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She’s still smoothing my collar, but now Cocoa looks troubled. Thoughtful. Because she’s realizing how much older I am? How much better she could do than me?
What if she regrets the time we’ve spent together? What if she’s already counting down the minutes until her memory comes back and she can leave?
What if I embarrass her?
Cocoa gusts out a long breath. “You’re tenser than a rock, Mr McLaggen. Want to get cupcakes and drop crumbs all over ourselves?”
Always. The bakery door jingles, and I nudge Cocoa inside. Away from the rock star’s eye line, away from the gulls’ racket, away from everything. My stomach growls, already twisted with hunger.
Maybe the baker will recognize her.
And maybe I can force myself to want that.
* * *
Cocoa + cupcake = torture. It’s been years since my last math class, but I’m sure of this equation.
We’re side by side on the beach wall, elbows brushing, clothes flapping in the breeze. The waves are closer now, lunging up the sand, and the air tastes like salt.
And Cocoa is… Fuck. Cocoa.
“Mmm.” She scoops pink icing onto her fingertip, then sucks her whole finger into her mouth. Cheeks hollow, eyelids fluttering. When she draws her finger away with apop, the skin is slick. Is she torturing me on purpose? “This is so freaking good.”
My own cupcake is forgotten in my hand. My gut churns with hunger, but for once, a cake won’t help.
Want to nudge her to her knees, right here in the sand. Want to slick pink frosting over my cock, then guide the head between her lips. Want her to lick me clean, her pleased hums vibrating down to my bones.
Daughter?
I hate that guy.
My feelings for this young woman arenotpaternal.
“Don’t you like yours?” A pointy elbow digs between my ribs. “We can swap if you like.”
“It’s good. I’m good.”
Yeah, I am not good. I’m so hard the metal zipper of my jeans will leave bite marks on my shaft.
But is that how Cocoa sees me? As a father figure? Is that why she chose me as her safe harbor?
“You’re still grouchy.” Soft fingertips scratch my chin, playing through my short beard, and I melt a little onto the sea wall. When I risk a glance, Cocoa watches me, hazel eyes warm with concern.
Am I leading her on somehow? Should I be clearer about how I see her? But how can I do that without making her feel like I expect something? Making her feel pressured? As far as I’m concerned, Cocoa owes me nothing. She can stay with me for the rest of her life and never lay a finger on me.
But I can’t act like her father. I won’t.
Christ, it was so much easier to be alone. At least I know where I stand in my own company.
“I know what you need,” Cocoa declares. She swings up a leg, straddling my lap without warning, and she must feel the rock-solid bulge in my jeans, but she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, my mystery girl grins at me, eyes sparkling, and holds up her cupcake. “A sugar rush.”
I squeeze her waist. When did I grip her there? My own cupcake lays abandoned in the sand, and already three seagulls sidle closer, acting casual.
The sun is hot, licking over our skin. She’s so soft and warm in my lap, the heat between her legs burning through my jeans.
I like feeling her in my clothes. Like smelling my soap on her skin.
“We shouldn’t—”
