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And holy shit, I wanted to.
But, I wasn’t going to. I was going to take a hot shower and try to steam the stench of beer and coconut rum out of my pores and then I was going to go to bed. I was not going to go to her. I wasn’t going to touch her. I wasn’t going to peel her panties off and taste her. Make her scream my name.
I wasn’t.
When I got home she was still gone. Still on her date and it did something to me. Twisted my guts into knots. Blurred my vision. Made it hard to breathe. Made me want to wait for her in the dark and pounce on her the second she walked through the front door.
But I stayed on track. I took a shower. I even shaved. Pulled on a pair of basketball shorts and climbed into bed.
I lasted a whole five minutes before I was up again, in the living room, waiting for her to come home.
Cari does not belong to me just because I want her to.
Cari is a grown woman who is capable of making her own decisions.
After the way I’ve treated her, Cari is smart to stay away from me.
These are things I told myself, over and over, while I waited for her to walk through the door. When she came home, I was going to apologize. I was going to let her apologize to me. We were going to move on. Try to be friends again. Put this all behind us.
Then she walked through the door and all my good intentions went out the window. What I did is the exact, polar opposite of moving on. I ordered her to finger fuck herself while I jerked off and came all over her ass. Not exactly something a friend would do. Not something a sane, rational person would do either.
The worst of it is, when I left her standing there, her perfect ass covered in my cum, I wasn’t finished with by her half. I’d wanted more. So much more. I felt myself teetering on the brink and it took every ounce of decency I had left to force myself to walk away.
Decency.
The word flopped over in my brain and I laughed out loud, the harsh sound of it ricocheting off the walls of my room like a bullet because I’m pretty sure now I’ve never actually been decent. I’ve never really been the nice guy. I’ve just been pretending this whole time. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, going through the motions to please the people around me. I’d gotten so good at it I even fooled myself.
It’s different with Cari. I’m different with Cari. I can’t pretend. Not anymore. I’m harder. Sharper. Relentless. I’m someone I don’t even recognize half the time. Someone I’m not sure I like.
The only thing I’m sure of is I can’t stop. I can’t go back to who I was. Now that I’ve had her, I can’t let her go.
Not now.
Not ever.
Thirty-eight
Cari
I lay in bed, listening to Patrick move around the kitchen, alternating between working up the courage to get up and talk to him and willing him to come in here and make me come again. The thought makes my pussy clench in response, reminding me that he’d walked away from me before either one of us got what we really wanted.
Huffing out a frustrated breath I force myself out of bed. Pulling a pair of pink cotton boy shorts from the top drawer of my dresser, I pull them on before gathering my hair into a messy bun. It’s Sunday. I don’t even have to leave my room to know what he’s doing. He’s standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, eating a quick bowl of cereal while he waits for the coffee to finish brewing so he can slam a cup before heading to his game. When I go out there, he’ll say good morning and act like nothing is happening between us. Like I still can’t feel his hand pressed against mine. On my breasts. Between my legs.
I’m gonna come all over your ass…
The flash of warm heat that rushes through me to settle between my legs is enough to make me have second thoughts about going out there.
I pull my door open and step into the hall, reminding myself that I live here too. I have just as much right as he does to be here. He can be as polite and proper as he wants.
In the kitchen, I find him doing exactly what I expected. He’s dressed in faded jeans and a navy T-shirt with the DG Contracting logo splashed across the front. He’s got a bowl of Raisin Bran in his hand and he’s making quick work of it, like here is the last place he wants to be. Next to him, on the counter, is his ball cap. He won’t put it on until he’s outside. If you ask him why, he’ll laugh at you and say, because I’m not an animal.
But I know that’s not true. Patrick Gilroy is a wolf, walking around in people clothes.
“Morning,” I say, forcing as much cheerfulness into my tone as I can but he doesn’t answer. It’s like I’m not even here. Turning away from him, I open the cabinet over the coffee maker. Pulling a cup free, I reach for the coffee pot to pour a cup. Leaning over I open the refrigerator, bending to pull the carton of half and half out to add a generous dollop. Moving around the kitchen, I can feel the weighted heat of his gaze on my ass. The sensation of it stiffens my nipples instantly.
Turning around, I lean against the short length of counter across from Patrick and take a sip of coffee. “I’m not going to make the game today,” I tell him, working to keep my tone light and friendly. “Chase is coming over.” It’s true. Chase is coming over but not for the reason I’m letting him believe. We spent the night at the gallery, watching people fawn over his work until the showing was over. Afterward, we walked and talked until nearly three in the morning and somewhere along the way it went from a first date to two friends, just hanging out, to a quazi-job interview.
He asked me about my painting, and after nearly an hour of poking and prodding, got me to agree to show him some of my work. “Chase is coming over,” I say it again because from his reaction, you would’ve thought I told him we were out of toilet paper.