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The few interactions we’ve had won’t keep me satisfied for long. I need to claim her for real the same as I have in my imagination. Her walls stretching around me, her arms being pinned, her skin my teeth sink into as I bite a mark in warning to anyone who might venture too close.

My cock fattens again, only a semi but my refractory period has never been as short before.

This fucking girl.

CHAPTERNINE

FRANCESCA

By the timeI get myself ready on Monday morning, four cups of coffee slosh around in my stomach, my equivalent of Dutch courage.

I miss my phone.

Mrs Singh—the bar owner—has pinned a notice above the roster board where everyone will see it, but if it was stolen like I suspect, it’s not going to be found.

After getting my pay packet, I ordered a replacement SIM card, so I’ll retain my number and remaining credit. Next week, I should have enough to buy a cheap supermarket phone—just in time for the appointment.

If I missed a call or text from Richard’s contact, I’d be devastated.

The closer I come to walking out the door, the more my feet drag. Kincaid’s laundered shirt is in my bag, and I get breathless at the thought of returning it, knowing he saw me wear it on Friday.

The internal battle rages until I’m in the car and driving, radio volume cranked to the max, too loud to think.

“Nothing to it,” I say while I turn at the gate, park, get out, lock the door, step onto the pathway. “You’ve done this a hundred times before.”

Still whispering reassurances, I walk inside. The door to the bathroom slams open when I’m passing, startling me, and a girl with red in her cheeks and murder in her eyes storms out, hands fisted at her sides.

I follow her progress along the corridor with a mix of empathy and gentle amusement.

Girl, same.

I’m nearly at my locker when Kincaid appears at the opposite end of the hall, jolting me. His eyes meet mine, the air between us charged.

The safety of my car beckons. I almost give into the impulse and run… then straighten my spine, lift my chin, and continue walking forwards, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

He strides to intercept me at my locker. “Hey, Freckles. We’ve got another game on Wednesday if you want to spy on the players. Get there early and I’ll hide you in my locker.”

He pulls me into a playful headlock, ruffling my hair while I try, unsuccessfully, to bat him away. Unsure what’s going on or why he’s happy.

“Get off me!”

“Okay, okay. No need to shout.” He backs up a few steps, frowning as he reaches into his pocket. “I bought you a present—”

I open my locker to block his face, switching out my books while I ignore him. When I close it and spin the dial, the grin is gone.

“That’s rude, Francesca.”

“My name is Chess.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. What kind of nickname is Chess?”

A thousand times better than Fran or Frannie?

I adopt his mocking tone. “What kind of nickname is King?”

“The kind the team gave me the first time I trounced the opposition pretty much single-handed. What’s your excuse?”

“I don’t know. My mother hated me?”