Just My Type by Sophia Karlson

Author:Sophia Karlson [Karlson, Sophia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-02-22T16:00:00+00:00

20

Hayley

Being at the mercy of a sexual craving isn’t something I relish. I get home, grab my vibrator from the bathroom cupboard and get busy.

It’s most unsatisfactory.

My thumb still feels the soft curve of Mark’s bottom lip where I traced the shape of his mouth. My other fingertips still burn with the prickles of his stubble on the slope of his jaw. His hands have left ghostmarks on my skin, warm spots where I still feel his soft caress and the trail his fingers burned on my body. Where this hand goes, my lips want to follow.

The feeling of Mark’s hands on me is so much better than what my mind can conjure up. I want his lips everywhere. Physically. Not just in my mind where the fantasy disappoints. I want it again and I want more.

He watched me the whole evening; his gaze followed my every step to such an extent that I became unnerved. Mark Hastings doesn’t have a wandering eye. There were multiple single ladies at the wedding, and yet he didn’t dance once. He found me and drew me into his arms, the most blissful place carved out for me, to sway in a slow and intimate dance away from prying eyes. His body is like a rock, a safe haven somehow, and one I want to return to. Again and again.

If he is so willing to give, why am I still so unwilling to take? It’s been days since Candace Hallewell posted a picture of them together and for all I know she was only his festive season distraction.

My head knows I shouldn’t think the worst of Mark because he has a reputation as a player, but my heart tells me that once a player, always a player. The Ex had a wandering eye, one I foolishly lost track of. It seems that where the eyes go, the hands follow. Where the hands go, the lips follow.

I hate myself for this inability to move on. I have no life. My future stretches before me in a haze of wedding gowns and an underground editing bunker from which there’s no escape.

Mark keeps telling me to live a little, and yet I block myself at every turn. I work too hard. Five weddings in January doesn’t equal five Saturdays to take photos of pretty brides. It equals sixteen hours a day for weeks on end to get all the editing done and produce the perfect photo album, printed on thick, matte paper to hand out to parents and grandparents.

At one point, work was the ultimate cure for my broken heart. It was the perfect excuse for everything—from a Friday night date (working a long day tomorrow), a Saturday night date (wedding day photo shoot), to Sunday (welcome to my back-up day! And oh, I’m so tired). Weeknights? I have to edit because the bride wants to have her photos ASAP!

Work might have saved me when I was at my lowest, but if work is all you care for, nothing else gets traction.

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