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“I can think of a few places I’d rather you sign,” she murmurs. “But we might have to go somewhere more private for that. If you know what I mean.”
Disgust prickles my skin, makes me want to stand up and walk away from her. The idea of doing anything like that with a woman in a café, fucking a complete strange, twists through me like a sick joke.
When I claim my woman, it’s going to be for life. I’m going to use her twenty year old body like the animal I am, but I’m not going to discard her afterward. And our coming together is going to mean something. Each time I thrust into her, it’s going to be a chance for us to start a family, to share a future.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I can’t stop my thoughts from sprinting in that direction even as I warn myself they make no damn sense.
“I’m not interested,” I tell the woman. “I don’t mean any offense.”
I add the last part when her face drops. It’s like she can’t believe anyone would even think about turning her down, let alone actually do it.
“Are you serious?” she snaps.
I almost laugh, but that would be cruel.
“Yes, I’m serious. If you’d like me to sign something for you – a book, a napkin, something like that – then, of course, I’ll do it. Otherwise, with respect, I’d like to enjoy my coffee.”
I’m as polite and civil as I can possibly be, and yet she still looks at me as though I’ve just spit in her face. She shakes her head, stepping away slowly before turning and stalking across the café.
I notice several men – even bastards who are with their girlfriends and wives – turning to watch her go, her skimpy dress swishing around her bare legs.
But I’m not interested in the sort of woman who’d proposition a stranger like that, even if she’s read my books, even if I’m not a stranger to her.
The only woman I want doesn’t exist – letter-fueled madness, a drama playing out in the confusion of my mind alone.
I turn at the sound of a nervous throat clearing, a little ahem noise.
My whole world shatters.
I feel like I’m falling, hurtling toward the earth faster than a bullet.
My manhood pulses and my tip burns and precome rises and tries to leak out of me, hot and sticky and hungry.
The woman is short, her body curvy as fuck. Curvier then a dream. She’s wearing a shirt and jeans but that does nothing to hide her put-a-baby-in-me shape, a body made for palming and massaging, for sinking my hands into her hips and dragging her into my lap, grinding my cock against her full ass cheeks.
Her cheeks are flushed, a nervous flutter in her eyes. Her hair is a dark brown that falls to her shoulders in soft waves, making me want to run my hands through it, grip it in my hand and guide my lips to hers.
My balls swell as I stare at her, vaguely aware my mouth has fallen open as I take in the undeniable beauty of her.
“Hello,” she says, with an intoxicatingly cute quirk in her voice. “I’m Maddison.”
A song of pure celebration goes off inside me, pounds and drums and roars.
Maddison.
My Maddison.
I was wrong. I got the wrong girl back at the apartment.
This is the woman for me.
She belongs to me.
Forever.
As I stand and offer her my hand, it’s an effort not to drag her into my embrace and crush my lips against hers, kiss her firmly until she’s shivering and quaking against me.
She takes my hand softly, electricity sparking between us, the feeling coursing up and down my arm, sizzling through me. It prompts my heart to jackhammer in my chest, pounding relentlessly.
Chapter Seven
Maddison
My whole body buzzes as Madden places my coffee down, looking at me with a twist to his lips, and a hardness in his eyes, as though he’s angry with me for something.
I have to keep reminding myself this is real. This is happening. I’m having coffee with Madden Mitchell.
He’s even more alluring in the flesh, seeming bigger than any photo, looming over the table as he places the mug down. His hair seems to gleam brighter than any video, and his eyes stare into me as though he’s trying to burn a hole through my clothes, trying to see what’s underneath.
But no, no, it’s not that.
Maybe he’s pissed that I actually took him up on his offer. Maybe he resents me for chipping away at his valuable writing time.
He sits opposite me and stares for an unnerving moment, making me imagine crazy things, like him leaping across the table and grabbing my shoulders in his hands. I imagine him bending me over and grinding his hands up between my legs, pressing his hand down on my sex like I’ve imagined countless times.
