Page 13 of Monstrosity
But today, he goes perfectly still under my lips, and when I pull back, there's something raw and hungry in his expression that takes my breath away.
For a moment, I think he might kiss me. Really kiss me.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and I can see the war playing out on his face—want versus restraint, need versus whatever's holding him back.
"Dasha," he breathes, and my name sounds like a prayer.
Then his phone buzzes, shattering the moment.
He pulls back, jaw tight, and answers without looking at the caller ID.
"What?" His voice is sharp, professional. "Yeah, I'll be right there."
He hangs up and looks at me with something that might be regret. "I have to go. Club business."
"Of course." I force a smile and climb out of the truck, trying to ignore the disappointment settling in my chest like a stone. "See you tonight."
I watch him drive away, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way he immediately makes another phone call as soon as he thinks I can't see him.
Whatever "club business" means, it's clearly serious enough to erase any personal concerns from his mind.
The bells above the door chime as I enter Beans & Babes, and the familiar smell of coffee and fresh pastries wraps around me like a hug.
Meghan's already behind the counter, her red hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, setting up for the morning rush.
"Well, well," she says without looking up from the espresso machine. "Look who's glowing this morning."
"I'm not glowing," I protest, grabbing my apron from the hook behind the register.
"Honey, you're practically radioactive." She finally turns to face me, green eyes sparkling with mischief. "What did Rio do to put that look on your face?"
"He didn't do anything." Which is technically true and somehow makes it worse.
"Uh-huh." Meghan clearly doesn't believe me. "That's why you look like you've been thoroughly kissed and are disappointed about it."
"We're just friends," I say automatically, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue.
"Right. And I'm the Queen of England." She starts grinding coffee beans, the noise preventing further conversation for a moment.
When it stops, she fixes me with a knowing look. "Dasha, honey, I've seen the way that man looks at you. That is not friendship in his eyes."
"Then why hasn't he done anything about it?" The question bursts out of me before I can stop it, two years of frustration bleeding through.
Meghan's expression softens. "Oh, sweetie. Maybe because he's scared?"
"Scared of what?"
"Of messing up what you have. Of losing you if things go wrong. Of not being enough for someone like you. Of the kids losing you if it goes sour." She shrugs. "Men are idiots when it comes to emotional stuff, especially men like Rio who've been through what he's been through."
Before I can talk with her anymore, the morning work rush begins.
The next few hours pass in a blur of coffee orders and small talk with regulars, the familiar rhythm of work providing a welcome distraction from my confused feelings about Rio.
It's around ten-thirty when the stranger comes in.
He's not unusual looking—mid-thirties, average height, dressed in khakis and a polo shirt like any other suburban dad.
But something about him sets my teeth on edge.
