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The rude stranger who hugged me is still standing there. I put a pause on my mental breakdown and remember who I am. Boyfriend or not, no man has the right to put his hands on me or touch me without my permission.
I look up and see a tweed jacket.
My heart stops mid-thump.
Loose black trousers, designer Oxfords, princess-pink watch, big hands and chocolate brown eyes. The very eyes I’d dreamed about last night when I cuddled my pillow and wished he were with me. Maybe I’m still dreaming? Maybe I’m in bed right now, drooling into my satin sheets. I rip my gaze over the rest of him. Lean, athletic body, broad shoulders, square jaw, wavy brown hair.
“Are you okay?” Dare signs. My brain malfunctions when he steps closer to me, filling my air with his cologne.
He’s here.
He’s here.
He’s here.
I curl my fingers into fists…
And I punch him.
CHAPTER17
wear his heart
DARE
I guess I deserve that.
My feisty girlfriend fumes at me, those honey-brown eyes on fire.
And I can’t help it.
I smile.
“You think this is funny?” Yaya signs. Her nostrils flare to twice their size and her lips screw up into a wad of annoyance.
How is she so beautiful when she’s angry? She’s wearing one of those tight-fitting gym jackets, zipped down halfway to show a pink sports bra. Hot yoga pants cling to her curves like saran wrap. Her long, dark hair is swinging high up in a ponytail.
That ponytail swishes back and forth when she shakes her head at me, brows tightening until they meet in the center of her forehead. I know she wants to scold me more, so I choose a fitting distraction.
I kiss her, groaning when our lips collide. The ache in my chest intensifies and I have the sudden sensation of being filled to the brim, like a well at the end of a drought, a dried-up spring finally tasting rain.
She wasn’t expecting the kiss and the shock leaves her standing still while my mouth moves over hers. In point-five seconds, Yaya gets over the shock and kisses me back.
The heat of her fingers skating into my hair burns my scalp and makes me stagger forward. I can’t breathe. Not that I need to. She’s my oxygen. My saving grace. I’d gladly drown in her arms, holding her like a life raft dangling on the edge of a waterfall.
Her response is passionate, greedy. She opens her mouth, searching for my tongue. I groan again, stroking the inner lining of her lip before I let our tongues meet. She sucks on it, desperate for the taste of me.
But not as desperate as I am.
Claiming her sexy-as-sin mouth isn’t enough. I dive further into the dizzying euphoria, placing my hands on those tempting curves filling out her yoga pants, grasping, feeling, and then I remember we’re in broad daylight and I should probably show some restraint.
Reluctantly, I pull my lips away and raise my hands to her waist. Drawing her closer to me, I trap her against my chest. Her skin is hot, and her body is melting into mine, like one touch from me was enough to break her.
Holy crap, I missed this woman.
I sink my forehead against Yaya’s, closing my eyes and sighing in ecstasy. When I open them a few seconds later, I notice that her expression has shifted from lust-filled to worried.
An eyebrow arches in concern, and Yaya presses her hands flat against my chest. The warmth of her fingers seeps through my jacket and the thin dress shirt that I’ve been wearing for the past three days. Or has it been a week? It’s been tough to find a second to even shower and the days are mushed together in my head.
