The other option is equally frightening: What if the monsters she claims are dead aren’t. Not really. I don’t know what these monsters are, but I’ve heard the nightmares.
The moment she started talking about staying at her place, I knew I couldn’t just wait her out. Maybe a drink or two will help her relax. And once she is, she can tell me what the fuck is going on in that pretty head of hers.
If I know what’s changed from that first night to now, maybe I can fix it.
I’ve never had a woman fake it with me before. Not that I remember, anyway. I’ve had women not finish. Hell, Queenie doesn’t always. It’s never bothered me before Phoebe.
I could stop fucking her in the middle of the night. It’s an option. Not a favorable one. And one I don’t think I’m actually capable of unless she tells me no.
Now that I’ve had her, it’s like a siren’s call I can’t ignore. The moment the clock strikes one o’clock, I have to have her. I have to walk into her room and take her. Feel her tight heat around my cock and hear her moans.
The craving to have someone—a specific someone—hasn’t happened in over ten years. It’s new and unfamiliar, and frankly, I’m not exactly a big fan of it. But I can’t fight it. I need Phoebe in a way I don’t understand.
Phoebe said nothing as she sat behind me on my bike as we drove to the bar. The smile on her face as we got off twisted something in my chest, and I couldn’t help but smile back.
Yep, the ladies love motorcycles.
Now she sits quietly beside me at the bar. Happily, but quietly. The only time she speaks is if I ask her a question, and she sips the beer I ordered for her.
Sips. So. Fucking. Slowly.
My hopes of getting her buzzed enough to let her guard down and tell me the truth about what’s going on are basically zilch at this rate.
Nancy stands at the other end of the bar and eyes me up. The look feels very judgmental, and I don’t particularly care for it.
“Be right back, Yellow Crayon,” I say.
She just gives me a smile and nods as I walk over to Nancy at the other end of the bar. For the first time all day, Phoebe actually looks happy.
“What’s with the look, Nan?” I ask.
“What’s with trying to ply the sweetest woman in this town with alcohol?” Nancy counters.
Her salt-and-pepper hair has grown out a little longer than she normally wears it, and I like it. It suits her.
“I need her to talk to me. I couldn’t get her to shut up, but now she’s giving me a run for my money when it comes to keeping things locked up tight.”
Her brows lift as she stares at the woman I haven’t stopped thinking about since I met her. And those amazing fucking donuts. The woman who currently does a little dance in her seat as she watches a bowling tournament on the TV in front of her like this is her favorite thing in the world.
Phoebe Phelps can find the good in anything she does, and I envy her for it. And I need to find out if I’m the reason her light seems to be fading.
I don’t know what I’ll do if I found out that I am, though.
“It’s not just to get her into bed, right?” Nancy asks, giving me a hard look when I turn back to face her.
“I’ve already had her,” I say, leaving out the bed part. We haven’t beeninbed. Technically. Bed adjacent. “That’s not the problem.”
Stabbing her finger into my chest, she narrows her eyes. “Only for you.”
“What does that mean?”
Nancy walks over to Phoebe and grabs a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses. Somehow, she manages to convince Phoebe to take three shots with her, and I’m both shocked and a little scared.
Nancy Charney clearly has skills, and I need to be more diligent around her.
The alcohol looks to have already started kicking in when I walk back to take my seat. “You enjoying yourself, Yellow Crayon?”
“I bet I could make a margarita-inspired cake. I love lime. And salt. My head feels heavy but light. How does that even happen?”
