“I’m not sure if this one is dressy enough for the wedding but maybe with some heels,” she says as she examines herself in the mirror.
And just like that, I’m hurting again, picturing myself between her legs, the bottom of the short dress shoved up to her chest and her heels digging in my ass as I pound inside of her.
Okay, this constant obsession of sex with Lucy going on in my head seriously needs to fucking stop!
It’s been way too long since I’ve been with an actual woman. Apparently, my body can’t seem to stop gearing up for the event, like it’s trying its best to convince me to cave and just get inside the closest female already. No, it wants Lucy specifically. I want Lucy, and I’m not sure how much longer I can resist her.
“So now that I’ve got my dresses, I just need a cute outfit and maybe another bikini in case the pool is open!” the object of my desire states, forcing me to swallow my groan.
“I’ll wait for you at the car,” I mutter before I get up and stiffly make my way out to the parking lot. I did my part. I helped her find dresses, but I can’t take anymore! Looking at her in…anything has me on a hair-trigger.
I shouldn’t blame myself.
This is all Ellie’s fault.
If she hadn’t married me, then left and fucked me over, I would’ve been with so many women by now I wouldn’t even think of touching Lucy.
Probably.
While I lean against the side of the brick building rather than her pussy purple car, I check out other women passing by, trying to decide within five seconds if I would fuck them or not.
There’s nothing, not even a twitch from my dick as tall, short, skinny, curvy, light and dark, beautiful women of all types pass by. Some even shoot me a smile and a look of appreciation, making their interest in me obvious.
But nope. I don’t want any of them. Just Lucy.
Chapter Thirteen
Lucy
* * *
Nash is quiet on the way home. Which isn’t that unusual. I assume that our shopping trip turned into more than he bargained for, which is why he says, “I’m going up to take a nap,” as soon as he drops off the bags of my purchases right inside my apartment.
“Okay. I’ll come up later and make dinner,” I offer.
“Let’s just order in tonight. I can come down here when I get up,” Nash offers.
“Sure,” I agree before he takes off.
I don’t think he’s been to my apartment since the night we delivered the money, when I thought something was possibly going to happen between us before my mom called. I gather up a load of laundry, including the same strawberry pajamas to start them so they’ll be ready tonight before tidying up.
While I’m working, I get a notice on my phone that Nash is on the internet but don’t bother snooping on him until I get all my new purchases put away.
Finally, I stretch out on my bed with my laptop to relieve my tired feet and see what he’s up to.
The last thing I expected to see mirrored from his screen was me. He’s on my Instagram profile, clicking on various photos.
Huh. That’s strange and random. A little stalkerish, but who am I to judge. In fact, if anything, I’m thrilled that he wants to find out more about me since he’s never really offered to get to know me. Our time together over the last week or so has been mostly eating and watching television, not talking.
I watch each of the posts as he goes along, trying to figure out what he thinks about my photos with friends back home, some with Barry, and the vacation pics. In fact, he seems to spend more time on the beach photos than any of the others. Like, a really long time. So long I start to wonder if he’s gotten up and left his computer.
On my phone, I search for Nash on social media, but I’m not surprised when I can’t find a single thing about him. Guess bikers aren’t all for sharing their everyday lives with the rest of the world.
When there’s no movement for several more minutes, I assume he’s laid down to take his nap as he mentioned. What would be the harm in watching him sleep if he left his laptop open in his room? It would be nice to get to stare at him like I always want when I’m around him but can’t without him thinking I’m nuts.
With a few clicks of the keyboard, I have access to his camera. And, suddenly, I’m not looking at a sleeping Nash but his wide-awake face right in front of me.
He’s still on his computer, his shirt off, bare chest sexy as hell as he leans back and…holy shit! Is he…yep, he’s masturbating. Getting off to a picture of me!
I know I should slam my laptop shut and stop watching, but he’s just too hot to stop watching. Besides, I can’t even see his dick, just his forearm moving rapidly, faster and faster. Nash’s jaw is clenched tight as he looks at the computer screen through hooded eyes. Then, his lips part and his head tips back, which can only mean one thing…he’s coming.
And god, I wish I could’ve been there, that it was my hand on him or my mouth he emptied himself into.
As turned on as I am by what I just witnessed, I’m also incredibly confused.
What the hell does it mean?
Does he want me? Is that why he sought out my photos and did that to them?
Why didn’t he just make a move when he was in my apartment if he was hot for me? The real thing is better than his hand.
Unless…he’s not ready for that kind of intimacy yet, still too hung up on Ellie to finally be with another woman after years of waiting for her.
I hate her for what she did to Nash.
He deserves so much more.
And maybe, if I give him some time, he’ll want to be with me.
Chapter Fourteen
Nash
* * *
Over the next few days, I get off to Lucy’s photos. A lot.
So often that I feel ashamed when I’m around her, which is why I’ve cut her visits short whenever possible. She cleans, she cooks, we eat, and then I make up an excuse for her to leave.
My rejection hurts her feelings. I fucking know that. But what choice do I have?
Tell her I want to use her body to ease the ache I have for her?
Fuck no. That would hurt her even worse.
So, I’ve been leaving the apartment more, hanging out with Malcolm and the guys on the cruise boat at night rather than binging television shows with Lucy, despite the fact that I miss her and would rather be with her than playing poker.
At least I still get to see her every day. She still comes over at least once, despite my consistent rudeness.
It’s a small thing, seeing her for one meal, but I take comfort in her not giving up on me.
Which is why on Wednesday when she tells me that she’s leaving tomorrow, going out of town for the wedding, it hits me like a sledgehammer.
“Right, the wedding. That’s this weekend?” I ask her disappointedly before downing my beer.
“Yep. I’m leaving tomorrow around lunchtime,” she says while sitting across from me at the dining table once we finish eating the burgers she made. Her usually upbeat happy face is now sad and her narrow shoulders hunched. “Before I leave, I’ll bring a few meals up and put them in the fridge for you to heat up over the weekend.”