Page 10
“Fever?” She asks with a raised eyebrow.
I’m not ready to explain that she’s taken over my body and soul like a fever I’ll never get over so I tell her. “I’ll explain later.” I hope my wink comes off flirty and not creepy.
We’re close enough to touch, and for a second neither of us moves. The tray tilts, just a hair, and I steady it with one hand. Her warm and soft fingers brush lightly against mine and that fucking jolt hits me right between the eyes. She lets me hold the weight for a second longer than is strictly necessary, then grins and pulls away. “Thanks,” she says. “Would’ve been embarrassing if I dropped those.”
“Don’t mention it,” I reply, and almost add something dumb like you could drop them all night and I wouldn’t give a shit. Instead, I watch her go, memorizing the back of her neck, the curl of her jaw as she glances over her shoulder.
The dreams of her started the first night we met and they haven’t let up since then.
My very first dream involved Naomi’s top sliding off one shoulder as she leans in close and whispers, “Come find me.” Unfortunately, I fucking woke up before I was able to make a move.
Somewhere around day three, the dreams escalated. In the newest fantasy, I find her standing at the bar, alone, the place deserted except for us. The world around us goes dark as she pours a shot of bourbon, neat, and slides it down the counter with perfect aim. I catch it, sip, and feel the burn all the way to my toes. She says nothing, just watches me, blue eyes unblinking. Then she’s on her knees, tugging my belt open with practiced hands, mouth already wet and waiting.
I know I’m dreaming, but I can smell the vanilla on her skin, feel the press of her tongue against my cock. She takes me in deep, all the way, without gagging and eager. Her hands are on my thighs, nails digging in, and when I look down, she’s staring up at me with her electric eyes holding mine captive. I want to tell her how good it is, but I can’t talk. All I can do is fist her hair and hold on as she works me with slow, relentless pressure, sucking and swallowing until my vision tunnels and I explode in her mouth.
I wake up with my sheets twisted around my legs, breathing like I just finished a foot chase. I’m hard, painfully so, and it takes a good five minutes of frigid water assaulting my body for me to get back to neutral. The next morning is even worse; I can barely look at her on the monitors without thinking about her pouty lips and talented tongue or the way her lips curl into a smirk like she’s tasted every secret I have.
I know I need to plan my move carefully, but the club has its own gravity and I’m always drawn to her. I find her at the bar after her shift, counting tips and scribbling in a notebook. I lean against the bar, rehearsing something casual, but when she glances up, my brain blue-screens.
“Hey, Wyatt,” she smiles at me as I stand there with my thumb up my ass.
She always says my name in a way that turns me inside out.
I step closer, feeling the sweat start up under my shirt. Fuck it. “There’s a diner about ten minutes from here that opens for breakfast at four. They have the best pie in the world. You hungry?”
I hold my breath waiting and wondering if I need to switch gears and just tell her she’s going to be the mother of my children. She closes the notebook, caps her pen, and gives me a slow, deliberate once-over.
“What kind of pie?” She asks.
“Cherry,” I say, “and something called Texas chocolate overload. Plus the best coffee. Believe me, nobody ever leaves hungry.” For food. I’m pretty sure I’ll leave even hungrier for a taste of Naomi’s sweetness.
She nods, like she’s debating her options. “Okay,” she says. “I could eat.”
She stands, grabs her jacket, and slings her purse over one shoulder. “Lead the way, Head of Security.”
She’s out the door before I can process it, and I follow, pulse jackhammering, every nerve on high alert. I tell myself it’s just pie, just coffee. But when I open the door for her and she walks out into the dark, I know I’m a dead man.
I’ll follow her anywhere.
