All because she texted.
It was official: I had it bad. For a woman twelve years younger than I was, no less.
Fuck, maybe I am a creep.
There was no other way to explain loitering outside the only bar in Rose City on New Year’s Eve—my least favorite holiday—like a fucking idiot, freezing my fucking balls off, all because I hadn’t thought things through long enough to grab a real fucking coat.
I should’ve waited in the fucking car.
But when the door to the bar opened and I saw her, my entire body went up in flames. She stared at me like she had seen a ghost. Gorgeous green eyes blinking rapidly, pouty lips agape. Blood rushed straight to my cock when I remembered the delicious things she could do with those lips.
Cheers and music filtered through the bar windows. “Sounds like one hell of a party.”
She straightened. “What are you doing here?”
“You texted me.”
“Well, yeah, but I didn’t think you would just—”
She waved her arms wildly, gesturing toward my body. I bit back a smile when she zeroed in on my crotch.
“And yet, here I am,” I said, stepping closer to her.
She looked good.Too good.
Her jet-black hair had grown out since we had last seen each other, enough for the teal-colored ends to tickle the roses inked on her neck, just below her ear. Dani changed her hair more often than most people changed their bedsheets, which honestlysaid more about the general population’s lack of hygiene, but that wasn’t the point.
The woman was allergic to blending in. It was impossiblenotto notice her.
I rubbed the back of my neck, trying—and failing—not to focus on her perfect tits pressing against the fabric of her top. There was no way she was wearing a bra. Talk about freeing the fucking nipple.
And that skirt.Goddamn.That thing should be illegal.
It rode up high enough to show off every inch of her shapely, tattooed thighs—the same thighs I had spent endless hours buried between—and clung to her hips like it had been painted on.
But underneath it all—the makeup, the boots, the armor—she was stillmyDani.
Only she wasn’tmine, never had been.
I willed myself to drag my eyes back up her body before I did something stupid. Like press her against the nearest wall and make her forget every second we’d spent apart. There was a chance I still might.
“To be fair, I didn’t expect you to actually read it.” Her eyes lit up with amusement and, dare I say, a hint of mischief when she took in my disheveled appearance. “Wait, were you in bed when I texted?”
I paused. “No.”
“You were, weren’t you?”
“No.”
“Probably watching one of those trash shows you love, likeReal Housewives of New York.”
It was a little unsettling how well she knew me. Our relationship, if you could even call it that, had only lasted a few months, and most of that time had been spent fucking our way through every room of my house—plus a few in hers, too.
But somewhere between all those hours of mind-blowing sex, Dani and I had shared more than just bodies.
She knew I had a soft spot for “trashy” reality shows, mainly because they made my own life feel less chaotic, and I knew about her thing for quirky, colorful socks. To be fair, I also had a thing forherin quirky, colorful socks. I had jerked off—more than once—to visions of her in a pair of black and purple striped thigh-highs and nothing else.
We had done our best to avoid talking about anything more personal than that, though she never failed to ask about Carolina, even now. Still, I couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that there was something darker, something painful lurking behind those gorgeous, green eyes and . . . goth Tinkerbell exterior.
