“You don’t have to fall in love with me, Noia,” I say with a soft growl. “Just try not to write us off before you give our story a decent ending.”
She just looks at me.
“Fine,” I say, low and controlled. “I’ll clean up. You have a good night. It’s been a blast.”
Nodding once, I step away and start clearing the table in silence.
“Rye—”
“Don’t sweat it. Just go write about today and I’ll see you in the morning for breakfast.”
She turns and heads up the stairs.
But just before she disappears at the top, I see the flushed look on her face as she touches her lips, as if she’s second guessing herself.
I sigh as I move to rinse out the wine glasses.
She’s not the only one.
I wakeup before dawn with a raging hard-on and the taste of Noia still on my lips. Groaning, I throw an arm over my eyes and try to forget how she looked last night—all flushed and trembling against the wall, coming undone under my tongue, her pussy clenching my fingers tight.
“Fuck,” I grumble, shoving off the covers.
After a cold shower—which does nothing to soften my cock, by the way—I pull on a pair of jeans and a Henley from my newly stocked closet. The house is silent as I pad into the kitchen, trying to be as quiet as possible.
I need coffee. And maybe a lobotomy to forget the way Noia looked at me last night. The desire and fear battling in those big, blue eyes of hers gives me the nagging feeling I might’ve pushed too hard, too fast.
The kitchen is filled with early morning light as I grind some coffee beans and measure them into the filter. The familiar routine soothes my rattled nerves. Leaning against the counter, I wait for the coffee to brew and stare out the window at the forest of trees.
What if I’m not what she wants after all? What if I’m just a temporary distraction, a character meant to be written out of her story as soon as her writer’s block disappears? And then maybeI’lldisappear.
The thought makes my heart sink with dread.
So, to distract myself, I decide to make breakfast. Grabbing some eggs, cheese, and vegetables from the fridge, I get to work, tossing together some omelets.
The sun is fully up by the time I hear movement upstairs—footsteps, a door closing, water running. My body goes on high alert, every sense tuned in to her presence.
When Noia finally comes downstairs, I’m sitting at the kitchen island, nursing my second cup of coffee.
Wearing jeans and a graphic movie T-shirt, her hair is damp from the shower and pulled back in a loose ponytail. The dark circles under her eyes tell me she didn’t sleep much better than I did.
“Morning,” I say, pushing a mug of coffee across the counter.
She takes the mug, not quite meeting my eyes. “Thanks.”
I motion to the plate of food on the counter. “I made breakfast.”
Glancing at the perfectly folded omelets and bowl of sliced fruit with mild surprise, she says, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.”
She sits across from me, picking up a strawberry and turning it between her fingers.
Unable to bear it another second, I finally ask, “Are you okay?”
Glancing out the window, she nods.
“Noia…”
