Six months of the best sex I’ve had in my entire life.Three months of feelings growing in ways I said they wouldn’t.
Six months of hooking up, three months of letting things get complicated, and now this feeling of drifting beginning between us.It’s what I asked for.
Distance.
Who knew it would make the hours of every day without him feel like an eternity.Six days ago, I called it off.This is what I wanted.Why does it hurt so damn bad though?
I hear the front bell jingle.I’m in the back baking.Ally is up front so whoever it is she will handle and I can continue this internal war of emotions while inhaling the decadent scents of deliciousness around me.
Ally’s cheerful voice carries down the hallway.“Morning!Welcome to Frosted and Filled!”
Great.A customer is here.
I slide the tray in my hands on the rack to push out front when she calls out, “Chux is here, be right back, you have the front.”
Rolling my eyes at the pitch in her tone I mutter a quick acknowledgement as I ready to go out front.She’s falling hard for the biker, and I’m happy for her.I just don’t necessarily want it in my face right this moment.
The morning rush will be starting, which means I need to plaster on the smile that everyone swears is so bright and sweet, even though today my insides feel like a tangled ball of yarn a cat shredded.
I wipe my hands on my apron and glance in the reflection of the metal rack.Hair: wild curls contained only by the grace of God.Face: tired.Eyes: the dead giveaway—it’s been another sleepless night.
Another night waiting for a message that didn’t come.Another night knowing I told him no more.Even saying it, I look at my phone every evening anticipating.
You home?
You up?
Want company?
He used to text me almost every night.
Now?
Nothing.
Not unlessI reach out first.Which I stupidly did on night two.
Not unlessImake the effort.Which meant on the second night without him, he came over, I came quick on his fingers, and he left me wanting what we had.Wanting what he wouldn’t give me again.No more connection.No more hookups.He got me off, I felt the bulge in his pants, but he didn’t let me return the favor.He didn’t slide into my heat and let my body relax against him.No, he made sure I came and then without a kiss goodbye, he walked out.
I told myself I wouldn’t reach out again.I asked for the distance and I needed to stand by my word.
Six days of the barrier, four days since I have had a single touch, and not once has he even shown the slightest bit of anything.
And I’m starting to feel… pathetic.
I push open the swinging door that separates the kitchen from the lobby, ready to greet customers and pretend my life isn’t a messy emotional crime scene.But the second I step into the bakery, I freeze.
Because there he is.
Ledger “Riot” Masters.
Leaned against the counter, arms crossed over that broad chest that I know is covered in tribal tattoos, cut stretched over tight black short sleeves allowing the full sleeve designs of his ink to show.Black jeans that fit, but not painted on, relaxed, comfortable, casual.Down to his boots crossed at the ankle.He looks like sin soaked in sunlight—if sunlight was dangerous and had tattoos and a permanent scowl.
His eyes move up, meet mine.
The heat sparks for a split second in his gaze as my body temperature climbs instantly in his space.
Then it’s gone.
