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“This is a mess.” I hug my arms around myself, rocking back and forth, as the rain hammers relentlessly against the window. “Such a freaking mess.”
Closing my eyes, I can’t stop the scene from flooding my mind.
I see Roman standing at one end of a gorgeously furnished living room, and a bunch of beautiful kids standing on the other. They’re getting ready to start the play I wrote for them one wintery afternoon, big smiles on all their faces.
Roman turns to me, his lips twitching.
I force my eyes open as my body gives a pulse of need.
I want that – an impossible future, a future that should seem ridiculous to me. And yet I know it’s wrong, easily the worst idea I’ve ever entertained.
I know that.
But it doesn’t stop me from wanting it.
Chapter Eight
Roman
I stay with Tanker until the little man has let his eyes fall closed and curled into a tight ball. He buries his face against his body, snoring softly. I close the door to his crate and walk to the other end of my bedroom, pausing at the door to give him one last look.
After checking on the dog camera – linked to an app on my phone, a notification alerting me if he starts barking – I walk down the hallway with a hundred tormenting points of need torturing me.
My muscles feel stiff and on-edge, like any second I could snap.
I can’t help but think of the way Rayla looked sitting on her bed, wide-eyed with a gorgeous blush across her cheeks. I could see the sadness in her eyes, but the beast in me didn’t care about that.
The howling monster inside of me willed me to grip my manhood and pull out the solid length, slipping it into her mouth and driving forward until she was gasping and whimpering, a hand snaking between her legs to toy with herself, driving herself closer and closer to a shattering release.
I step into her bedroom to find her where I left her, sitting with her legs hanging over the bed.
Fuck.
Does she have any idea what she’s doing to me, sitting in her bathrobe, her thick juicy thighs pressed together?
Surely she would have changed if she didn’t want me to fall on her like an animal, prying her thighs apart, kissing and biting my way up to her young hot slit.
“Rayla.” I move across the room, standing over her. “What is it?”
“What’s what?” she murmurs.
I smirk at the sassy note in her voice. It’s the same note that filled her tone when she challenged me about her age, spunkily telling me she was a grownup as if I couldn’t see that for myself when I study every curvy twenty-year old inch of her.
“Maybe I’m not the most emotional bastard who ever lived,” I say, dropping down next to her. Our shoulders brushing as I fight the urge to wrap my arm around her, hugging her close. “But part of being a writer is being able to read people. And my instincts are telling me something is going on with you – with you and the storm.”
She makes an adorable whimpering sound, turning to face me. I glance down at her and the base of my manhood throbs. The front of her bathrobe has fallen open, giving me a delicious view of her cleavage, her breasts pushed together captivatingly.
“You know how freaky that is, don’t you? It’s like you’re reading my mind.”
“Maybe I am.” My fingers twitch, trying to force me to lift my hands and caress her face. Somehow I fight them. For now. “So…”
I let the question hang in the air.
“It’s so silly. I feel like such a freaking dork.”
“You never have to apologize for the way you feel. Not with me.”
I try to picture Millie’s face, the way she smiled up at me when she finished her first short story. She was so happy, her cheeks seeming to glisten in the lamplight of my office. She was literally beaming with pride, and yet here I am, with her best friend, the hands of fate willing me to claim her like a prize.
Rayla bites her lip and releases it. “It’s just that there was a really bad storm when I found out my dad died. We were living on the East Coast then. It was before Mom moved to live with her hippy boyfriend, my stepdad Markus. Anyway, I was seven and the storm was the worst I’d ever experienced. But the funny thing is, I wasn’t scared then. I actually quite liked them.”
She pauses, moving her gaze from the floor to me and back again. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
I force myself to gaze at her face. Otherwise, I know my eyes will keep flitting to the slit of her bathrobe, to those round juicy tits. The base of my cock aches and pulses and the tip sizzles with sensation. I can’t help it, even if I know it’s inappropriate, even if I know I need to stop.
