Last night was better sex than I’ve ever had in my life, and we barely did anything. We weren’t even naked. Hell—we didn’t even kiss.
Did it even count as him touching me? I’m not sure, but I can still feel the weight of his handright there. I can feel it when I shift in the booth, like a sort of phantom touch, not there but still teasing me. I stare very hard at my eggs, trying to focus on something other than the fact that I’m in my uniform and my panties are uncomfortably wet.
“Real professional, Garrett,” I mutter, stabbing at my breakfast. “You’re a cop. Act like one.”
Except I don’t feel like a cop right now. I feel like a woman who got thoroughly and completely wrecked by a man who climbed through her bedroom window like he had every right to be there.
Was that his point? Was he trying to distract me from what happened on the bridge? I hate to admit it, but it’s working. I’ve been spinning more about him making me come in my room than anything that went down last night.
I take a long sip of coffee and try to think—to act normal. I know it’s not working because Martha, who’s owned the diner forever, keeps giving me knowing looks. I’m flushed—I know I’m flushed. My hair is still damp from the shower I took at five a.m., trying to wash away the evidence before my father woke up, and I’m pretty sure I’m radiatingI just had sexenergy like a beacon.
Except I didn’t have sex.
God, sex with him would be mind-blowinglygood. Forget-your-name good.
I willnotthink about sex with Luke Bennett. I’m not sure I’d survive it.
But—fuck—I want itbad.
Cheeks burning, I grab a newspaper from the next table over to hide my guilty lust face. I’m skimming over the articles, thinking more about Luke’s bare chest than the rise of chipmunks in town, when I see a headline that makes me stop.
COLE TURNER FOR MONTANA
"Oh fuck." The paper crinkles in my fists as I scan the article, bile rising in my throat at the thought of that man running for office. The article touts him as a polished businessman talking about economic surety and family values.
“Bullshit,” I mutter, tossing the paper aside. The last thing this state needs is a man like that in power. I didn’t go to school with him—he’s quite a bit older than me—and he lives in Bozeman, so I don’t know him as well as I did his brother Eli, but the Turners have always had a reputation for being rotten.
My phone buzzes.
Thank God—a distraction. I pull it out eagerly, hoping it’s good.
My breath catches when I read it.
Unknown Number
I can still taste you.
Heat floods my face. I don’t need three guesses to figure out who it is.
I glance around the diner, suddenly paranoid that everyone can see the text on my screen. No one’s looking at me. Martha’s refilling coffee at the counter. An older couple is reading the paper in the booth across from me.
I type back quickly.
No you can’t.
And how did you get this number?
The response comes almost immediately.
Unknown Number
I have my ways, sunshine.
And yes I can. I licked you off my fingers.
You tasted like you’re mine.
Gasping, I shiver.