Page 10 of Conan
Outside of a few nights here and there, I’ve mostly lived on my own since Luna and I got our college degrees. She and I melded together easily, we shared everything from clothes, shoes, essentials, and food, but Conan and I—well, we don’t share anything and the fact that he doesn’t clean up after himself as well as not putting his items in drawers after using them propels me into a tailspin and to the point of utter and absolute madness, insanity, lunacy, batshit craziness, and drives me todrinking.
A bunch.
I’ve had more wine and margaritas since he’s moved in than I’ve imbibed in for my entire adult life, and that says something about how he makes me feel.
I actually think I have a few gray hairs!
Now that the thought is ruminating in my head, I pull out my hair dryer and blow dry it so I can check to see if my assumption is correct. Leaning into the mirror, I examine each strand of hair and am shocked to see that not a single silver lock of hair is seen.
Nodding at myself because I’m a badass who’s managed to keep my natural color intact through the strain of him invading my territory, I toss it up in a clip and call it a day.
I fist bump the glass, and say to myself, “You the bitch.”
Technically, I recognize the well-known saying is,‘You the man’, but seeing as I don’t have a dick swinging between my legs and the reference to that appendage when it comes to me holds no merit, I’ll stick with what I am—a grade A bitch.
And proud of it.
Fuck knows I’ve earned that title.
When my clothes, that I grabbed from my dresser and closet are settled over my body, I storm out of the bathroom, head in the direction of the kitchen where I keep my cleaning supplies, grab the anti-bacterial wipes and stomp over to Conan, where the asshole has his feet kicked up in the recliner and toss the plastic canister to him.
He grabs it after it hits his belly and turns his head in my direction. “Is there something you want me to do with these, Demi?” He shoots me a wolfish grin, the one that gets my motor revving in every area of my body, especially between the legs.I’ll never admit that out loud, especially to him because he has enough of a swollen head and doesn’t need to know this or it may explode from his mammoth-sized ego.
“You made a mess in the bathroom,” I remark.
“Did I?” he asks, sticking the tip of his tongue out and licking his lips. My eyes travel along with that action, and as they begin to glisten, my breath hitches.
A satisfied gleam stares back at me, and it annoys me enough that it has me stomping my foot. “You know you did!” I holler. “Clean the shit up, Conan.”
“I thought tomorrow was the scheduled cleaning day around here,” he teases.
“It is… usually. But if you pick up as you go, and if you think about it that way, it’s less work to be done on the scheduled day,” I argue.
He reaches over, his abs constricting as he sets the wipes on the coffee table. And yes, my eyes follow that too because they’re traitorous bitches. He stands up, and once again, I find myself transfixed by the way his abs ripple with the small moves and adjustments.
The man needs to learn how to wear a shirt for fuck’s sake. He’s always trotting around here without a top, and it has my libido confused about if we want him or if we don’t.
We don’t, we definitely don’t,I remind myself.
He’s a walking, talking nightmare to my sex drive. I can’t seem to help myself when it comes to Conan. He’s damn good in bed, the best I’ve ever had.
Again, something I’ll never mention to anyone—ever.
I’ve given in to him more often than not, and the fact that I have no self-control when it comes to him—well, it pisses me off. He’s determined, I’ll give him that.
“Alright, Demi. I’ll go wipe off the counter and clean up the sink,” he replies as he attempts to mollify me with a grin.
I nod my head, not trusting myself to say anything because with the way I’m responding to him, I’d probably drop to my knees and beg him to fill my mouth.
He walks around me, but I feel him come up behind me before he wraps his arms around my waist, leaning into my ear, he whispers, “Why are you so wound up, Demoness? Do you need some stress relief?”
What I mean to say is no, but what ends up escaping my mouth is a hissed, “Yes.”
“All you had to do was ask,” he tells me, that delectable tongue swiping along the nape of my neck, goosebumps erect along my skin in response.
“Dammit,” I utter as my top and bra go flying through the air after he rips them off me in succession.
When he cups my breasts and swipes his thumb over my nipples, I moan. “So fucking responsive,” he murmurs, nipping the shell of my ear.
