I can’t remember the last time I was excited about anything.
Except that’s a lie, isn’t it?
I’m excited right now, alone in my car at the end of a long, busy shift. The first couple of times, I was too nervous to be excited and last night…well, that was different.
But right now, the anticipation I feel scares me more than anything else I can think of.
For the first time, I almost wish this whole thing didn’t have an end date.
Almost. Because along with that anticipation is something a lot closer to fear. The fear knows that I could fall hard and fast for this guy.
And that’s the very last thing I want.
18
Jake
If blue balls were a real diagnosis, I’m pretty sure I’d be in treatment for it by the time I roll up to Kit’s place the next evening. It’s only been two days since I lost it and took her behind the bar, but, given that I think about it every second of every day, I don’t know how I’ve survived without rubbing one out at all.
It’s probably just the blue balls talking, but I almost lost it when she gave me a literal fuck schedule.
Pretty sure she’d hate it that I think of what we do as fucking and not, say, fertilizing or donating a sample or whatever, but as I’ve made very clear, this isn’t about that for me. It’s about sex, plain and simple. Scratching an itch that’s too persistent to get rid of.
The problem with some itches, though, is that they only get worse the more you scratch. I had chicken pox as a kid and I remember that first hit of nail to skin was absolute bliss. Until I scratched myself raw and my whole body was covered with the damn things.
That’s what this is like…except sexy.
Now that I’ve heard those little gasping noises she makes and felt her come around my cock, I want her more than ever. Exponentially.
There’s also a very good chance that all the withholding she’s done has only made it worse. Who doesn’t crave forbidden fruit?
The only solution at this point is to get her out of my system.
I’ve got less than three weeks left to do it before I move on.
The stone walkway up to her little house is overgrown with weeds and grass. The roof looks like shit. I don’t imagine she’s got a whole lot of time to take care of anything but the restaurant. The house itself is cute. A pale yellow bungalow with dark shutters, their paint peeling so bad it’s hard to tell if they’re meant to be brown or grey. I’d probably throw a coat of black up there and on the door to make the whole place just a little sharper.
Not that she’s asked for my opinion. Nor is she likely to. Katarina Esteban is a woman who knows her own mind. She’s got boundaries—and rules—for days.
I head up the steps, bottle in hand, lift the knocker, and barely have time to drop it when she’s there, opening the door.
My lungs empty. Christ, I thought she was gorgeous at work, all done up, her face put on, in those tight-waisted dresses or jeans that hug her curves, but this look? The soft, no makeup, loose top, comfortable pants look? She’s a dream.
“Hey,” she says, a shy half-smile on pink lips I’ve only ever seen in bright red.
Cute is the only word I can think of and I know for a fact she’d hate it.
“Howdy.” I hold up the bottle. “Figured this couldn’t hurt.” In my pocket, I’ve got lubrication of a different sort. Just in case.
“Oh. Yeah. Right. Thanks.” She steps back without taking the bottle off me. “Come in.”
I walk in and look around while she closes the door.
“Um, so, that’s funny, because this is for you.” There’s a shallow silver tin sitting in the palm of the hand she’s holding out.
I stare at it for a second before picking it up. “What’s this?”
“It’s for your, um…” She points at the bruise on my face. “Your bruise and knuckles.”
