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It had been years since a man had affected me the way he did. Years since I wanted anyone the way I suddenly wanted him.
My heart told me no, my head told me no, but the most private parts of my body screamed the opposite.
I lay in bed that night, thinking about him and how his rough, callused hands would feel as they glided down my body. How my breath would be lost as his long, thick fingers rubbed my inner thighs, causing my body to come to life after its long and painful winter.
Thinking of him, I slid my hand under my silk panties and used my finger to rub my sensitive, swollen clit, imagining it was his tongue. When I pushed my finger inside, I imagined it was his thick, hard cock.
Never able to bring myself to orgasm before, I wasn’t expecting it to happen at all. I was astonished when just the picture of him in my mind caused my walls to contract and my orgasm to ripple through my body like an earthquake.
When I couldn’t come anymore, I rolled to my side, hugged my pillow, and pretended it was him. Something else I had missed—being held at night and made to feel so safe in the arms of a man, even one who was a complete stranger.
I fell asleep feeling safe, sated, and wanted for the first time in years.
Because of him.
A loud knock on the glass causes me to jump, and when I look up, she is staring at me.
When I stand, her eyes cast down to my erection caused by her words, her desires. Then I walk to the door and stare at her. She stares back.
Rain is pouring down on her, and she shivers. I don’t dare open the door.
“Can I get my bag?” she yells through the glass.
“Come back tomorrow.”
“But—”
“Come back tomorrow,” I repeat.
I see hurt in her eyes. I don’t want to see that, so I turn away and walk to the desk.
Fuck! I slam my fist on the desk.
Changing my mind, I turn around. I don’t want her to come back tomorrow. I don’t fucking need her, too. What I need, what she needs, is to stay the hell away.
However, when I walk to the door, she is gone.
I look at the clock and realize it’s almost eleven at night. She is walking the fucking streets of Detroit alone at this time of night?
Guilt and anger collide as I head out to find her.
Three blocks away, I see her make her way into a bar. I stand outside of it, watching her do shots through the window. I see the type of men that are drawn to her. None look like the type in her book.
She’s ignoring them all. No connection, no sudden reaction like she described. They look like they want to fuck her. Just like I want to, though I won’t.
The thought of it makes me jealous. I don’t like jealous. I also don’t like the fact that I am standing outside in the rain, looking at the fucking woman I want. At the same time, I am judging her because she wants it, too. Every second with her is a tornado of confliction. It makes my head and cock throb in pain.
Who the fuck am I to judge?
I walk inside the bar. The seats beside her are occupied with men who have been there way too fucking long. She isn’t even looking at them, seeming unaffected at the lines they shoot at her that are all lame.
She doesn’t notice me, and I make no move to let her know I am here. I simply order a double Manhattan and down it. Then I order another.
Not one to drink, the effects are nearly immediate. I probably shouldn’t have ordered a double. Hell, I shouldn’t even be here now.
When she stands, I wait for her to walk out the door. Then I watch as one of the men follow. I get up and follow him.
Outside the bar, I stay back to see if she decides it is him she is going to use as her muse. When he grabs her elbow, she pulls away, and he tries again, that’s when I feel my hands tremble.
The red filter of rage clouds my eyes as I fight it down. I can’t let it consume me, yet I can’t stand here and watch it happen.
I put two fingers in my mouth and give a loud whistle.
The fucking bar rat looks back, and then scurries away, while she sighs and looks down as I walk toward her.
“Your bag,” I say, holding it out to her.
Immediately, she begins to shake as if she is afraid. Seconds later, I see tears.
“Don’t do that to me,” I warn. I hate seeing women cry.
She turns and begins walking away as I hold the black leather tote in my hand.
