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“Goodnight, King,” I say as I walk away from the railing.
“We’re back to that again?” Nate groans. “Sweet dreams, Queen.”
Nate slides his hand beneath my shirt. He leans forward, his mouth so close to my ear I can feel the warmth from his breath. His heat, his touch, all of it sends a ripple of energy throughout my body. My skin buzzes with electricity everywhere he touches, and I can’t get enough of his hands that navigate every inch of me.
Why does my body have to betray me?
Why do I want him so much?
Lost in the feeling, I finally let go, giving in to my desires. My nipples are painfully erect, poking through my thin, lacy nightshirt. Nate inches his way up my stomach, his movements so slow the anticipation is killing me, and when he rolls the pad of his thumb over my nipple, a moan escapes my lips.
Nate brushes my hair away from my neck, his touch as light as a feather. He drags his teeth along my neck, teasing me, torturing me with every second I have to wait. His big hand slides behind my head, his fingers twisting through my hair as he pulls me toward him. My lips part for him, eager and ready for him to make his move.
I lick my lips, and he presses his together to stifle a guttural groan. It’s primal and so damn sexy. Like an animal, with hunger in his eyes, he glides his tongue along my lips to taste me. I dig my nails into his thick biceps and that only fuels him. Nate sucks my bottom lip into his mouth. At first, he tugs on it playfully, but then he pulls hard, ripping another moan from me.
Before I can find out what happens, I wake up to a pounding headache. I press my hand to my forehead and close my eyes, willing the pain away. I get stress migraines all the time. Sometimes, they’re so bad I vomit or have to lock myself in a dark room for days. The throbbing at the base of my skull makes my head spin. This must be a sign. My dirty thoughts about Nate have manifested into something more. Maybe this is my body’s way of telling me that going down that road with Nate is a bad idea.
Dizzy and weak, I slide out of bed and step into my favorite pair of fuzzy slippers. Willow bought them for me last year for Christmas. She was sick of seeing me walk around the apartment in my old lady house shoes. My roomie said I looked worse than a hobo wandering down Hollywood Boulevard. I miss Willow… and my old life. The one I’m living now belongs to someone else, to someone who used to live in this world. When I accepted my invitation to attend UCLA, I had no intention of coming back home. I created a new life with Willow and my team members in Los Angeles.
I glance over at the alarm clock on my bedside table. It’s three o’clock in the morning. I have to get up for work in a few hours. At least now that I live on the East Coast, I don’t have to get up as early. For years, I woke up at three o’clock Pacific Time to accommodate the main office, which meant having zero personal life. How could I have one when I had to go to bed while Willow was eating dinner? My father doesn’t believe in nine to five workweeks. He starts his day when the sun rises. And because of that, so do I.
I grab two of my pills from the bottle, and then step into the hallway. It’s dark for once, save for a dim light floating out from the bathroom that casts its shadow on the floor. The redwood planks remind me of the tall trees that grow in California. Willow loves to take road trips. On one of our many trips to Vegas, she made a detour. We stopped at a national park that has the most magnificent redwood trees. It was like we were in an enchanted forest. I’d never seen anything so breathtaking.
I grip the railing with every bit of strength I have in my body. My head won’t stop pounding, making it difficult for me to stand straight. I hate when this happens. My migraines are so debilitating, it’s impossible to function when I get one. With some trouble, I eventually stumble into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. I pop the pills into my mouth and take a big sip with a shaky hand.
As I turn around to set the glass on the counter, it slips from my fingers. The glass shatters into pieces that scatter across the tiled floor. Some of it hits my feet and legs, slicing into my skin.
