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“Son of a bitch.” That memory of her words—the look in her eye when whispering—brings me over the edge. My palm slams against the wall, holding myself up while come shoots from the tip, dribbling down the wall and to the drain below.
It takes me a minute or two to calm my breathing and for my cock to stop twitching, and I step out, wrapping a towel around myself. My bedroom’s past this door and the bed is my destination, where I was smart enough to toss my phone before giving in to the need for pleasure.
“Now, I want the tease.” Towel thrown aside, I get comfortable with a pillow behind my head and send the first message.
What are you wearing? ~
***
10
WHAT ARE YOU wearing? ~Unknown
I’m lying in bed, staring at my ceiling and thinking about the text that came in a few seconds ago. I won’t deny the sender has piqued my curiosity, that gene all women have when it comes to deciphering the unknown, and my finger hovers over the screen without looking. Do I ignore or answer?
Because this can go one of two ways: the person is a creep, or someone is sending a little naughtiness to their other half. Moreover, I’m nosy, and trying hard to ignore the little voice inside my head that wishes this was Javier messaging me and not a random stranger.
His kiss, that quick and will-crumbling touch of his soft lips on mine, has messed with my head. With my goal and wants and the desire to stay single—unattached to any man, because I am. Javier seems to be near whenever my defenses are low and always on my mind when out working and protecting our family’s interest.
He’s loyal when he doesn’t need to be. He isn’t some nobody looking to come up.
I’ve read his file front to back, looked up the Lucas organization in Colombia, and I can’t come up with a single plausible reason for his determination to be here. To work for the Asher’s when his name is respected, feared, and admired.
He’s here because of me. A thought I’m fighting to ignore. It’s not plausible. But what if?
Because there’s no denying our attraction, this pulsing energy that fills me when we touch. Moreover, his kiss stole every reason why this can’t work and turned it into doubts on why it shouldn’t. Jesus, help a girl out here. Amen.
Indecisiveness lasts but so long, and I’m further tempted/thankful when another ping draws my attention to the screen.
Are you waiting for me? ~Unknown
Definitely someone trying to reach their lover. Something I’ll never have, and it makes me jealous—hate how untrusting I’ve become. Giving two years of my life to a man that treated me like an enemy, a cheating whore, broke something within me that turns away from any possibility for more. Then why flirt with Javier? Why is he different?
An answer I don’t possess, or maybe I don’t want to acknowledge how much the man affects me. How his indifference, the way he doesn’t take my abuse, both excites and scares me.
I’m never going to be dependent on a man, but I won’t deny that having someone be my equal is a yearning that Lane tampered with. The last thing I want is a controlling asshole or to be forced into a mold I neither find attractive nor need.
I’ll never be arm candy. I’ll never want to be the perfect little housewife.
“Even dead, the jerk ruins my fun,” I grumble, typing out a quick response to the sender before tossing the device beside me.
You have the wrong number. ~Mariah
Their response is immediate and I furrow my brows, reaching blindly and bringing the lit-up screen to my face. I read the message once, twice—three times, and a little smile curls on my lips. Because there are only two people in my life that keep their responses short and to the point, and my cousin wouldn’t send something like this.
Malcolm’s messages are solely concerning work.
And if it’s family-related, I get a call, and even that only lasts long enough to be told what to expect or where to show up in as much of a loving way as the ever-present grouch can express.
No. I don’t. ~Unknown
Then who wants to know what I’m wearing? ~Mariah
Stretching a bit, I let myself sink into the bed and wait. I don’t know how he got this number, but a part of me is happy he did. This way I can flirt, play, and maybe get to come without everything that comes attached to the title of being his.
Because the last thing I want is another possessive man laying claims.
Liar.
