Free Masked Definitions by A. E. Murphy

try and bring feeling back to it. “It’s so fucking adorable.” His arms wrap around me from behind and his lips place gentle kisses on my neck. “We should get you a warmer coat.”
    “I don’t think a coat is going to keep my nose warm.”
    His lips smile against my skin as his hands wander up and down my body and our hips sway together where they’re joined. “I hate waking up and you not being here.”
    “You’ll get over it.”
    He tenses at the bite to my tone, as do I. I shouldn’t have spoken to him like that; he didn’t deserve it. I’m letting my stress turn on him. “Wow, bitch alert.” Pulling away, he moves back to his space on the couch. “Are you due on?”
    “Fuck you,” I joke and throw the empty cotton bag at him. Using reusable fabric tote bags is my way of being good to the environment. “I’m just tired. All of these late nights are finally catching up with me.” I sniff unattractively. It’s fake but I’m hoping I can weasel my way out of this. “I think I’m coming down with something.”
    “Don’t,” he snaps, turning on the couch to glare at me. “Don’t you dare cancel.”
    “Babe…”
    “No. I’m serious, Liv. Don’t you dare fucking cancel.”
    “I won’t.” I turn away from him so he can’t see my scowl. “That’s not what I was doing.”
    “I’ve known you since we were thirteen, Liv. That’s exactly what you were doing.” He winks, signifying that there are no hard feelings between us.
    He probably simply thinks that I’m anxious.
    “Come here.” He pats his lap, his body facing the TV again.
    “In a minute.” I pull my phone from my pocket as I move towards the chest of drawers on the far side of the room. “I need to figure out what to wear. I can’t relax until I know what I’m wearing.”
    “Wear a dress.” He wags his brows at me.
    That’s not a bad idea. Normally I’d be opposed to wearing dresses but I have this knee length, black and white tunic dress that I haven’t worn for a while. It does nothing for my figure. It buries me, makes me look frumpy.
    “Sure.” I rummage through the bottom drawer, grab the dress and clear the surface of the glossy drawers.
    “Need the iron?” He must be excited; he’s actually making an effort to help me without me having to prompt him.
    “Of course.”
     
    Penelope is exactly how I imagined her to be. Perfect, prim, proper, blonde, blue eyes, manicured nails. She’s a piece of fucking art in her designer dress and shoes I’d kill for, although, in my opinion, she seems to be too skinny on an unhealthy level. Women of all shapes and sizes are beautiful. She is beautiful, but an inch of fat on her legs wouldn’t hurt at all.
    She is also surprisingly friendly when she greets us with kisses to each cheek and warm hugs. I’m not going to lie, I had a preconceived notion that she’d be a stuck up prissy bitch. I hate myself for being judgemental.
    “It’s so wonderful to meet you! Elijah has told me so many things. I just apologise that I couldn’t be here for your initial meeting,” she says. Her accent has a slight American finish to it though it’s posh, through and through.
    Definitely ‘high-born’ as the Duke once said to me during our first meeting in the whore house.
    “You too, he said you were in New York?” Max asks, his accent not hiding the fact that he was born and raised in York.
    “I was in Florida. New York was last October,” she clucks good-naturedly and leads us into the same room that we were led into by Elijah’s assistant. “Please, make yourselves at home. Shall I call for tea?”
    She directs her question at me and I realise that until now, I haven’t actually spoken. “Please.” I need a stronger drink than tea to rid my body of the shaking.
    “Or maybe you’d prefer wine?” She asks after tapping something on her wrist.
    “Yes,” I say, my tone relieved. “Please.” Add a splash of vodka to that too , I think but don’t say.
    Mildred, the