Not at her. For her
She drops a bag—apples, by the look of it—straight onto the wet ground.
“Oh my God!” she gasps. “Sorry! You scared me!”
I step closer, eyes on her face, wanting her to see me.
To know it’s me.
To understand I won’t hurt her. Not ever.
“You need to pay better attention, Baby Girl.”
The words slip out before I think better of them.
I don’t apologize.
I point at the door.
“Inside. Now. I’ll unload. You put things away.”
She hesitates just long enough to irritate the hell out of me.
I place my hand at her lower back and nudge her forward.
Not rough.
Just firm.
The second my palm makes contact, my body lights up like I touched a live wire.
My cock pulses, growing hard beneath my jeans.
Fuck.
She’s warm.Soft.Solid in a way that makes my grip flex before I can stop it.
My thumb presses in instinctively, like I need to make sure she’s real, that she’s here and safe and not somewhere out on the road where I can’t get to her.
She blinks slowly, startled.
I should pull my hand back immediately.
I don’t.
Instead, I drop my hand lower, digging my fingers into her jeans just above her ass.
It feels good. Right. Like I belong touching her.
And I want that. Christ, I want the right to touch this woman. I need it.
Five more weeks,I tell myself.
Only now, I think maybe that’s an impossible ask.
Her hair’s getting soaked, darkening as freezing rain slicks it down.
She’s wearing that thin jacket again—the one I already told her wasn’t enough—and something ugly coils in my gut.
