I gulped down my coffee, looked at my watch, and yawned loudly. It was almost 8:00 a.m., the time I’d normally leave for school, and time to face my “ghost.”
I yawned again. How would I make it through the day without falling asleep? I’d tossed and turned for hours last night after having the most intense, vivid dream. The sort that made me blush when I woke up. Obviously, the man was brutally attractive. I’d have to be dead or in a coma not to notice Santiago’s raw masculinity—his powerful body, fierce gaze, and fearless posture. But why in the world had I dreamt about baking cookies with him? Well, it started out that way. But then we were naked and covered in cookie batter, which led to us being in the shower. Before I knew it, I was washing his wet, hard body, touching and exploring every steely inch of him. And there were many, many inches. But strangely, he never really moved or touched me back. He simply gazed at me with hungry eyes, as if I were some kind of forbidden fruit he wanted to devour. Even when I took my soap-slick hands and began stroking him, he simply stared right up until the very end when he closed his eyes and screamed my name, rocking himself frantically into my hands. That’s when I woke up a hot mess.
Needless to say, my body was in no mood for sleep after that. It was in the mood for something else.
“Don’t think about it,” I’d told myself, ashamed for having such incredibly lustful fantasies at a time like this. But when I closed my eyes and tried to return to sleep, I saw those images of his tanned, muscular body straining against my hand. That’s when I got out my journal and tried to purge the sinful thoughts. But writing them down only made the dream more real, only made me sweat. Before I knew it, it was morning and time for a shower. A cold, cold shower.
I didn’t want him. Did I? He was an icy, scary enigma. Maybe that was it. A sick little part of me enjoyed the danger he represented to my sad, tame, wallflower of a life.
Idiot.
The doorbell rang, and I jumped out of my flip-flops, nearly landing on my butt.
Crap. He’s here.
I ran my trembling hands over my smoothed-back hair, trapped neatly into a bun, and then tugged on the front of my tight baby-blue tee. I took in a breath and yanked open the door.
And release breath.
Santiago stood on the porch, one hand shoved into the pocket of his faded button flies, his white T-shirt stretching across his unfathomably muscled chest and upper biceps, his black hair a hot mess. Just like my night.
Dark shades covered his dark eyes, but I could’ve sworn he was checking out my breasts and midriff. My T-shirt suddenly felt too small. I gave it another tug, trying to close the gap between the bottom hem and the top of my low-rise, vintage Levis.
He jerked his head. “Ready?”
No. Not at all. The guy dripped with danger. And anger. And sensuality.
I swiped my backpack and stepped out, closing the door behind me. When my eyes hit the curb, I stopped. “That’s your ride?”
Not that I expected him to take me to school on a motorcycle, but his other vehicle wasn’t what one might think. Not a muscle car—Mustang or Camaro. Not a race car—Porsche, Ferrari, Lamborghini. Not a yuppie car—BMW, Mercedes, Lexus. But a big red Bronco. An old one. No top. Just a steering wheel, black seats, a roll bar, and fat tires. The kind of truck you hoped you never had to get into while wearing a tight skirt.
“I guess that explains the hair,” I said.
He grumbled something about classics under his breath and stepped aside as I passed.
When he grabbed my hand and helped me fumble my way into the vehicle, my body lit up like a bonfire. It remembered touching his skin, and it didn’t care if the memories were fictional, a dream. My body simply wanted to have another taste. Muscles tightened. Nerves tingled. Saliva flowed. He was like a giant danger-brownie and my body wanted a big fat bite.
Crap, Dakota. Get a hold of yourself.
I watched him walk around the front of the truck, his backside moving like two impenetrable cannonball halves under the soft denim fabric of his jeans. Don’t. Don’t think about the dream. I pushed away the images still fresh in my mind.
“Stop looking at my ass,” he barked without bothering to look in my direction.
“I was looking at the…” Shit. “Windshield wipers. You should try changing them once in a while.”
“Changed them yesterday. Stop staring at my fucking ass. You’re too young for me.”
What? How crude. Why had he blurted that out? It was so strange and out of context. “Thank God for that.”