She’s given me a taste, but greedily, I want more.
Sitting in my truck with the engine idling, I look up at the third-floor windows. No fucking curtains hang to protect what’s inside, making my stomach twist.
The lights are still on, and I can’t help but want to see her one more time. I cut the engine and honk the horn twice before getting out of the Blazer. When she doesn’t appear, I honk again until her silhouette fills the living room window. I shut the door and stand there in the street with people staring as they pass, but I gave up giving a damn a long time ago.
She slides the window up and leans out. “What are you doing, Joshua? Waking the neighborhood?”
“No, just you.”
“Keep it down, asshole,” some guy yells from one building over. Okay, so yeah, the neighbors, too.
I move closer, looking up, and say, “I wanted to see you again.”
Enough light from the streetlamp extends for me to see that sweet smile of hers. Pressing her hands to the sill, she’s leaning out enough for me to wonder if I should worry. “Here I am, Joshua Evans.”
Yes, there she is with her hair hanging down, a tangled mess from my hands minutes earlier, and the moon shining down on her. She’s my Juliet. “I want to kiss you some more.”
Resting her hands on the sill, she laughs. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
What am I waiting for? I take the stairs by two and just before I knock, the door swings open. Boxy pajamas still cover her body, but she can’t hide that spark in her eyes. Holding the door open, she asks, “What took you so long?”
Wrapping my arms around her waist, I kiss her and then lean back to see those pretty green eyes. “I took a few detours in life, but I finally got here.”
She cups my face and kisses me again. “Better late than never.”
I kick the door closed and back her up to the couch, making out like a bandit. Our lips pressed together. Our tongues exploring. Each of us staking claims with our bodies and hands. Our hearts beating together. I don’t know where I end and she begins, but when we settle on the couch, I’m quickly reminded.
The hem of her shirt is angled up, and my hand finds the soft skin of her middle. She whispers, “God, yes.” A little moan follows, encouraging me. I want her. I need her so badly. Lying on the couch between her legs has my hips seeking the release I so desperately crave.
Her hands roam my back and settle on my ass as she holds me close. Thrusting through jeans is the fucking worst, but I’ll do it if it gives me relief in the end. I’d fuck her in a heartbeat, but I knew that was a lie as soon as the thought materialized.
I’ve had sex with girls up and down this town, but she’s not like them. She’s not someone who came onto me at Lucky’s, went to high school with me, or pursued me after eating at the diner. They don’t see my test scores or my grades, or ask me about my life in any way.
I don’t wear designer clothes or drive an expensive sportscar. That’s not what they want from me. They want to fulfill their bad boy fantasy before settling down with a guy named Chet who works on Wall Street and will eventually have a midlife crisis with their assistant who’s half their age.
Chloe doesn’t treat me that way. She doesn’t care what I’m wearing, be it an apron or a flannel shirt. I’m treated equally, if not given more respect than I deserve. She called me out for judging her, for placing my insecurities in her head, when I assumed, she didn’t see anything beyond my appearance.
That right there tells me this is more than casual flirtations on her part. And the buzz I get when I’m around her tells me it’s not different for me either.
There are definitely strings involved, which should scare me, but they don’t. Chloe has me wanting to slow down, to hang out, to take her to the lake and watch the sunset.
My hips slow, and my hand slips under her shirt to feel the warm skin of her middle. I inch higher until I’m holding a breast in my hand—soft, supple, and a perfect fit for me. Each knead elicits another moan until she’s grinding against me.
Her hands slide to my shoulders, hot to the touch even through the thin cotton.
“I don’t want to rush this,” I say, but when I reach her eyes, I still.
Her anger is readable—the ire flickers.
Happiness shapes the corners, tipping them up.
Even her curiosity has her engaged with me through touch or by how her eyes latch to mine.