These mornings just got worse and worse. Her pearl necklace bounced against her collar bone as she sprinted for the bathroom; her neck would likely be red where it'd pressed against during the night, as it did whenever she forgot to take it off, but at least putting it on would be one less thing to do.
Before running into the shower, Amber let herself brush her teeth, because, fuck, this was disgusting, the ache of strawberry sugar in her gums creating a cruel combination with her usual bad morning breath. She had the worst dental hygiene, when Eric was around. If this was going to become a permanent thing, they'd have to start making some big changes. Once in a while was fine, but doing this every day? Hell no.
It wasn’t that she hadn’t slept enough. Good god, they had, and usually so many hours was an absolute treat. The problem was—Amber blushed again, felt once more every inch of ache and sore. This wasn’t her schedule. This wasn’t how she did things. She’d missed yoga last night, just to fuck (be with) Eric, she was behind on her reading, she hadn’t gotten a proper breakfast in two days, and—she was still tired, from—she’d never—she’d screamed, before, from coming. Throat was a bit raw from that. Amber brushed her teeth harder, faster, relieved to fill her mouth with minty flavor.
It wasn't until she'd turned on the shower and got her hair wet enough to shampoo that Amber realized that Eric still hadn't joined her. It couldn't have taken him this long to walk from the bed to the bathroom, for crying out loud, what was taking him so long? If he'd fallen asleep, she'd leave him there, she swore. She was not going to be late again just because he couldn't haul his ass out of bed. Shampoo, conditioner, quick body wash; no time for more. Time to get out, and get to the next steps.
Except that was when Eric stepped in, smiling and content as if he'd just been singing with bluebirds and squirrels about what a zip-a-dee-do-dah day it was. Amber stared at him, then realized she was wasting precious moments. God, how annoying. "Easy for you to say," she snapped. "You can just get dressed and walk out the door." Not that he would; Dr. Eric Foreman, aka Mr. Perfect, wouldn't ever up in public anything less than shining and poised. And he'd still do it faster than her. And rub her face in it. Though he had no reason to, it wasn’t like he was any better than her, with a brother in jail (and, god, she’d have to think about that, at some point, about what it meant, and other things).
Leaving the water running for him, Amber wrapped a large towel around herself and quickly dried her face with a smaller one, rubbing so fast the soft cotton itched. She then went to the sink and set about putting on her fucking makeup. No time for a complete service, just the bare minimum. As she rubbed on her lipstick, Amber mentally planned out her day's outfit.
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Before running into the shower, Amber let herself brush her teeth, because, fuck, this was disgusting, the ache of strawberry sugar in her gums creating a cruel combination with her usual bad morning breath. She had the worst dental hygiene, when Eric was around. If this was going to become a permanent thing, they'd have to start making some big changes. Once in a while was fine, but doing this every day? Hell no.
It wasn’t that she hadn’t slept enough. Good god, they had, and usually so many hours was an absolute treat. The problem was—Amber blushed again, felt once more every inch of ache and sore. This wasn’t her schedule. This wasn’t how she did things. She’d missed yoga last night, just to fuck (be with) Eric, she was behind on her reading, she hadn’t gotten a proper breakfast in two days, and—she was still tired, from—she’d never—she’d screamed, before, from coming. Throat was a bit raw from that. Amber brushed her teeth harder, faster, relieved to fill her mouth with minty flavor.
It wasn't until she'd turned on the shower and got her hair wet enough to shampoo that Amber realized that Eric still hadn't joined her. It couldn't have taken him this long to walk from the bed to the bathroom, for crying out loud, what was taking him so long? If he'd fallen asleep, she'd leave him there, she swore. She was not going to be late again just because he couldn't haul his ass out of bed. Shampoo, conditioner, quick body wash; no time for more. Time to get out, and get to the next steps.
Except that was when Eric stepped in, smiling and content as if he'd just been singing with bluebirds and squirrels about what a zip-a-dee-do-dah day it was. Amber stared at him, then realized she was wasting precious moments. God, how annoying. "Easy for you to say," she snapped. "You can just get dressed and walk out the door." Not that he would; Dr. Eric Foreman, aka Mr. Perfect, wouldn't ever up in public anything less than shining and poised. And he'd still do it faster than her. And rub her face in it. Though he had no reason to, it wasn’t like he was any better than her, with a brother in jail (and, god, she’d have to think about that, at some point, about what it meant, and other things).
Leaving the water running for him, Amber wrapped a large towel around herself and quickly dried her face with a smaller one, rubbing so fast the soft cotton itched. She then went to the sink and set about putting on her fucking makeup. No time for a complete service, just the bare minimum. As she rubbed on her lipstick, Amber mentally planned out her day's outfit.