Page 36 of Pitiful Lies

Why should he?

I doubt he’s heard no very often. And if I am honest, I don’t really want to tell him no.

But I also don’t want my heart broken.

So, no, it is, I remind myself.

The man is like a bull. Just running roughshod over whatever perimeter I try to set up. He makes a noise deep in his throat and I swear I feel it in my core.

Why the hell is that so sexy?

“Brought you some buttered rolls and sliced fruit from Delilah’s,” he adds, naming Anna’s bakery.

My bestie still owns it, but she has nothing to do with the day-to-day operation anymore, and I think she is happier that way.

“Oh, thanks. Are you hungry?” I ask, and his eyes roam down my body, stopping where the bottom of my shirt barely reaches the tops of my thighs.

“Always,” he growls and moves forward, invading my space.

I bite my lip to stop from moaning, retreating a step in the process. I tuck my wild hair behind my ears.

“I’m gonna grab a quick shower. Help yourself to coffee,” I say and run to the bathroom.

I hear him chuckle, and my cheeks burn.

Fucker thinks he can waltz in here with all his manly hotness and throw me off balance?

Well, two can play that game.

CHAPTER TEN-ANGEL

For some reason, September always reminds me of fall even though it doesn’t start till the end of the month.

Still, I’m over here wanting pumpkin spice and apple cider donuts, but Koukla is dressed like she’s going to the fucking beach.

She’s wearing this bright white halter top that stops about two inches of skin above the long, gauzy, patchwork skirt she’s wearing in a myriad of patterns, all with white, gold, and burgundy in them.

She looks good. Really good.

The skirt is long and flowy, so it should be more than decent. But the tantalizing glimpses of leg that peek through the slits in both sides make it sexy instead of Sunday school.

With her tits propped up by the top and that skirt hanging low on her hips, revealing her sexy as fuck belly button, I don’t know where to look first.

Giselle’s fashion sense is something between wild child and sex siren, and it has me all but panting for her.

The women I typically date don’t ever look that soft or comfortable in their skin. They don’t look free. They look hard and put together. Like they put in work to cover up what they see as flaws.

All plastic and cosmetics. Fake.

But not her. My Koukla is real. She is authentic.

She just is. And that is more than enough for me.

She’s perfect.

She has this thin chain around her waist, and there are tiny beads dangling from it. Every time she moves the light catches it and my pulse starts to race.

I want to see her in nothing but that.

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