I can’t believe I did that.
I’m not even sure I’m conscious.
There’s a good possibility that I’m asleep in my bed down the hall and this is all a dream.
The pulse between my legs feels very real, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve dreamt something like this only to wake up alone and disappointed.
I have the overwhelming urge to pinch myself, but I hold myself back. If this is real, and I am in fact straddling my ex’s lap with his hard dick gently grinding against my pulsing core then…then what?
What the fuck am I supposed to do now?
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Shit, shit, shit.
What have I done?
“Daisy?” Killian’s voice is hoarse, wary.
Eyes still closed, I shake my head.
This was a mistake.
A big fucking mistake.
What the hell was I thinking, climbing into his lap and mauling him like that? Not only have I embarrassed myself, but I’ve more than likely led Killian to believe this is more than what it is.
I’m just a woman with needs, who has deprived herself of physical touch for years. That’s all this is.
Lie.
I only invited him inside for coffee. I wasn’t expecting anything more from him.
Another lie.
I think somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that inviting Killian into my home, where we would be completely alone, would lead to me doing something foolish like throwing myself at him, but I did it anyway.
I just didn’t expect it to hurt this much.
I didn’t expect him to whisper those familiar six little words against my lips and completely tear my heart from my chest.
“I…” with shaky fingers still pressed against my lips, I scramble out of Killian’s lap. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”
He blows out a deep breath, his shoulders falling. I watch with wide, watery eyes and red cheeks as Killian stands, his six-foot-three frame towering over me, and rights himself in his jeans.
Bringing his hand to my face, he cups my cheek, his thumb a cool caress against the warm skin. “I’m not.”
One traitorous tear glides down my face as Killian leans in and places a soft kiss on my forehead before whispering, “goodnight, angel.”
And then, he’s gone.
***
“Saturday, seventeenth of July, eleven-forty-two p.m. One message.” The robotic voice of my voicemail crackles in my ear before being replaced with the husky drawl my heart would be able to pick out in a room full of white noise.
“Dais, it’s me. I’ve called you a hundred times now. I don’t know what happened today, but please…” the hitch in his voice, much like it has every time I’ve listened to this message, causes something to crumble in my chest. “Please, angel, just call me back. I need to know that you’re okay. I love you, Daisy.”
And just like it does every time, the line goes dead, and just like I do every time, I stare at the phone in my hands as silent tears roll down my cheeks.
