I pull my romper out from my closet; it’s black with white daisies printed on it. Casual enough to not look overdone for an afternoon, but pretty enough to show that I at least made an effort. I begin to fold it carefully into my bag, but stop and decide to change now so I can be ready for when I meet Cole. Drinks in the park sound like heaven at the moment. I need to lose myself for a few hours, and Cole seems like the perfect distraction from ex-boyfriends, thugs, and sexy bosses.
I DON’T MEAN to stare, at least not at first. Her bedroom door isn’t closed all the way, and the mirror in the corner of the living room angles just enough to afford me a clear view of her peeling the tight ripped denim slowly down her long tan legs. I look away quickly, not wanting to invade her privacy but then my resolve crumbles to dust at the mere sight of her. I’m the worst kind of person: I realize that looking again would be a gross violation of not only her trust but also her privacy, but I toss that knowledge aside to sate my own desire and hazard another brief glance. She’s wearing a black thong and her shirt’s on the floor, cast aside with her pants. My pulse quickens, the air suddenly too thick to breath as I stand paralyzed, unable or perhaps unwilling to avert my inspection of her nakedness.
Her back is still facing me; the curve of her flawless pert ass has all the blood in my body redirected straight to my dick. I close my eyes and will her to close the door, but when I open them again, she’s still standing there, gloriously bare and unaware that she’s being watched. She stretches like a tired, lazy house cat, her back arching, her head falling back. I watch transfixed as she raises her arms, lifting them above her head and then pushing them out wide, enjoying the stretch. The throbbing ache in my pelvis intensifies tenfold as she moves to pick up a bra from somewhere low, just out of view. One perfectly formed breast and dark pink nipple snaps into view, and I feel dizzy with want. The thought of her bent over me as I take that nipple into my mouth and run my tongue over the hard bud clouds my judgment. Instead of turning away and letting her dress away from my prying eyes, I take a step closer to the mirror, hoping to better my view. My hardening penis is pushing painfully against the zipper in the tight confines of my pants, begging me to push them down and allow it to spring free. For a moment, I contemplate taking myself in my hand and easing the ache.
Get a fucking grip, Cal.
I take another step closer to the mirror, and the floorboards groan under the pressure of my boots.
I jump back startled as she turns, and I quickly look away from the mirror, calling out, “You about ready?” It’s a feeble attempt to cover up the fact that I was just watching her undress like a pervert.
“One minute,” she calls. I hear her bedroom door click shut…fuck. Did she notice me watching, I wonder? I feel like I’ve hit a new low. I’m doing my best to avoid spending too much time with her, but it’s no use. I want her like a parched desert wants rain, and the more I deny myself the more intense that desire becomes. I adjust my throbbing cock, pulling at my jeans hoping to create enough space to ease some of the discomfort. I brace myself against her kitchen countertop, taking a few deep steadying breaths and willing the effects of seeing her undress to subside.
The door to her bedroom creaks on its hinges as it opens, and I turn in time to see her emerge from the room with her hair flowing loosely across her shoulders. I try not to watch the way her chest bounces with each step—I fail. What’s left of my decency forces my gaze south, away from the magnificent display that she has no concept is playing out. My vision crashes into her legs; they look a mile long, barely covered by the tiny scrap of material she’s wearing. I swallow hard, my mouth dry, and look away completely. She exudes innocence and sensuality all at once; my whole body is on fire, and if I look at her face right now, there’s no way I’ll be able to conceal the hunger.
I fumble in my attempt to make small talk as I carry her bag down to my Harley, securing it to the back as she tells her neighbor goodbye. I refuse to look over, instead focusing my gaze at the street ahead. The bike dips as she settles her weight behind me, bare tan legs clamp down around me and I have to make a concerted effort to hold back the groan making its way from my chest. It’s threatening to spill from my mouth in a confession of how badly I want to pull her around me and bask in the delight of her chest pushed into my face. Her fingers slide around my torso painfully slowly and lace together as she secures herself.
I know she doesn’t particularly enjoy riding the bike; it scares her. And if I weren’t such an asshole, I’d have brought her in my car. I’m not even sure she knows I own one. After letting her ride pillion that first time I brought her home, I’d unintentionally ruined the enjoyment I get from driving this thing alone. I rev the engine and pull away from the curb at top speed. I don’t mean to scare her, but I’m annoyed with myself. The bike lurches forward, and her body reacts by squeezing every part of me that it’s touching even tighter. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my t-shirt and I slow down, not because I want her to loosen her grip—fuck, I’d love for her clamp down on me harder—but the thought of scaring her doesn’t sit well. I’ve witnessed her frightened already, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to be the cause of that fear.
In kindergarten it was physical abuse: pulling hair, purposefully tripping and being a little shit, all with the intention of getting attention. Then came the whispering, passing notes and bribing your best friend to put the feelers out in middle school. By high school it was straight-up defamation—now it’s subtle tactics, playing it cool and admiring from a distance. Why? Because to actually admit to one, yourself, and two, the person in question that you actually like them would be nothing short of fucking crazy. But I’m considering it. The whole journey back from Tweet’s apartment had my mind in tatters. So what if she works for me? The only rules I’d be breaking are self-imposed.
I almost do it.
As I’m walking back into the club and watching her ass ascend the stairs, I almost tell her that I can’t think of anything but her when she’s within 200 feet. And right as the declaration lingers on the tip of my tongue, ready to stumble forward off the cliff, straight into the murky waters of mixing business with pleasure, she tells me she has a date. I swallow my admission like a bitter pill, disappointment and jealousy fusing acridly, leaving a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. I reason that it’s a good thing. My rules are intact; no lines have been crossed—at least none that she’s aware of. Yes, Tweet dating is a good thing…and if I keep repeating it to myself. I might even start believing it.
She’s smiling as she tells me she’ll be back before her shift starts, and I fake disinterest. I want so badly to ask her where she’s going and who she’s going with. Is this a spur-of-the-moment thing, or a first-time occurrence? And fuck if I don’t want to interrogate her and then forbid her to go.
“See you later,” I reply. I sit my phone in the docking station, selecting the moodiest, pissed off anger-infused piece of music I can find while she’s still in the room. I try not to watch her twisting her long waves into a loose knot at the base of her neck as I sink down into the sofa, the weight of my annoyance balanced precariously on my shoulders. Not overstepping the mark, telling her to stay here, is far harder than it should be.
Muse fills the room, the heavy bass pulsing through the speakers. She stops halfway to the door.