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I wonder how soon is too soon to see her again. I don’t want her to get clingy.

I do, however, want to bury my cock in that sweet little pussy very badly. So I don’t think I’ll leave it too long. If I had better options around here, I’d try to mix things up by seeing someoneelse first; but as it is, there’s no one I’d rather fuck. Not by a long shot.

I guess I could drop in on Felicity, the twenty-something blonde I met up at Bega a few weeks ago. She’s a farm girl with a no-holds-barred energy I appreciate, but it’s a long drive and I’m not sure she’s that great of a fuck.

I eventually drift into filthy dreams of fucking Olivia senseless and wake in a better mood than I’ve been in for months.

I manage to avoid seeing Olivia all week. Despite my best intentions however, we fall into a pattern of messaging every day. They’re not even all dirty messages. Don’t get me wrong, there are a few of those. She sends me a hot selfie of her right before she gets in the shower, her hands covering up all the good bits while she shoots me a cheeky grin in the mirror. So, of course, I retaliate by sending her a thirst trap pic of my own, hand covering my junk, but only just. And it kinda escalates from there.

Somehow after that, we get talking about the best dishes that are uniquely Australian. She tries to tell me meat pies don’t count, because they’re actually British, and while she’s not wrong, she’s not really right either. The meat pie is an Aussie staple, and while it might not be a dish worth a Michelin Star, it’s also something that, done well, is a comfort food of mine.

When she tells me she doesn’t get it, I insist on taking her for a drive down to Tuross where a little family run bakery used to make the best meat pies in the world. She agrees, and I somehow find myself with plans on my only day off, which I usually avoid.

But when she meets me out in front of her bed and breakfast wearing a tiny pair of denim shorts, a cropped white t-shirt, and a huge smile, I’m not even mad about sacrificing all my time off just to prove a point.

In fact, I’m actually looking forward to the closest thing to a date I’ve had in years.

THIRTEEN

Olivia

The drive down to Tuross is two parts exhilarating and one part pure terror. Once Noah tucks me into his thick leather jacket and plants his spare helmet over my head, I cling tight to his back as he ducks and weaves around corners, dipping into each bend, making me feel like I could fall off at any moment.

Once I get used to the motion of the bike, though, I realize he’s not actually going all that fast. In fact, several cars pass us when we reach a stretch where there is room to do so. Is he going easyon me? That gives me confusing, warm feelings low in my belly until I figure he’s probably just worried about me puking in his helmet.

Once I can appreciate the ride, I press myself against his solid muscular back, and, yeah, my hands roam just a little over his sculpted abs. He’s pretty defined for someone who works with food all day. I’d never have the willpower.

Somehow I don’t think willpower is something Noah Wilson struggles with. Not based on what I’ve seen of him so far.

I’m already seriously questioning whether I can actually do this fucking without feelings thing, even when most of the time he treats me like a minor irritation.

Because every now and then, he sends me a cute message or I catch a photo with a proper smile, and something in me just melts.

It doesn’t help that he’s drop dead gorgeous.

Seriously. He’s chiseled and raw. All hard edges and bright blue eyes and a fierce look that seems like he could cut you straight to the bone with one comment. So much so that I sometimes wonder what I ever saw in Justin’s cookie-cutter handsome.

Noah stops the bike on the sleepy main street out in front of a cute little bakery. The red-and-white sign has flaking paint, and the metal roof looks slightly rusted, but the windows are bright and clean and the cakes in the cabinet look beautiful. Elaborately iced chocolate ganache cakes and smooth cheesecakes sit beside apple pies loaded with whipped cream, which makes the lid look like it’s exploding off the pie.

Just then, a woman with cropped blonde hair and reading glasses pushed up on top of her head emerges from a room at the back of the bakery holding an enormous three-tiered wedding cake. She’s moving slowly, watching the cake until she sets it on the counter.

When she looks up and spots us, her brows shoot up and she gives Noah an odd smile. “Noah! How are you, love? It’s been a long time. How are your parents?”

Noah shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and talks to his shoes. “Fine, thanks. We’ll just take a couple of meat pies, please. With sauce.”

I try to protest when he pays, but he insists, snatching the paper bags and shoving a twenty-dollar note across the counter. He does not ask the shop keeper how she is, and as soon as she hands us our change, he turns and leaves the bakery. I hurry after him. “So these are the famous pies, huh? Am I going to be amazed?”

He just shrugs and hands me a bag. “Dunno.”

I want to ask what just happened, but I’m smart enough to realize he probably won’t tell me. So I take the bag and reach inside to pull out the pie.

I’m about to take a bite and test out Noah’s theory when he snatches it back. “Don’t eat it here. And don’t eat it with no sauce. That’s blasphemy. There’s a spot down by the water.”

It’s warm, so we hang the leather jacket over the back of the bike and grab some drinks from the local supermarket, then we walk down the hill to a little jetty on a tree-covered inlet. We sit with our feet hanging over the edge. “Wanna talk about it?” I deliberately mirror his words to me the other night, hoping for an opening.

He just scowls into his pie.

Then looks sideways at me and gives a disparaging sigh when I try to take a bite of pie and nearly spill it in my lap.