CHAPTER
EIGHT
HARRISON
It takesa monumental effort to walk away from Olive. I want to push her into her apartment and take her here and now. She’d let me too. But I don’t want her to regret it. Part of me is mentally kicking myself because this could’ve been the perfect one-night stand. Some long-lost honorable part of me has roared to the surface and wants to give her better than that.
I’m not even sure I have more to give. In fact, I’m pretty sure I have nothing else to offer except for my body and an amazing orgasm or three. She needs and wants more from a man than sex, and I know it.
The letter that’s burning a hole in my jacket pocket has that now familiar feeling of guilt coming to the forefront. Back in the car, I shock my driver by telling him to take me home instead of back to the office.
I pull out Olive’s letter and debate reading it or not. Rita offered it to me. She obviously knows something is going on… but why is she allowing it? She prides herself in her matchmaking service, and I am definitely not the kind of guy she takes on as a client. She takes men who are ready for love and are looking for their soulmates. Not men who are incapable of intense feelings of love and relationships.
It just doesn’t make any sense.
I tap the letter against my leg as I consider Rita’s intentions. She obviously had Olive write a second letter. Is it in response to her match, or is it a replacement for the one I stole? Did her match write her, or did Rita make excuses for me taking that first letter and have her start again?
Despite my curiosity, I don’t open her letter. Part of me realizes how wrong it is to keep her from meeting the man my aunt has picked for her, but I’ve never been a nice man. I always get what I want, and I want Olive. I toss the letter down on my desk and head to my bedroom.
I strip off my clothes and start the shower, turning the water straight to cold. My cock still throbs in my pants after having Olive’s hot little hand on me, her soft lips parted for my seeking tongue. The look of desire in her eyes as I rubbed against her—that pretty pink blush on her cheeks after I made her come.
I take my cock in my hand with a groan. I flip the water to hot and stroke my length, knowing that I’ll never survive a date with her without a little relief. I fist my cock, stroking it to the memory of Olive’s lustful sounds as I ground against her. My balls draw up as I imagine burying myself into her tight heat and pounding her pussy until she’s screaming my name. I come on a groan, hot jets of my release coating my hand as I continue to jerk myself to completion.
The orgasm doesn’t even take the edge off. I have a feeling nothing will except having her underneath me. Nothing will satisfy me until I’m buried deep inside Olive’s tight cunt. I tug on a pair of jeans and walk barefoot to my home office. I pour myself a drink and give in to my curiosity, and open Olive’s letter.
This letter is much the same as the last, except there’s a feeling of closed off-ness that the first letter lacked. She’s lessopen with her words… I quickly realize the vulnerability of the first letter is what’s missing.
Instead of talking about her cat, she merely mentions that she has one. She’s given a laundry list of things about her but without any details—just facts.
Favorite food? Tacos.
Favorite color? Green… This one I find odd since her last letter stated her favorite color is pink. I wonder why the change.
Favorite movie? Silence of the Lambs. I’m surprised by this. As a romantic, I would assume rom coms would be her thing.
The list goes on and on. I learn a lot about her, but nothing deep. She doesn’t mention her family, her job, her friends, nothing meaningful at all. I can’t help but wonder if meeting me is the reason for the change.
Without analyzing myself too deeply, I decide to write Olive back. I’m not the romantic type—obviously—but the change between letters is enough to have that guilt rearing its ugly head again. I don’t want her to feel unwanted. I have no idea what I’m doing, only that it feels like the right thing to do.
Dear Olive,
It’s nice to “meet” you. I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ll be honest, I’ve never had a long-term relationship. I haven’t found anyone to spark that desire in me. I’m thirty-five years old and figure it’s time to try something new.
Where the fuck did that thought come from? Try something new? I read back what I’ve written and realize I actually mean what I wrote. What the fuck is wrong with me? What has thiswoman done to me? I should rip this letter up. Call off our date, but something won’t let me do that. I want to see where this is going, even if I already know it won’t end well.
I’m a selfish dick like that.
I guess that’s how I ended up using a matchmaker. Skip the middleman and go straight to the source.
I realize then why Rita’s services are so sought after. Only people who are willing to take the extra step to make themselves be open and vulnerable from the get-go are people who are ready to cut straight through the bullshit of dating. They are prepared to let it all hang out from the beginning.
I shake my head and continue to write…
A few things about me: I own my own business. I like being the man in charge. I like getting things my way. It’s a flaw.
What I don’t say is that I’m an asshole who has to have his way in all things. Which is one reason I won’t give up this opportunity with Olive. It’s why, despite my better judgment, I’m writing this letter. Writing this keeps me in charge. At least that’s the lie I’m telling myself right now. Something tells me I’ve lost complete control of the situation even if I’m the mastermind behind it.
My favorite color is blue.
