Glorious Grit Guilders,
In the last chapter you decided Lulu should definitely take Greg the butchers invitation to join the unfolding orgy AND that you’d like to see Neuroscientist Gretel again. One i’ve given you in this next chapter…one I’ll work out how to provide later.
Thanks for being here as part of this glorious choose-your-own-adventure smutty rom-com experiment.
I’m thoroughly enjoying what’s unravelling and I hope you are too.
CHAPTER THREE
"I’m coming!" I gasp loudly thrusting my phone at the startled flight attendant. My lungs are on fire and I'm pretty sure I'm about to puke all over her sensible navy heels.
She blinks at me, then taps efficiently at my screen. "Just made it, Ms Dare. We were calling your name."
"Sorry," I wheeze. My legs feel like jelly as I stumble down the jet bridge. I've never moved so fast in my life.
Every single person seems to be staring at me as I shuffle down the gauntlet of the aisle, and I don't blame them. This is by far the most obvious and embarrassing walk of shame. An hour ago, I was nestled in the comforting familiarity of Pascoe's bed, the morning light filtering gently through the curtains. I’d reached for my phone on the bedside table, intending to check the time before my alarm went off, allowing me to glide effortlessly through my morning routine and head to the airport. To my horror, the screen remained dark and unresponsive my phone was completely dead. In my drunken state I’d not checked to see if the power switch was clicked on at the wall. An immediate wave of dread crashed over me as I realized just how unbelievably late, I was. Tears welled up, and panic gripped me so violently that I'm amazed I managed to function at all. With trembling hands, and bile in my throat, I threw on clothes haphazardly while a bleary-eyed Pascoe, who I’d stunned awake with my anxious screaming, fumbled to order me an Uber. In a whirlwind of frantic movements, I was out the door within fifteen minutes, grabbing my pre-packed bag from my car and so damn grateful I’d checked in exactly twenty-four hours ago when it opened, as is my regular routine. This isn’t me. This is so far from my regular routine.
My cheeks burn with a fiery mix of exertion and mortification. I shouldn’t have drunk so much. I shouldn’t have behaved the way I did. I cannot believe I let myself get carried away. It was totally irresponsible and out of character.
As I hoist my carry-on into the overhead compartment I sink into my seat with a groan. This is not how my holiday was supposed to start. I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. My chest aches from the mad dash to the airport and having to sprint through the terminal. This isn't me. I don't do last-minute panic. I'm a planner, always prepared, always on time. Tears fall across my cheeks, and I don’t bother to wipe them away. It’s half relief and half frustration all at once.
"You alright there?" The man in the window seat eyes me warily.
"Fine, thanks," I manage, though I'm anything but. "Just... overslept."
“Well, you made it, “he nods, unconvinced, handing me a packet of tissues from his pocket, before turning back to his book.
This kindness only makes me cry more. I feel stupid and silly and then a flash from last night interrupts as I imagine Greg's hands cupping my face, his thumbs gently stroking my cheeks. The taste of him as his tongue explored my mouth. His husky whisper in my ear: "You want to play, or you want to watch?"
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