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And sweet.
Weirdly, I want also to be fucking sweet. I want to take her slow, and I want to spend days between her thighs. I want to call her my goddess, my complex Aphrodite. I want to know her in every way there is, even all the ways with our clothes on. I want to hold her.
I’ve gone and lost my fucking mind.
“Everything, Avah. I want it all.” I pull away from her and turn to start picking up things from her little coffee table. Books, magazines, camera equipment. “So, don’t you dare fucking say I don’t want you. Now, we need to pack.”
“I don’t want to run.”
“You’re not running. You’re getting your shit, getting in a car with me, and until we work this out, I’m taking you from my place to work and back again.”
She makes a small sound that curls in the air, and it’s so huffy and soft and full of frustration it makes me smile. “You’re so weird. Hot and cold, that’s you.”
“I’m what I am when I have to be.” Shrugging, I hand her the things because I don’t know what the fuck to do with them. “Pack.”
As I say that, someone knocks on her door, and she jumps.
Oh, yeah. She’s fine. Right.
“Go. I’ll get it.” I think of getting my gun, but that’ll piss her off and make this even harder, so I leave it in the holster.
I stride to the door and rip it open. The jimmied lock downstairs wasn’t busted by her visitor yesterday. So, unless it’s a neighbor, no one should be knocking.
But it’s not a neighbor.
The guy is young, in blue, with the stitched name on his uniform shirt. Dale, it says. The Daily Bunch. And to prove he’s from a fucking florist, he holds a bouquet of some shit. Pinks and reds in roses and other flowers I can’t identify. They’re flowers not exactly in my wheelhouse of things of interest.
“How did you get in?”
Young Dale actually recoils and quivers. I’m being an asshole, but I really don’t care. I instantly know he’s not a threat, but I don’t like it when people can just waltz in, and the flowers situation isn’t going to be something from her dad or from a friend.
“I—” He stops as his voice pitches about an octave or two too high and he clears his throat. “Uh, a neighbor let me in? They had keys?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Fine.” I pull a twenty from my money clip, take the flowers. and thrust the money at him for a tip. I’m about to close the door, and Dale’s breathing a sigh of relief when I stop. “Dale?”
His eyes pop wide in fear, and then his hand goes to the stitched name on his shirt. “Uh, yes? Sir?”
“Do you know who sent them?”
He frowns and shakes his head. “It was either online or a phone order. Sorry.”
I mutter thanks and close the door. From her bedroom, things thump and clatter. I pull out the card—there’s always a card—and scan it.
Clearly, this was online, as it comes with a printed photo.
Of Avah.
Today.
Fuck.
I grab my phone and text Diego who’s got computer connections with the relevant information, and that’s when Avah comes out with a bag. She skitters to a stop, blonde hair swinging, as she takes in the flowers.
“Your admirer.”
“M-maybe they’re from Dad?”
I narrow my eyes. “Unless your father’s the real creepy sort who sends photos of you and a card that says, ‘Love to watch you.’, I’m thinking not.”
