Not Safe For Work: A Steamy Fake Dating Romance

Prologue

It has been broughtto my attention that I lack enthusiasm.

Enthusiasm?Seriously?

Under normal circumstances, this would be a mediocre insult, but taking into account my current position, consider me offended.

“What did you say?” The words spill out of my mouth along with my boyfriend’s dick.

“No, you can keep going. It’d just be better if you acted like you liked it more.” Liked it more? How much I am supposed to enjoy giving head? It’s not that I hate it, but what’s to like? My knees hurt from the tile beneath me. The relative silence has me focusing on nothing but the small sounds of me gagging and the constant internal thoughts about what I’m doing wrong.

Sure, I’m loving every second of it.

“Do you want me to do something differently?” I ask.

“It’s fine, just finish, okay?” He grabs the back of my head and not so gently guides himself back in my mouth. I try to force out some pleasurable sounding moans, but since he’s silent—as always—I’m not sure if I succeed.

After a few more minutes of trying my best to enjoy this, I hear the telltale grunt of my job being done.

I swallow my boyfriend’s enthusiasm and rise from the kitchen floor as he buttons his pants. And just when I lean in for a kiss, he pulls away and pecks my forehead instead.

“Sweetie,” he says in the most patronizing voice I’ve ever heard. “We should talk.”

I,Olivia Diamond, perfect girlfriend, have been dumped.

I look at my phone again because I’m dumbstruck that the conversation only lasted ten minutes. Surely, something is off. But no, the clock isn’t wrong. My brain just doesn’t want to admit defeat.

Ian spent a total of ten minutes telling me why I’m not good enough. He even listed the reasons off on his fingers. My long-term relationship has been whittled down to a thumb pointing to “bad sex”, a ring finger for “too young and immature” and a fuckingpinky to clarify that I’m “just not marriage material.” And the one that hurt the most, when he quipped about me not having a real career. He said the promotion I’ve been working toward for months is nothing but a pipedream.

For a moment, after I grab my bag and head toward the door to leave his apartment, I think he might change his mind. That maybe I’ll feel his hand on my shoulder, that he’ll spin me around and apologize. That he’ll ask me to stay. Instead, I hear him flop down on the couch and turn on the TV. Unbelievable.

My first—no, my only real adult relationship is over.

The guy I spent two years trying so hard to be perfect for has had enough of me. Two years of doing everything I could to be the girlfriend he wanted me to be. The fashion choices I made to appease him, the music I only listened to in secret, the delicious sugary drinks I gave up for “more mature” beverages. Or worst of all, wearing a tight headache-inducing bun for months at a time because my long, fiery red hair is “too wild.” All of it was for absolutely nothing.

I close the door behind me and slump against the wall, willing myself not to shed a single tear. Ian isn’t worth my tears, and I think I’ve known that for a while now. Because underneath the pain in my chest, I can feel a weight being lifted as well. It’s almost as if I’m a balloon and Ian was the rock I was tied to. I only wish I would have been strong enough to cut the string myself.

Because Ian doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Ian doesn’t know me. I am mature. I do live in the real world. I will make someone happy one day.

And I’m getting that damn promotion if it kills me.