“Switch off, Nevermore,” I can feel him saying. “Let me help. Let me make you come so hard you never think of his shit again.”
I shouldn’t.
But that’s not what my body wants.
His pure energy, his groan, tastes a million times better than the searing rush of his warm mouth around my breast.
I know what I want.
I just want to be closer to this wild, forbidden man.
Especially as he shoves my legs apart with those workman’s fingers that shouldn’t belong to a CEO. Especially as he thrusts into me with a hot raspy noise in his throat, his eyes dark with cavernous hunger.
“Go, sweetheart. Ride me to the moon.”
“Oh! Oh, Lincoln.” I push down, meeting him, pulling him inside me to the hilt.
Burns—no, Lincoln—wraps his mammoth arms around me, holding me in place.
“Goddamn, I love how you feel,” he snarls, coiling my hair around his fingers.
He pulls with just the right tension, leaving a delicious burn on my scalp.
Warmth fills me.
A shaky smile is the only answer I can offer.
Then he grips my hips, digs his fingers into my ass, pulls back, and drives into me.
Then he splits me apart into so many spinning fragments I never, ever want to be rebuilt.
Violins wail at me from another world.
My phone, annoying as ever, but at least this time it’s not a reckless little boy I’d love to push off the top of the Space Needle.
My body is on fire. I’m so wet I’m in no mood for cinnamon roll duty today. Especially for a man who isn’t welcome in my dirty dreams.
I wish he’d get over his addiction already.
Why can’t my day start with a nice brisk ride to the office instead of having to make a mad dash for some overprivileged suit’s pastries?
Why couldn’t I have bought that Bitcoin crap back when I was a pimple-faced part-timer at Amelia’s Bed and Breakfast? I could’ve sold it for a billion dollars by now and had all the time in the world to write poems about good men who don’t suck.
I practically crawl through a cold shower and shake off like a dog because...yeah, it’s that kind of day.
After blow-drying my hair as fast as I can, I throw on the first dress my hands touch and shove my feet into ballet flats—easier to bike in than heels.
I’ve just hopped on my bike when my phone pings.
Oh, Lincoln effing Burns, can’t you even wait until I get to the office to start harassing me? I pull out my phone. I have two texts.
Lincoln: Extra cinnamon rolls today.
I grit my teeth and don’t even cringe at the sensation.
All I can think about is my dream, and him, thrusting like he’s staking his claim.
Sad.
Stress does atrocious things to the brain. I shake it off, rolling my shoulders as I type, Roger. Extra, you sad little addict.
His reply comes zooming in.
Little? Try again, Nevermore. And is that any way to talk to your boss? I see you woke up in fighting form today. Lose it before you step foot in my office.
I send him a gif of a cartoon cinnamon roll flashing the middle finger—thank God there’s a gif for everything—and check the second text.
Please don’t be Jay.
Please don’t be Jay.
Guess what?
It’s Jay.
Dakota. Please just ten minutes of your time? If you let me apologize in person and still find me unforgivable, that’s fair. I just can’t walk away with silence. Don’t you owe me that much?
I owe myself a nice harsh slap to the face for forgetting to follow through on blocking his number.
Seriously. Why would I owe him anything?
He left me at a church full of people on my wedding day.
He was cheating for God only knows how long.
Our time is up. I learned a lot from you, so thanks, I send bitterly.
Like not to trust men—or anyone who isn’t named Eliza, for that matter.
How many times did singer girl Sam laugh it up with me oh-so-sweetly? Usually over a bottle of cheap wine at our crappy little rented farmhouse while she was banging my fiancé behind my back.
People. They suck.
So does wasting more neurons on this brutally desperate half-wit.
Jay: Dakota, we can’t be perfect. Them mistakes I made bust me the fuck up every day. I can’t even sleep. Please. Please give me a shot. Even five minutes.
I gave him the only shot he deserved at a life together.
He flunked it magnificently.
Also, I don’t have time to argue, so I shove the phone back into my pocket and pedal like hell. By the time I get to Sweeter Grind, he’s texted five more times.
They’re all the same trashy woe-is-me messages about how he magically realized he can’t live without me and how he was oh-so-wrong.
Gag.
I order the boss’ stuff and then move to the counter to wait on the drinks. I don’t even know why I replied. Maybe just raw curiosity.