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My cock is so hard it hurts, especially when she turns around and rushes back to the car, giving me an ample look at her mouth watering ass.
I sit back, squeezing onto the edge of the desk.
Could I write her back?
Perhaps I could leave a note somewhere I know she’d find it, telling her I feel the same, telling her I want her too…
If I didn’t leave my name, it could be a bit of harmless fun, with nothing else connecting us.
I grind my teeth from side to side, thinking of Rick, of all the times he saved my ass and I saved his.
What am I thinking?
I can’t do this.
But even as I repeat those words over and over in my mind, part of me knows I’ve already decided.
Part of me knows I can’t run from my desire forever.
Chapter Three
Rory
“Your fancy book magazine arrived,” Mom teases when I walk into the living room.
I laugh at the word fancy, which mom always uses when my literary magazine comes in the mail. Part of being an aspiring writer and an English literature student is reading, but she’s not wrong. It is a tad pretentious.
Even so, I adore most of the stories every month, and I always look forward to it.
“Awesome. Where is it?” I shoulder my bag, feeling heavy after carrying my laptop and a dozen books from college, onto the bus, and then from the bus stop back home.
“In your room.” Mom smiles at me from the armchair, her crossword on her lap, glasses perched on her nose. “How was class?”
“It was good, thanks,” I tell her. “Except I don’t know how anybody can read The Iliad without falling asleep. Don’t tell my professor I checked out a romance book from the library on the way home, okay?”
Mom laughs, looking ten years younger than her forty-one years. Her hair is dyed blonde, bright, and she’s about three dress sizes smaller than I am. Maybe more. But I try not to think like that, nasty self-critical thoughts that serve no purpose.
“I won’t mention it during our next study session,” Mom jokes. “Don’t worry.”
I laugh as I carry my bag into my room, trying not to let my mind steer toward Bennet, the way it has been ever since I left that stupid letter in his mailbox.
Yasmin and I were all excited about my birthday, getting into one of those moods where I’m sure she could convince me of anything.
But the next day, as my mind went over the letter, I realized he’s almost certainly going to know who left it.
What the heck was I thinking?
Oh, wait, I wasn’t thinking. I was letting my bestie put silly notions into my head. All because of a dear.
But then again, that’s not really fair. Maybe there was a teensy part of me – okay, a huge part of me – that wanted Bennet to read my words, know it was me, and then find me. Finish what he started, or nearly started. Kiss me until my legs are quivering and my world is spinning.
Dropping onto my bed, I warn myself to stop thinking like this. If mom and dad knew I’d spent the last year pining after a kiss that had never happened, with dad’s best friend of all people, they’d probably call an emergency therapist.
l distract myself with the magazine, I decide to comb over the stories for literary techniques I haven’t used yet. Maybe I can steal one or two ideas for my own novel. Not outright steal them, of course, but artistically borrow as my favorite professor terms it.
The magazine flops open to the middle page.
And there sits an envelope wedged, with one word written on the front.
Lorelei.
For a second I’m sure the room has started to spin at a million miles per hour. I try to focus on my bookshelf, the autumn rain making the sunlight hazy as it comes to rest on my hardbacks. I try to focus on my breathing, my feet… anything but the letter.
I can’t dare let myself hope.
But who else could it possibly be from?
Tearing it open – I have to get this over with – I unfold the single page and glance at the bottom. Whoever it is, they haven’t left a name, but as I read on I realize he didn’t need to.
I know it’s Bennet.
Lorelei, you’re not as sneaky as you like to think you are. I caught you on camera leaving that letter.
I groan, shaking my head at mine and Yasmin’s naivety. Of course, the CEO of a security firm is going to have well-placed surveillance cameras dotted around his property, probably hidden in places we wouldn’t think to look. I wonder if one was in the tree on the other side of the wall, aimed down at the mailbox. If so, he would’ve seen everything.
