There’s my girl,” I say once Rylee answers the phone.

Patting her hair down and tucking it behind her ear, she brings her knees to her chest and shyly smiles. “Hey you.”

Hey you. Those two words, so familiar, so comforting. She’s slowly letting her guard down with every text, every call, every FaceTime date. It hasn’t been easy. This is only the third time I’ve actually gotten to talk to her on FaceTime, but for now, I’m going to take what I can get.

“How’s the book?”

She nods and looks to the side. “It’s going well. Just tightening up some things, but I’m sure my editor will have some more notes for me to go over though. Happens every time.”

“When do I get to read it?” I wiggle my eyebrows. “You know, looking forward to reading that window sex, as I really want to make sure you’re accurate and all.”

Chuckling, she answers, “You can read it when it comes out.”

“What?” I lean back on the couch and prop my hand on the arm. “I don’t get an early read of it? What kind of crap is that? Since I was the inspiration and the creator of sex against the window, you should be happy I’m not looking for a cut of the profits.”

Shakes her head. “You’re so ridiculous.”

“Come on, why not read it to me right now? A little story time might be nice before bed.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Why not? Is it really dirty?”

She bites her bottom lip and nods.

“Fuck?” I blow out a breath. “Like really dirty?”

“Like verbatim of our night.”

And I’m hard.

Hands down, that night with Rylee blows any night I’ve ever shared with a woman completely out of the water. I’ve never been with someone so responsive, so reactive to my every touch, my every move. It was addicting trying to figure out what other noises I could cause her to make, what touch made her that much wetter, that much more needy. Playing her body, moving over it, tasting it, hell, I think about it every damn day and yearn for more.

For so much more.

“Kind of killing me, Rylee.”

She shrugs absently. “You asked. I just told you the truth.”

“We need to change the subject or else we’re going to have a big situation on our hands, and what I really mean is I’m going to have a big situation in my hand.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh Beck, you can be so corny sometimes.”

“Would you rather me say my cock is hard as fuck and I’m going to start jacking off if we don’t change the subject?”

She takes pause, her chest moving faster than before. “I mean . . . maybe, wait, no.” She shakes her head. “No cock talk.”

“How about vagina talk?”

“No genitals.”

I cringe. “Genitals is such a fucking awful word. You know how people don’t like the word moist? It’s genitals for me.”

“Genitals? Really? Mine is cream.”

“Cream?” I laugh. “So if I say ice cream you cringe?”

The corners of her mouth tilts up. “Let me be more specific. I don’t like the word creamed.”

“Ah.” I nod. “So the term, I just creamed myself is not part of your vernacular?”

She dry heaves and shakes her head. “Ugh, so gross. Why would that be part of anyone’s vernacular?”

“You got me, Saucy.” Switching gears, I ask, “Did you get any of that clam chowder you were talking about the other day?”

“Ugh, no. They ran out by the time I got there, so I had to settle for chicken fingers, even though it wasn’t close to the same.”

“Chicken fingers? Not even in the same food group. What happened?”

“The other soups at this place are pure crap and so is the rest of their food. I literally only go there for their clam chowder and biscuits; it’s a lethal combination. But I wasn’t about to walk out and not get anything because that’s rude.”

“So you settled for chicken fingers.”

“Exactly.” She sighs heavily. “That’s what happens when you’re stuck in a scene and don’t beat the early birds to the clam chowder pot. Don’t worry, next Wednesday I’ll be the first one in line when the dinner menu rolls out.”

I can’t hold back my smile. Rylee’s life is so different compared to mine. Living in a small town compared to living in one of the biggest cities in the United States, it’s such a stark contrast, and for some reason, I find Rylee’s way of living a hell of a lot more fascinating than mine.

“Do you like living in a small town?”

She twirls a stray lock of her hair. “It has its ups and downs, but I think the ups outweigh the downs. It’s where I grew up, so I know almost every person who lives here, and if I’ve never really talked to them, I’ve heard about them from someone. We’re always talking about each other, always up in each other’s business, but we also look out for each other. Since we’re a tourist spot, we make sure to keep an eye out for one another.”

“That’s nice. Built-in camaraderie. I definitely don’t get that in California. But hey, got to love the road rage only Californians can offer. Bet you don’t get that in your small town.”

Laughing, she shakes her head. God, I love that sound so damn much. “No road rage, but when Mrs. Braverman decides to cross the street, the whole town knows to stop and wait, because it’s going to be a five-minute process. If we rush her, she will—no joke—stand there in the road until she’s ready to walk again.”

“Seriously? Is this the same lady who took your sex chair?”

“Inspiration chair.” She absentmindedly licks her lips, and I can’t help but focus on how wet and plump they are. What I wouldn’t give to taste them again. “But yes, that was her. She’s a squatter and everyone knows it, so we do the best we can to not bother her.”

“Just bribe her with candles and incense.”

“Of course.”

Lying on the couch, she holds the phone out so it’s almost like I’m lying with her. I imitate the pose.

“What was your favorite part of Key West?” I ask, loving how her pure blue eyes look so peaceful, content. She really is gorgeous.

“Favorite part?” She quirks her lips to the side, putting some serious thought into my question. “Honestly?”

“Yes, honestly.”

“You’re probably going to hate me, but when we played cornhole. It was fun and sexy with how you stole little touches here and there. That entire game I felt on fire and then we won and . . .” She shakes her head. “It was a fun, out-of-body moment for me.”

“Why would I hate you for that?”

“Because, I didn’t say something like when you made me come all over your face.”

A low rumble pops out of my chest. “Yes, that was a fucking awesome moment, but that wouldn’t be mine either.”

“No?”

“No.” I shake my head.

“Then what was your favorite moment?”

The image has been on replay in my head for the past few weeks. “My favorite moment, hands down, was when I found you sitting at the bar alone, staring at the bar top, stirring your drink, because in that moment, there was an opportunity in front of me that was about to throw my entire equilibrium upside down. It was a life-changing moment.”

She smiles. It’s a slow smile, but it’s fast becoming one of my favorites. And for once, she doesn’t come back with a smart-ass reply. She’s silent. But her smiles speaks volumes. Yeah, life-changing moment.

* * *

Steam billows from the sink as my pasta drains. Sauce is ready, garlic bread is in the oven keeping warm, and there’s a nice glass of milk waiting for me on my table.

I check my watch for the time and quickly pull out a plate, pile some noodles on it, top it with some sauce and parmesan cheese—well, a lot of parmesan cheese—and pull the bread from the oven where I break off a few pieces for myself.

Rushing over to the table, I set the mood lighting, including a tapered candle I bought from the store today, play some music, and position my phone as it rings.

Rylee.

Fuck, seeing her name across my phone still sends a sense of excitement through me. I answer her FaceTime request and can’t contain the smile when she comes on screen. God, how I want to kiss that beautiful face, those luscious lips.

“Hey, Saucy.”

She looks flustered, her hair a mess, her face flushed, and splashes of red all over her white shirt.

“Ugh, why did you pick such a hard recipe?” She presses her forehead into the palm of her hand, her eyes still focused on mine.

“What do you mean?”

Moving her phone, she shows me a plate of what looks like half-cooked spaghetti, chunky sauce, and charred garlic bread. Oh hell.

“I’ve never made homemade sauce before, my noodles weren’t cooking for so long because I didn’t know the burner wasn’t on, and my oven practically scorched my bread. And who makes sauce with real tomatoes?”

I chuckle. I know I shouldn’t but can’t help it. Rylee is a bad cook and for some reason, I find it endearing, especially since she at least gave it a go. A few days ago, I proposed the idea of eating dinner together. I gave her what I thought was an easy recipe to follow so we could both eat the same thing. Seems like my night of cooking went a little smoother than hers.

“Uh, it said canned tomatoes.”

“No, it didn’t.” She pauses and looks to the sky. “Did it?”

“It did.”

She exhales heavily and sits back in her chair. “Ugh, I’m sorry. I was working through this scene today in my book, and I swear it sucked all my mental capacity. When I realized I was supposed to cook dinner tonight, I was rushing. I’m almost positive this is going to taste like a cat ate it and then threw it back up on my plate.” Gross fucking visual.

“Why are you apologizing?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know.” She plays with her fork in her spaghetti. “I’ve never done this before, had a FaceTime dinner date. I wanted to make sure I did a good job, you know, impress you a little. All I accomplished was tie-dying my shirt with the most likely under-seasoned spaghetti sauce.” This girl. Too adorable.

“You wanted to impress me? That’s sexy.” I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest.

She motions to her body. “You call this sexy?” Fuck, yes.

“Every single time I see you,” I answer, not even skipping a beat. And every time I close my eyes and see you in my mind. She casts her eyes downward and what I wouldn’t do right now to lift her chin, to force her to focus those irises on me. How can she be so insecure about herself?

“I’m just unsure of what this is between us, Beck. Whatever it is, I’m not good at it.”

“You don’t have to be good at it, Saucy, you just have to be present. The good happens along the way.”

She visibly sighs, her tense shoulders relaxing, a light smile playing across her lips.

“You’re so freaking . . . ugh.”

I laugh. “I hope that’s a good thing.”

“It is.” Shaking her head and hands, like she’s erasing the moment, she says, “Let’s start over.”

Playing along, I say, “Okay, do you want me to call back?”

“Yeah, call me back.”

She’s so goddamn cute. I hang up and give it a few seconds before I set my phone up again and call her. When she answers, she’s no longer wearing a spaghetti-stained shirt. Instead—and fuck, it’s even better—she’s only wearing a red lace bra. There might be food somewhere too, but fuck. Red. Lace. Bra.

My eyes narrow and my dick grows hard, immediately pressing against the zipper of my jeans. This is the one time where wearing no underwear is an issue—when you have a hot-as-hell woman you can’t get enough of FaceTiming you topless. Fuck, it’s been too goddamn long since I’ve been able to touch her.

I clear my throat, and say, “Are you trying to kill me, Rylee?”

She looks at her breasts that are spilling out of her bra and giggles. “Sorry, I guess I didn’t think this through. I was going to change my shirt but you called back so quickly, that this is what you got. Want me to go put something on?”

She goes to stand and I say, “No!” I shake my head. “No, I want you to take more off.”

She tilts her head to the side and gives me a get real look. “I’m not about to sit here naked for you while you eat your delicious spaghetti meal and I choke mine down.”

“I wish you were choking down something else right now.”

With mirth in her eyes, she gives her head a shake. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re hot, so take your bra off.”

“I’ll take my bra off if you take your clothes off.”

Done. Before she can protest, I pull my shirt over my head, toss it to the ground and reach for the zipper of my jeans, my cock excited for the release.

“No.” She laughs. “I was kidding. Keep your clothes on.”

I pause, fingers playing with the zipper of my jeans. “It doesn’t bode well for me that you want me to immediately dress myself when I strip down. What are you trying to say? Does my body disgust you?”

“Oh my God, don’t be a drama queen.”

“Me, a drama queen?” I clasp my hand to my chest in mock disgust. “I’m not a drama queen, and you’re avoiding my question. Does my body disgust you?”

Looking up through her eyelashes, her voice soft and serious, she says, “You know damn well your body doesn’t disgust me.”

And that look, that one right there where she very carefully bites on her bottom lip, causes a low groan to come out of me.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I want to touch her, fuck her, hold her.

“Rylee,” I groan, “you can’t look at me like that when I can’t do anything with it.”

Sighing, she leans back in her chair and studies me. “This is stupid, so why are we doing this when we can’t touch each other?”

I see the doubt in her eyes, the hesitation.

“Because we enjoy each other’s company.” Wanting to pull her back into the moment, I nod at our food. “Let’s dig in, and you can tell me more about your new book.”

We spend the next twenty minutes talking plot and laughing hysterically at the cringe-worthy dinner Rylee prepared. I’ve never done plotting before, but it’s damn fun, throwing out suggestions that are either entirely too terrible for her to consider or ideas that actually inspire her. Even though her laugh hooks me every time, it’s the way her eyes light up when I prompt a valuable train of thought for her that really turns me on. Smart and beautiful.

Leaving my plate at the table, I take the phone to my bedroom where I flop on my bed and place one of my hands behind my head. Instead of her bedroom, Rylee sits in what looks to be her living room.

“What did you work on today?” she asks, speaking of my painting.

“No assignments today actually, so I worked on some individual stuff.”

She perks up, and even though I love seeing how interested she is in my profession, it’s hard not to be distracted with how her breasts sway with each and every movement. I’ve had a fucking hard-on from the minute I rang her back, and it’s painful.

So fucking painful.

And she probably has no fucking clue.

“You have your own paintings?”

I nod, trying to focus on something other than the alluring girl in front of me. “Yeah, painting isn’t just a job for me, it’s therapeutic.”

“Can I see what you worked on today?”

I cringe. “Yeah, you don’t want to see that.”

“I do.” She nods vigorously. “Please, will you show me?” Side note, ladies. Boobs wiggle when you nod and/or giggle. Yeah. Don’t ever stop.

How the hell am I supposed to say no to that? When she looks at me like this—impatient desire to see something of mine—I’ll pretty much do anything for her. She’s guileless, and having such sincere yearning in me, in what I do, does so much for my long-lost heart. It will be her lethal weapon when it comes to me.

“Shit, when you ask like that . . .”

I get up as she cheers and claps, excited she’s getting her way.

Since I only have a one-bedroom apartment, I paint in the living room, so I take her to my easel and turn the phone around, showing her a half-finished picture of an aging and balding man. I use oils with unconventional coloring. For this skin tones, I chose to paint with purples and greens, combining the colors to show the depth in his skin.

“Oh my God, Beck. That is amazingly beautiful.”

“Thanks,” I answer softly, feeling slightly self-conscious.

“Do you know that man?”

I nod, but I don’t want to get into how. Yet. “Because my work requires me to paint landscapes, when it’s just for me, I focus on portraits. It’s a good balance, I never get sick of it, of painting that is.”

“Makes sense.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “It’s beautiful. You are so talented.”

“Thank you.” I scrub the back of my neck. “Want to see another?”

“Yes, please.” She’s excited, which excites me. Picking up one of the canvases leaning against my couch, I prop it up against the living-room window. It’s a painting of a woman with bright red lipstick, high cheekbones, and distraught eyes. Her purple hair swirls all over the canvas. It’s one of my favorite pieces. “Oh wow. Look at her hair and the streaks of orange you have in it. It gives it so much dimension.”

Encouragement of my art, hearing Rylee describe the details of my painting, seeing what I see when I’m painting, it means a lot to me.

“And the green in her eyes. It’s as if it’s muddied. Did you do that on purpose?”

“I did.”

Sophia. She’s a survivor, a strong woman with a muddied outlook on the world who is fighting every day to live a normal life, to forget her attacker, and set herself free from the demons clouding her mind.

“She’s beautiful.” Rylee pauses. “I’m starting to think maybe you know this woman too.”

I nod. “I know of her story. I know everyone’s story who I paint.”

Rylee twists her lips to the side. “Are these stories of pain?”

I nod, tingles of anxiety rise through me. I don’t want to dive too deep into this story, in how I know these people. I’m not ready for Rylee to know that side of me.

Because I’d be damned if after I tell her my story, she becomes one of the tortured souls I paint next.

No, I’m not ready for that. Not sure I’ll ever be.

* * *

Beck: Are you ready?

Rylee: Give me five minutes. I need to get this guy off and then I’ll be ready.

Beck: Please tell me you’re referring to a character and not . . . Griffin.

Rylee: LOL. My character! I have to get my character off and then I’ll be ready for FaceTime.

Beck: Good, I like it when you’re specific about who you’re getting off.

Rylee: I can understand that. Give me five.

Walking around my bedroom, I put away my laundry, hang a few shirts, and dust the top of my dresser with the shirt I’m wearing. When I notice how much dust is on my shirt, I chuckle and take it off. I should try dusting more often. Possibly with a duster rather than a shirt.

It’s been over a month since I’ve seen Rylee in the flesh, over a month since I’ve touched her, and fuck if I haven’t felt this goddamn horny before.

We talk almost every night whether it’s text or FaceTime, and we keep it to simple things like our likes and dislikes, or ribbing each other. We never delve into our pasts, and when one of us is uncomfortable, we shut down and end the conversation. Sooo, super healthy.

I don’t really know what one would call what we’re doing, but all I know is that if I go a day without talking to her, I feel empty inside, like I missed out on something great for that day. I never want to miss out on something great, especially where she’s involved.

My phone rings and I rush over to answer it. When she pops onto the screen, she greets me with a giant smile. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a bun, loose strands delicately framing her face, and she’s still wearing her thick-rimmed black glasses. But what I’m really interested in is the tank top she’s wearing without a bra. The tank top is so damn tight I can see the outline of her areolas. I’m hard, just like that.

“Hey you,” she says into the phone, her smile capturing me.

“Hey, Saucy.” I lick my lips. “You look so damn good with those glasses on.”

She tips them up and down. “You like these? I wear them when I’ve been staring at my computer for far too long. They help my eyes relax. It was a long day editing but I’m almost done, which is amazing.”

“Congrats, that’s awesome. I can’t imagine what it’s like to write an entire novel and then send it off, edited and ready for publishing.”

“The feeling of accomplishment never gets old.”

“I bet.” Taking a peek at her cleavage, I say, “Nice shirt choice. You’re giving me a goddamn erection with how tight it is.”

“Well, I thought it was only fair since you show up on these calls shirtless eighty percent of the time. You know it’s not easy over here for me either.”

I chuckle, loving how honest she is. “Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

Settling on my bed, I ask her, “Tell me this, have you masturbated while thinking about me yet? And don’t fucking lie to me.”

Pinches her mouth to the side, looking away, almost as if she’s ashamed. “I might have.”

I groan. “Are you serious?” She thinks of me when she masturbates. Fucking hell.

She nods. “I did last night.”

“How hard did you come?”

Her cheeks splash with red. “Not as hard as I would have liked to, not as hard as I would have if you were actually here.”

Pained, I close my eyes willing my body to calm down, to not get too damn excited.

“Do you ever think about me when you touch yourself?” She looks shy as she asks me.

Is that a joke?

“You’re kidding, right? Rylee, do you realize how quickly and easily I get hard when I think about you? You’re on constant replay in my head, and the minute I touch myself, it’s embarrassing with how fast I come.”

A wicked smile crosses over her face. “Yeah? Are you hard right now?”

“Hard as fuck, especially since I can see how puckered your nipples are, how almost see-through that tank top is. Yeah, I’m fucking hard.”

She lets a few seconds pass before she says, “Let me see.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You want to see how hard I am?”

She nods. “Yes, show me.”

Are we doing this? Are we about to have FaceTime sex? “Please show me.” She’s begging to see my cock. What fool would say no to that?

“Rylee, if I whip my dick out right now, you’re going to wind up with two options: you’re either going to have to hang up the phone, or watch me stroke myself to climax. I’m not fucking kidding. You make me so goddamn hard it’s almost impossible to ignore how painfully bad I need release.”

She sighs and lies back on her bed as well, holding the phone up above her. “Beck, I’m going to be honest. I’m so horny right now and maybe a little drunk.” She holds up her fingers. “Well, not drunk, tipsy and throwing caution to the wind.” She pulls on her tank top, the collar of her shirt dropping dangerously low on her breasts. She wiggles along her sheets. “God, what I wouldn’t give for your hands right now, for your mouth, for your cock.”

Confused, since our conversations have been pretty vanilla leading up to this point besides some innocent flirting, I ask, “Where’s this coming from, Rylee?”

She grunts and moves her hand around her breasts and pulls on her puckered nipple. She bites her bottom lip and says, “I might have been watching some porn while texting you.”

“Porn?” I chuckle. She nods. “So when you were saying you had to get your character off, you were lying?”

“No.” She laughs and shakes her head. “When I’m not in my inspiration chair—”

“Sex chair.”

She rolls her eyes. “When I’m not in my sex chair and I need to make sure the sex scene is hot enough, I’ll watch some porn while I’m writing. It’s the perfect way to get me in the mood, but God, it makes me incredibly aroused. Like you with no shirt on, it’s making me want to stick my hand down my shorts and find some release.”

Fucking hell.

“Saucy.”

“Yeah?” Her eyelashes flutter up and she makes eye contact with me.

“Take your shirt off. Now.”

Her face softens and a seductive smile takes over her gorgeous mouth. Shifting on her bed, she sets the phone against what I assume is a lamp or clock on her nightstand and reaches for the hemline of her tank. In one fluid movement, she lifts it up and over her head, revealing her magnificent breasts and hard nipples.

I grip my chin, rubbing my fingers across my stubble as I take her in. “Beautiful, Rylee.”

She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she closes her eyes, presses her head back, and brings her hands to her breasts where she plucks at her nipples. Her mouth parts open as a light, subtle moan escapes her lips. That’s all it takes. I reach for my pants just as a frantic and incredibly loud knock sounds at my door, followed by Chris telling me to open up.

“Fuck,” I mutter, wondering if I can ignore him.

“What’s that?” Rylee asks, lifting her head to meet mine and covering her breasts, breaking away from our moment.

“Beck, I know you’re in there. I can see your bike. Dude, I need your help, please open up.”

“Shit.” I rub my hair. “It’s Chris; sounds like he needs my help.”

“Oh, yeah, go answer him. Uh, this was stupid anyway.”

“Like hell it was.” I stand from my bed when Chris’s pounding becomes incessant. Rylee quickly puts her shirt back on. “Rylee.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I’m embarrassed.”

“Beck, open up, man.”

For fuck’s sake.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Rylee.” I make my way toward the front door. “Give me a second, I’ll call you right back.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Feeling like a giant dick, I hang up and fling my front door open. “Dude, what the hell?”

Chris passes by me, looking crazed. “Thank God you’re here.”

I shut the door and adjust my jeans before turning around. “What’s going on? Is everything okay? Justine, the kids, are they good?”

“What?” Chris shakes his head. “Yeah, they’re fine.” Reaching into his back pocket, he shows me two white tickets. “Dude, I got tickets to Bon Jovi’s concert this weekend. I won them on a radio station contest. Can you believe it?”

Blinking my eyes rapidly, I ask, “Are you fucking serious? That’s what you came here to tell me? That’s what you practically beat my door down over? Bon Jovi tickets?”

“Yeah, why aren’t you excited for me? Living on a prayer, man. This concert is going to be sick. I’m taking Justine; think you can watch the kids for us?” He plasters a huge smile across his face.

“Fuck you.” I grab his arm and start to pull him toward my door, his feet dragging against my wood floors.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Chris, I thought something was wrong with you guys. I was on the phone with Rylee. Damn it.” I rake my hand through my hair, the tension obvious in my stiff shoulders.

“With Rylee—” Understanding washes over him. “Oh shit, were you having phone sex?”

“Who fucking knows what we were doing?” Her goddamn top was off, and she was pinching her nipples for me. I was about to watch her get herself off. “You can go to fucking hell living on your damn prayer.” I open the door and shove him out into the hall.

Before I shut the door on him, he holds up his finger and says, “So is that a serious no to watching the kids for us?”

“That’s a fuck no.” I slam the door on his face and reach for my phone where I see a text message from Rylee.

Rylee: Taking a shower and heading to bed. I’ll talk to you later. Have a good night.

Sighing, my chin drops to my chest, I squeeze my eyes shut, and walk to my shower. I wanted to see her. I wanted to watch her enjoy her body, touch the places I can’t touch. I wanted to hear her moan as she got closer to release. What I don’t want is to know she’s having a shower, probably getting what she needs without me there, and once again, shying away from us. Fuck.