Poppy

I sort of thought Gator might ask me out. For coffee. For a drink. I’m no dating expert, having a grand total of one (failed) relationship under my belt, but Cosmo assures me that’s the next step. I don’t care about dating, I remind myself. It’s okay that I completely suck at interpersonal relationships, and if Gator goes away cranky, it’s not my fault and not something I have to fix. But I can’t stop myself from imagining how a man like him might ask a girl out. I may or may not have browsed entire Pinterest boards devoted to this, covering options ranging from writing romantic propositions in the sand to balloons to flower-coded messages. It’s so ridiculous that I snort.

Instead of planning a date, I think we’re plotting murder.

Not that Nathan doesn’t deserve it just a little, but I can’t actually justify killing him. He’s a world class asshole, but that’s not a capital crime in this or any country. He’s free to live another day and continue spreading his assholery free and wide. Being with him sucked, and our break up was even worse. But somehow saying goodbye to Gator eclipses all those painful months. I don’t do one-night stands or weekend quickies. Nathan and I were a long-term relationship, and we’d talked about getting married. About picking out our white picket fence and maybe having a few babies, or at least a dog or three. We’d had grown up, forever plans. Because that’s what you do when you meet that someone special. You make plans and build ties. You don’t just drop her off and say see ya.

But maybe he’s waiting for me to reach out?

“Can I—”

“Oui?”

“My research. I’d like to still have access to your land. So I can look for my wolves.” I stumble over my words because Ms. Suave I’m not. How had I missed the signs that Gator was done with this strange arrangement we have? Had. Had, I remind myself. Because clearly we’re over. I hadn’t even realized that some small part of me thought we were some kind of item. Couple. Thing?

Nope. I have no clue.

I just know that now that it’s gone, I’m missing something I didn’t know we had.

Darn it.

I suck at good relationships. Frankly, all of my practice has been with the bad kind. I should have tried Tinder or even a few blind dates before whatever this was with Gator.

“That it?” Gator asks shortly.

I’m pretty sure I’ve offended him, even though I’m the one who should be upset since I’m getting the bum-rush to the curb. He made me stay, and now he’s making me go.

“What else is there?” I ask him. Because honestly? I don’t know, even though I’m starting to think I’d really like to find out. With him.

Gator stares at me, a small smile playing over the corners of his mouth. This is where, in my fantasies, he fishes a penny out of the pocket of his jeans and presses it into my palm. Maybe traces the sensitive skin there with his thumb as he rumbles, “Penny for your thoughts?” And then I tell him about all these semi-dirty thoughts tumbling through my head, and he suggests we do something about them. Starting with a drink. And so we go inside, and I’ve got this fabulous bottle of Veuve Clicquot that just happens to be chilling in the fridge, and one thing leads to another and we’re licking champagne off each other’s skin…

Gator makes a rougher sound.

Right. I’m totally ignoring him, staring off into space. I’m probably wearing the looniest grin on my face.

“Do you—” He gets his hands on me, his hands cupping my face, and I forget what I want to say.

He doesn’t even get off his bike—just leans down, pulls me into him, and kisses me. His face is cold, his eyes empty, but his kiss is surprisingly gentle as he brushes his mouth against mine. His lips whisper over mine, and I fight the urge to close my eyes. To let him take this moment, too.

“Last time,” he whispers.

“Until next time,” I say, the words escaping on a stupid, stupid sigh. This man does things to me, and not just the panty-wetting kind of sexual thing.

He shakes his head, but he kisses me again. One of his hands threads through my hair, fisting the loose strands. And then his mouth comes down over mine, covering me, eating me up and erasing the space between us. His tongue parts my lips, demanding entrance.

I open.

I let him come in.

I kiss him back despite our audience. Fang’s not the kind of man who looks away, and I have neighbors. It feels like the whole world is watching us kiss.

It still feels right.

He kisses me thoroughly, carefully, his tongue taking my mouth deep and hard, conquering every inch and leaving no part of me hidden. You don’t hold back with Gator; he won’t let you. I lean up into him, trying to get closer, squeezing my breasts against his chest, drinking in the sensations. He makes me feel right.

His fist tightens in my hair, pulling me back.

Reestablishing the distance between us.

“Stay safe,” he growls, and then he leaves.