston. In fact, Ed used Em’s naturally warm, welcoming personality to woo suspicious Southern clients by making them feel like the Holbrook Firm was one of them and not some Yankee interloper. Tripp couldn’t understand it.
“Tripp is a jackass, Beauregard. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you when you told me that he was no good.” She kissed the pudgy cat’s head and was rewarded with a soft “Mewp!” and a nuzzle. “But you like Mick, don’t you, Beau? You were rolling all over him, showing off, purring. You’re a good judge of character.”
Mick said her accent was cute, and not in a “oh, look at the slow, slack-jawed hillbilly” condescending way, but in an “I sincerely think the way you speak is cute” way. That was another plus in the Pro-Mick column.
Em took another swallow of Scotch and another spoonful of ice cream. She liked listening to Mick, too. A few times during their outings together, he’d whipped out some sort of Newfoundland colloquialism that charmed her. Now that was cute.
As she licked the spoon, her thoughts continued to Mick. Licking Mick. Doing other things to him. Sex with Mick. A man who could kiss that like? Yum with a side of Hell Fuckin’ Yeah. She bet Mick wasn’t selfish in bed. He’d been very attentive every time they were together—changing the subject if he sensed she wasn’t comfortable talking about something, remembering things that she had mentioned previously, opening doors for her, and entering buildings behind her. No, there was no way that man was a pleasure hog. She bet he even enjoyed going down on a woman.
She felt a twinge in her sex and knew she was getting wet. The silly romance books she read to clear her mind from the numbness of statistical analysis often described sexual anticipation as a “stirring of the womb.” She didn’t have a womb, but she had other stuff, and that other stuff was twanging away.
She heard knock on her door. Em squinted at the clock. Dear God, it was only 7:30. Or maybe it was 5:40? Stupid analog clock. Whoever was at the door knocked again. Em sighed and hauled herself off the couch, grabbing the remote to turn the television down. There was a third knock by the time she reached the door.
“Jesus Christ, what?!” Em growled as she flung open the door. Mick stood there, open mouthed, his fist poised
Of course, Tripp thought the tattoos that ran around her hips and waist were trashy, unlike the stupid Greek letters of his frat that he had on his foot. What a waste of ink. Em secretly thought that he hated her tattoos because he was jealous that he couldn’t handle the pain of getting a large piece.
He truly seemed embarrassed by the tattoos. No one other than someone she was intimate with would see the ones on her hips, which, in Em’s opinion, was sexy. Tripp had even shamed her enough that she stopped wearing skirts. She’d had the tattoo on her calf since she was 25, getting the colors and lines touched up every few years. It’s not like Tripp didn’t know about that one.
Hmph. Good grief, she was getting herself riled up into a righteous fury over a man that she hadn’t seen or heard from in almost a year.
Em finished her glass of Scotch and chased it with a spoonful of ice cream. She poured more Scotch and got a bigger spoon.
She sat on the couch, watching a movie about Tokyo car racing and petting Beauregard. She liked how the actor didn’t have to soften his natural Southern accent in the film.
That was another thing about stupid assclown Tripp. He was always getting on her about her accent, wanting her to talk elocution lessons. Elocution lessons! That made her so mad she could spit.
Em always made sure she toned down her accent and curtailed her cursing and idioms when she was dealing with outsiders or partners. Except for Ed, Tripp’s father. Ed seemed to appreciate Em exactly how she was, hick accent and all, even if he was a wealthy Brahmin from Boston. In fact, Ed used Em’s naturally warm, welcoming personality to woo suspicious Southern clients by making them feel like the Holbrook Firm was one of them and not some Yankee interloper. Tripp couldn’t understand it.
“Tripp is a jackass, Beauregard. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you when you told me that he was no good.” She kissed the pudgy cat’s head and was rewarded with a soft “Mewp!” and a nuzzle. “But you like Mick, don’t you, Beau? You were rolling all over him, showing off, purring. You’re a good judge of character.”
Mick said her accent was cute, and not in a “oh, look at the slow, slack-jawed hillbilly” condescending way, but in an “I sincerely think the way you speak is cute” way. That was another plus in the Pro-Mick column.
Em took another swallow of Scotch and another spoonful of ice cream. She liked listening to Mick, too. A few times during their outings together, he’d whipped out some sort of Newfoundland colloquialism that charmed her. Now that was cute.
As she licked the spoon, her thoughts continued to Mick. Licking Mick. Doing other things to him. Sex with Mick. A man who could kiss that like? Yum with a side of Hell Fuckin’ Yeah. She bet Mick wasn’t selfish in bed. He’d been very attentive every time they were together—changing the subject if he sensed she wasn’t comfortable talking about something, remembering things that she had mentioned previously, opening doors for her, and entering buildings behind her. No, there was no way that man was a pleasure hog. She bet he even enjoyed going down on a woman.
She felt a twinge in her sex and knew she was getting wet. The silly romance books she read to clear her mind from the numbness of statistical analysis often described sexual anticipation as a “stirring of the womb.” She didn’t have a womb, but she had other stuff, and that other stuff was twanging away.
She heard knock on her door. Em squinted at the clock. Dear God, it was only 7:30. Or maybe it was 5:40? Stupid analog clock. Whoever was at the door knocked again. Em sighed and hauled herself off the couch, grabbing the remote to turn the television down. There was a third knock by the time she reached the door.
“Jesus Christ, what?!” Em growled as she flung open the door. Mick stood there, open mouthed, his fist poised
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