Page 32 of Chasing Forever
“Yeah. Well…” She seems distracted. “Let me get your coffee.” She crosses the room, heading behind the counter to the coffee machines.
I step closer, my hands stuffed into my jacket pockets as if I’m some nervous thirteen-year-old boy in front of his big crush. Before the whole Vegas mess, I felt as though I was getting somewhere with her—sure, it was like following a path of crumbs, but it was something. An easiness had begun to develop between us. Now it’s like starting from scratch. The sarcasm’s gone. There’s no snark or bite. Nothing.
“So, when are you available this week?” I ask, tapping my fingers on the counter.
She prepares my coffee just as always. Her back is to me, and I hate that I can’t actually see her facial expressions. Her face always gives her away.
“It’s my date to plan. I should be asking that question.”
I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until her snarky comment. Finally, the tension in my body loosens a little. “Then ask me.”
Turning around, she places my coffee on the counter with Bully scribbled on the cup. I shake my head.
“I’m planning a date for Friday night. Do you want me to pick you up or do you want to meet me at the place?” she says.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you know my schedule.” I grin when her expression turns annoyed.
“If you could take Friday night off from going to The Hidden Cave to pick up a woman, we can cross one of these pesky dates off the list.”
“Jealous?”
She scoffs. “You wish. Now are you available or not? I have a bunch of stuff to catch up on since I was making shitty decisions in Vegas this weekend.”
“You wound me.” I cover my heart with my hand.
“Please, you’re tougher than that.” She leans her back against the counter behind her and crosses her ankles and her arms, as if the million things are going to do themselves now.
“You got two things right this morning. Bravo.”
“What are you talking about?” Her lips twist in a pissed-off expression.
“My coffee, and that I am tougher. I’ve been the victim to your insults most of my life, and I’m still standing here like a loyal dog with my tongue hanging out, begging for your attention.”
Lottie rolls her eyes. “So we should add dramatic to your singles ad?”
“I’m not eligible for a singles ad.”
“You are, Brooks Watson. This marriage is a mere formality.”
I place my coffee down, my pulse kicking up as I round the edge of the counter, cornering her as if I’ve got every right to. “As of right now, you’re my wife, Lottie Owens. So don’t stand here and pretend you don’t replay that morning just as I do. I saw the way your breath caught when I touched you. The way your skin shivered under my lips. My hands memorized every inch of your body, every curve…”
She inhales sharply because her body remembers too.
“You know how it felt when I pressed into you—when my hips locked between your thighs, my cock hard and aching, seconds from sliding inside you. Hell, I’m getting hard just remembering how soaked you were for me. So don’t stand here and lie to me and to yourself—you were ready to let me ruin you.”
Her hands flatten on my chest, right over the stitched label that reads Watson. But she doesn’t push me away. Her eyes glaze, her lips part, and for one second, I swear she’s with me. Remembering. Wanting. Needing. But just as fast, the heat drains from her face, shutting me out.
“That might be your beat-off material, but my vibrator does a better job than any man can.”
I laugh low in my throat, stepping into her until there’s barely any space between us. She doesn’t tell me to back off. So I lower my head and drag my nose along her jaw, slow and deliberate, breathing her in as if I’m starving, and she’s the only thing on the menu.
“That little toy might hum a sweet tune, but it doesn’t know that though you put on a good show of being little Miss Independent, what you really want is a man to tell you what to do when he takes you to bed. Don’t worry—I will.”
I draw back, and yep—her face is flushed as though she just walked through Arizona in the summertime in a down winter coat.
The bell above the door sounds, and she pushes me back so hard I stumble against the other counter, barely steadying myself.
“We’re not open,” she rushes to say, sliding out from behind the counter, about as far away from me as she can get.
