But it still does.
Maybe that’s because I haven’t stopped looking at her, trying to read every micro-expression that crosses her symmetrical oval face. Trying to figure out why I still want her thick, pink lips, her soft, ample curves, her flavor.
God, that tightens something low in my gut.
But it’s more than just lust or remembering her silky, dark red hair sliding between my fingers. It’s more than the adorable sounds she made when my head disappeared between her legs or the way her body responded to me. As if I were all she needed.
Something broke last night, and I can’t explain it. Or fix it. Like I realized there’s something I’ve been missing for thirty-four years that I didn’t even know existed. Let alone how much I craved it.
And now, it makes everything else before somehow mediocre—colorless, flavorless, boring.
Her dark eyes meet mine for one second, still unreadable. Then she looks away.
A couple ahead of us laughs quietly, fingers intertwined, paperwork in hand as if this is just another box to check.
Not for us.
For us, this is something else.
I glance down at my hand. At the ink circling my finger. Permanent, simple. Too real to ignore.
I flex it once. “This doesn’t have to be today,” I say.
Her head snaps toward me. “Yes, it does.” Her words come out too fast.
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
A couple tense moments pass, and then, she exhales, tension still locked in her shoulders. We take another step forward in line.
The quiet settles between us like a wall. I have to find words. Talk this through with her, but where to start?
Words… expressing my feelings have never been my strong suit. Neither has being spontaneous as this ill-fated weekend has already proved.
“You always run this fast?” I ask. The words come out all wrong.
Her brow arches. “I’m not running.”
“Feels like it.”
Her head turns, finally looking at me. Really looking this time. “You don’t understand,” she says.
“No,” I agree. “I don’t.”
I let the confession settle. “But I could.”
Her fingers flex against her arms. Her gaze flickers—just for a second—like she’s considering it. Then it’s gone.
“No,” she says again, quieter now. “You couldn’t.”
We step forward again. Closer to the desk and being done.
Something in my chest tightens. I don’t like this. Not one bit. Not how easy she’s making this. Or how final it already feels.
Something else cuts through, too, clean and sharp. Her concern before about safety.
“You don’t even know me,” she adds.
“I don’t need to know everything,” I say. “And there’s time… to sort all of this out.”
