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A guy at one of the crowded tables is staring at her ass, too, and heat floods my chest, crawling up my neck. My hands curl into fists.
Only I had been holding a cup full of coffee, which I forgot in the sudden urge to beat the guy’s face in, and it crashes to the floor, spilling coffee everywhere, including my pants.
Jesus Fuck.
And worst of all? She doesn’t even turn. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t notice.
She’s not pretending.
It’s as if I ceased to exist for her, and damn, that burns. That fucking little voice in my head thinks this is a good moment to wonder if this is how she has felt all this time.
***
I’m not stalking her. Keeping an eye out for her isn’t the same, right?
She has a dark green suit on today, the skirt knee-length, her shirt with the top buttons undone, a barely-there cleavage, but suddenly my pants are too tight, and I’m sweating. My mouth waters just looking at her, just remembering kissing her, pressing against her soft curves.
She laughs at something that idiot from the Product Development department tells her, and it’s all I can do not to head over and throttle him. Motherfucking moron. He’s been staring at her tits all this time.
Perv.
Her mouth is deep ruby today, her eyes outlined in black. Silver earrings glint at her ears, her hair is swept back into a ponytail, and she’s the sexiest woman alive.
Not that it has anything to do with me. Not a damn thing.
I made sure of that.
She laughs again, and I grind my teeth, because I love the sound of her laughter, and I hate that it’s because of that Neanderthal piece of shit.
And not me.
What does he have on me? I observe him unobtrusively, sipping at the coffee I got from the machine. He’s shorter than me. Not very fit. And he has the ugliest mug I’ve ever seen.
Okay, maybe not, but in any case, his position in the company isn’t better than mine, and his car either, and he has a receding hairline.
So there.
I think I’m being fucking objective here. He’s got nothing on me. He can’t be that witty. I wish… I wish I made her laugh like this.
Goddammit.
Throwing my coffee into the trash, I kick at the machine viciously, nearly smashing the glass, before stalking away.
I have work to do, and I can’t stand the sight of him beside her for one more fucking minute.
Motherfucker.
***
I see her in passing time and again, but I’m so buried under work I don’t come up for air for days.
I dream about her. A lot. Her and Riddick.
Like this morning. Dreaming of our entwined bodies on my sheets. Of Riddick fucking me from behind while I pound into her, stroke after stroke of frantic need, wave after wave of mind-blowing pleasure, until I wake up with a strangled cry, coming all over my covers, lost in the memory of something that never happened.
How pathetic is that, huh?
Fucking pathetic, that’s how. As I shave, and shower, and dress, as I drive to work and walk into my office and sit down to start my day, the dream is all I think about.
