Jamila is like a drug, and I can't seem to lure myself away from her. I don’t remember the last time I've wanted to skip out on my responsibilities, to tell work and everyone depending on me to go fuck themselves, but as I board my flight to Los Angeles, there's nothing I want more than to turn around and go to her. Next time we’re face to face, there’ll be no promises of what will happen later.

I’ve tried the patience game with Jamie—fuck, it was my own idea—and it’s backfired epically.

That little look she cast over her shoulder just before ducking out of my office this afternoon had twisted beneath my skin because she knew exactly what she was doing. She wanted to punish me for that night in my kitchen, and she had succeeded brilliantly. I’d forgotten my shoulder because the number she did on my cock was far more painful, making it a task to focus on the two appointments I had lined up before my trip.

She was still on my mind, her touch still scorching my skin, when I went home and hurriedly packed. I had relieved myself in the shower, my palm jerking my cock as I cursed at the tiles and cursed her name aloud. Still, when I came, thinking of her, it was nothing compared to the real thing.

Jamila.

Waiting has run its course, and I need her. Soon. I want to peel back every layer of her clothes—starting with her ridiculous scrub top and finishing at her panties. I want to bury my nose in her skin, inhaling the scent of her perfume mingling with our sweat. I want to feel her flesh warm beneath my touch. Her body tremble and her pussy tighten around my cock. I want everything from her, and before my flight takes off, I tell her this in a handful of explicit texts.

I picture her, sucking in her bottom lip and clutching her phone close to her firm tits as she reads my messages, and that thought brings a grin to my face as I close my eyes and listen to the stewardess ramble on about seat belts and exits.

When my flight touches down in California eight hours later, her response is waiting for me. I shake my head, laughing at the demure text as I stride toward the baggage claim to collect my luggage.

9:13 AM: Have a safe trip, Mateo.

I can't get enough of her using my name. When I have to let her go—and it will happen sooner than later because she’s already made it clear she wants everything I refuse to give her—I’ll miss that.

Keeping a close eye on the conveyor belt, I reply back.

2: 39 PM: Have a safe trip? I tell you I'm thinking about the way your pussy tastes and all you can say is, have a safe trip?

She sends me back an emoji. The one with wide eyes and an open mouth, so I respond with something else that’s sure to bring fire and shock to her beautiful features.

2:42 PM: That should have been you in my office today after that goddamn tease you put on. Big eyes and speechless because your mouth was too full to say a word.

She replies fifteen minutes later as I head to the rental car kiosk to grab the keys for my car, and I pause in the middle of the airport as I read what she’s written.

2:43 PM: You had a client, who was I to intrude? Besides, didn’t you point out just today that I talk even with a full mouth?

“Not when I’m doing the filling, Flowerbomb,” I respond back via voice message before I slide my phone into the side of my carry-on bag.

* * *

The next couple of weeks seem to drag by at an agonizingly slow pace that leaves me frustrated. While the memories that torture me and make me weak don’t haunt me, the woman I’ve pursued so relentlessly to be my distraction—the woman I haven't even had the pleasure of fucking yet—proves to be just that. A distraction. It's hard to focus on my work when all I can think about is seducing her. And even though she’s miles away, in another time zone which makes coordinating our schedules a goddamn pain in the ass, I make it my mission to unravel her.

I end up unraveling myself.

I work during the day, handling everything I can in my California offices so I won't have to return for a while, and at night she's all mine.

“What are you wearing?” I demand the second she calls me at the start of my third week in Los Angeles. I picture her in nothing—tight, golden brown skin bare as she curls her toes in her sheets. When she laughs and purrs that she’s still in scrubs and she’s on her way to take a shower, a growl rips from the back of my throat. “Showers can wait, Jamila. I can’t.”

“You’re in Los Angeles. You have to wait,” she reminds me in a soft voice, but I don’t give a damn if I’m in Singapore. I want to hear her come, and I won’t sleep until I do.

“On your bed, Jamila,” I order. “Panties down. Rub your clit for me. Let me hear you say my name.”

Her breath catches and my cock hardens. I almost expect her to argue with me—it won’t be the first time—but a second later, I hear the squeak of her mattress and she drags in another sharp intake of air.

“You’re bossy,” she gasps, and I clench my teeth at the sounds that follow. I picture her, her back arching, her hips glistening with perspiration. Her legs spread wide as the tips of her fingers circle over her clit. She’s already wet—just like she was by the time I took her panties off that one night—and I grip the base of my cock as the memory assaults me. “I need … I need …”

“Tell me what you need, beautiful,” I rasp, pumping my hand hard, wishing like an idiot that I could be balls deep inside of her instead. “Go ahead, tell me.”

“When do you come home?” Her moan reaches into my stomach, twisting a reaction out of me that drives my fist to go harder, faster. “When do you … Oooh, fuck, Mateo.”

Jamila Armstrong is a drug because over the last few weeks, I’ve gotten addicted to hearing her cry out like this. When I get to witness it live and unfiltered, I’ll probably blow my fucking load the second she touches me. “That’s it. Come for me.”

I finish myself in silence because her whispers and the squeaking of her bed as her hips crash against her hand is the only soundtrack I need. She’s still whispering my name, still breathing heavily and gasping for air, when I reach frantically for a hand towel.

I feel sorry for the hotel staff because I’ve been going through these motherfuckers like a teenager who’s discovered porn for the first time.

“Do you do this with all your distractions?” Jamie asks sleepily a few minutes later. When I remind her that she was going to shower, she yawns and promises to do it in the morning. Then she repeats her question. “I hate the thought of you…”

And I hate the intense pressure settling over my chest when her words fail her. “I’ve told you already, Jamila. You’re the only woman I’m fucking—I’m sorry, that I’m going to fuck. And I sure as hell hope I’m the only man and you’re not out—”

“All over town with douchebag accountants?” She laughs, and the muscles tense in my shoulders. I toss the hand towel across my hotel room, and it lands a few inches from the base of the dresser. “I’m not. I promise. I’m … waiting.”

Waiting. I close my eyes and mouth her name, the three syllables sweet on the tip of my tongue. I don’t remember the last time I’ve given a damn if a woman I sleep with is involved with another man, but I do with her. I don’t like to imagine another man’s hands on her face. On her body. In those curls that make my fingers twitch every time I touch them. She’s sweet and untainted and I can’t wait to get my fill of her.

“You’re a fucking drug,” I tell her, putting words to feelings that should never be shared aloud and especially with her, and she sighs in my ear.

I've barely touched her, and I’m already hooked.

* * *

“I want to throw a little get together before you leave,” the blonde says in a sing-song voice as she sweeps into my hotel suite two days before I’m set to leave California. She’s brought a friend with her—a tiny brunette who’s all curves and pouty red lips. When Victoria nods to the other side of the room, the brunette flicks her gaze over me before pivoting on her mile-high heels and strutting out to the balcony overlooking West Hollywood. Victoria plops down in the chair by the minibar, adjusting her slinky white dress and tucking her legs beneath her. She looks up at me, her stare imploring. “I know you said you’re done with the parties, but—”

“I am done. So I’m not coming.”

Her light brows arch, and she raps a fingertip against her cheek. “You know I wouldn’t ask you unless it’s completely discreet, B. No Lucy-Fucking-Williams’s popping up to take pictures. Besides, Meghan”—she nods toward the balcony, and I cast an amused glance at the brunette who’s pacing it like it’s a runway as she talks on her phone—“has been dying to meet the epic Mateo Bailon.”

“Epic, huh?” Grabbing a bottle of Johnnie Walker from the minibar and a glass, I lean back, giving the brunette one more glance. She’s my type—pretty and petite—but my cock doesn’t even stir when her eyes lock with mine. She nibbles on her bottom lip seductively, casting a look my way that probably has half the men on the west coast eating out of her palms.

My tongue won't be touching her hand or any other part of her body tonight.

“I’ll pass,” I tell Victoria, returning my attention to my whiskey. Before I can down it, her pale fingers reach out and she swipes the glass, tilting it to her own lips. I scowl at her as I reach in the bar for another mini-bottle.

“I can't believe we've been in the same city for three weeks and this is the first time I've seen you,” she says. “You're scaring me, B.”

I pour myself another drink and down it, squeezing my fist to my chest as the liquor burns a hole through my system. “That just proves how fucked up we are. You get scared when I’m not swinging my dick all over the place.”

Her features work into a deep frown, but her gaze softens slightly when I kneel so that we’re eye to eye. “I’ve known you for years, Mateo.” I ask her what her point is, and she fiddles with one diamond earring, lifting her shoulders. “You’re always up for a good fuck. That’s what you do. What we do to … forget.”

She won't say Delfina's name, but she knows what happened. And in return, I've never mentioned her daughter’s name or her mother’s or father’s even though the fire that took out half her family is public knowledge. She’s only brought it up once, shortly after we first met and she downed a bottle of wine after I told her she wasn’t my type. I had forgotten the party we were at, forgotten the need to bury myself into someone warm who’d take away the memories. Instead, I spent the night with Victoria and the part of my life I was so desperate to get the hell away from, telling her about my wife and son. About the sleepless nights that have become as common as breathing since they were killed.

“I’m still up for a good fuck,” I say roughly. I close my eyes for a moment, and I can see her face in the back of my mind. Soft bronze skin and curls that fall over my hand when I touch the nape of her neck.

I am not a good person. I’ve fucked up many, many times in my life, but I keep my word. I had asked her—no, told her that I didn't want another man's hands on her body while I was away—and I had promised I wouldn’t touch another woman. Even if I were tempted, I wouldn’t give in.

“Besides,” I tell Victoria, standing upright and digging back into the minibar. I’m all out of whiskey, so I settle for a shot of vodka. “I already have plans to take care of my needs as soon as I touch down in Boston.”

There won't be a fucking force on this earth that will keep me from Jamie Armstrong's pussy.

“I’ll be in Boston at the end of the month because I have court with Aaron,” my friend tells me, motioning for another drink at the mention of her gold-digging ex. “I was wondering if…”

The rest of her words become static in my ears because my phone vibrates on my nightstand, and I nod distractedly to whatever she was asking. Victoria jerks her head in the direction of my phone, crossing her arms as her eyebrows furrow then release. It’s almost one here in Los Angeles, so I know it’s her—Jamie—and the tingle of anticipation works through me when I think about hearing her voice. Her sighs and her moans. The way my name dangles off the tip of her tongue. When I drop my gaze to Victoria’s, and she studies the hard expression lining my features, she swallows hard.

“Should I leave?”

“I need to make a quick call, but I promise to meet you tomorrow for lunch?”

She nods, and her lips twitch. “I thought you didn’t do relationships.”

“I don't do love, V. There’s a big difference.”

“Is it that same woman?” She’s a little wobbly when she rises to her feet and I reach out, steadying her, holding her in place as I look down at her with a hard look in my eyes. “Relax, B. I promise, Meghan’s driving and she hasn’t had a drink,” she mutters.

When I let go of her shoulders, she skims her hands down the front of her tight white dress and lets out a whoosh of air. “Answer my question. Is it the same woman you told me about? Lucy Williams’s friend?”

“Does it matter?”

“End it soon,” she advises, and when my eyes narrow at her, she meets my glare without flinching. “You've gotten what you want from her, so you should end it soon before things go south and you get hurt.”

But that's just the thing, I haven't gotten what I want from Jamie. Hell, I’ve barely even started. And after Victoria and her friend leave my room, I return her call. I can hear the shower water in the background and the smile in her voice when she says she’s thought of me all day. My pulse jerks before my cock this time.

Jamila is a drug—my favorite kind, my only kind—but I’m smart enough not to let myself go to the point of no return.