And the real mystery?
I never see her chewing any.
Which means it’s justher.
Something in her soap.
Her shampoo.
Her skin.
It settles in my chest and lingers there, impossible to ignore, making me want to lean closer than I should—close enough to figure out where that sweetness comes from and why it feels like it belongs to me already.
My cock throbs, the ache sharp and immediate, so real I swear I can taste it. I lick my lips without thinking.
This woman is going to be the death of me.
If men could actually die from wanting someone, I’d already be halfway gone.
She’s completely unaware I’m standing there.
Willow is focused on the screen, brow furrowed, fingers moving quick and sure.
Then she turns.
Sees me.
And she squeaks.
Actually squeaks.
She grabs her chest like that’s going to save her life or something, eyes wide, breath catching.
I snort. “You really gonna tell me you didn’t know I was there?”
“Sorry!” she blurts. “I didn’t see you. Um—did you need something?”
Yes, Baby Girl.
I need you.
But I don’t say it.
Not yet.
Instead I straighten, rein it in, and remind myself that control is the only thing standing between me and complete ruin.
“Yeah,” I say, voice rough but steady. “Just wanted to ask you—let’s send Kelly some flowers, yeah? Surgery went well.”
Her face softens instantly.
“Oh! Of course. I’ll take care of it.”
She smiles. It’s genuine. Real.
I nod, satisfied—and far from calm.
Because every day she’s here, every meal she makes, every look she gives me without realizing what it does—I’m losing ground.
