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We played.
We ate.
We enjoyed the full-pampered, little-girl, bubble bath with a specifically curated playlist.
And now, the precious angel is safely tucked away in a portable crib in my spare room. It’s amazing what you can have delivered to your home at a moment’s notice when you have family-funded finances.
Family, not family. The distinction is significant.
But the house is quiet, the wine in my glass is cold and crisp, and my laptop is open. I’ve written this scene in my head a thousand times over, always stalling right at the big moment. Maybe I am better off trimming hedges and disposing of bodies. The pay is good. The hours don’t always suck. And I know what I’m doing, whereas with writing, anything I do is a crapshoot.
I should just make peace with the fact that I’m doing this for me, that the story will never go anywhere, never be published. But it can still entertain me on lonely nights.
Light flashes outside the living room window and I wait, breath held close as I count Mississippis. I can’t remember if each one is a mile or what the exact unit of measurement a single Mississippi is, but I count just the same. And when the rumble of thunder rolls over me, I shiver. Just a little.
It’s not a chill though, it’s a full-on shiver of anticipation. Of yearning. Of all the things the hero in my silly little story promises to deliver to the only woman who has ever truly captivated him.
That. That, right there is what I want, what I feel with Eddie.
I didn’t imagine the way he touched me today. I didn’t hallucinate the way he slid his hand along my thigh and whispered in my ear. That shit happened. He did those things all while mentally stripping me bare.
Yes, please.
Another light flashes, but this one is low, red, and from my security panel, indicating movement outside. Moments later, a key scrapes into the lock at the back door, barely audible above the sound of rain pelting the roof and windows.
I set my laptop on the coffee table and make my way to the kitchen, busying myself with mundane-yet-homey tasks.
“Did you set this out for me?” Eddie asks as he fills the doorway, towel in hand, dabbing at his rain-soaked hair, shoes off, likely left neatly by the door.
“I did.” I press start on the microwave to heat his dinner and turn to face the man of my dreams.
He shoves at his hair, wet tendrils clinging to his neck, droplets rolling down his strong nose. His eyes are sad, maybe tired. Maybe something else entirely but so alluring. He stares, not at me—but into me. Like he’s working out the depths of the depravity that fuels my soul. Or something equally as poetic.
“How—”
The beep of the microwave cuts him off, and I scurry to silence it in case Evie’s not fully out. Steam billows from the bowl, heat seeping through the tea towel I use to set it at the kitchen island.
“I made stew and fresh rolls.” I busy myself setting a place for Eddie—napkin, spoon, and bread plate, along with the butter crock and a beer. “Eat. It’s good.”
His gaze doesn’t leave me as he scoops the hot bowl into his hand.
“Careful.” I offer the towel, but Eddie waves it away and devours the stew. He tears the roll in half and swipes it through the gravy, essentially wiping the bowl clean. “Damn. So not a working dinner with the boss man?”
“No.” He picks up the beer and glances into the living room, scanning the couch where Evie generally falls asleep when she’s here.
“She’s asleep.”
His throat bobs deliciously as he swallows. “Where? In your bed?” His eyes are narrowed and the need to make sure his daughter is safe has him angling for the hallway.
“Spare room. First door on the left.” I narrow my eyes because how dare he think I would put her in harm’s way. “There’s a portable crib. The monitor’s on the coffee table, but you are welcome to go check on her yourself.”
He does exactly that, stalking back into the kitchen, empty beer bottle casually dangling from between his fingers. “You said you were coming straight back here, not going shopping unescorted with my daughter.”
“And I did. I placed an online order and had it delivered. We had a great afternoon, by the way. Had a fucking blast.” I close the space between us and shove my finger to his sternum. The fabric of his dress shirt is wet—cold and wet—making his nipples bead up into tight points. I want to sink my teeth into them. Bite him. “She helped me pick veggies for the stew and she kneaded the dough. Wore herself right out, so by the time she ate her dinner and had a bath, she was more than ready to sack out.”
Eddie’s face softens, and his gaze bounces back and forth between my eyes. And then he does it. His chest expands putting those cold little bitable nips on display, and the sigh that he lets free—pure fucking magic.
It takes everything I have not to fall to my knees and beg for his cock, or bend over the cold granite and plead for him to fuck me. Why does his sigh do this to me?
