Flash Fiction Friday – Aka, my attempt to overcome crippling perfectionism.
She’d wash that man right out of her hair.
She stood under the torrent and let the heat work it’s magic on her tense shoulders.
It didn’t matter if his face was absolutely perfect. It wasn’t her fault he was basically her idea of pure masturbation candy.
She didn’t have to put up with it: the unreturned calls, the no-shows.
Christ, if he were just a smidgen less hot, she could ignore him. If that smile didn’t make her want to rip her panties off, she wouldn’t be so upset. If he weren’t so good with those hands. If his hips hadn’t been so deliciously bitable.
If the showerhead weren’t removable…
If his hands were on her thighs, his voice whispered in her ears. His weight pushing her back against the shower wall.
If his tongue hit that spot.
Yes. That was the spot.
This was an entry at Rebecca Grace Allen’s Sinful Sunday Contest.
