Touch Me, Daddy

9 - Tessa.

Greg and I have fallen into a new routine.

We're not driveway buddies any longer—we're in each other's houses. In each other's lives. Twining around each other like vines, gripping tight and taking root and never once acknowledging out loud what we're doing.

He drives me to and from every shift at Sofi Cafe now. Three days ago, he took my measurements for my own set of leathers, and as his knuckles grazed me as he wrapped the measuring tape around my waist, my hips, my ribs, we both kept silent. Focused on our task.

He cooks me dinner most nights. I make us breakfast in the mornings.

And I sleep in his bed.

I know, I know. I've got no business evicting the man from his own room, but the second night he led me up there so naturally and I didn't have the will power to say no. It's such a comfy bed, and the sheets are soft, and it smells like Greg, and he always draws me a bath first.

I've never felt so freaking cared for.

"Stay," I whispered to him on that second night, gazing up at him as he dragged the sheet up my body, but my kind Viking just smiled at me.

"You'll be more comfortable on your own, honey."

Um. No, I won't. I want this man plastered against me. I want to rest my cheek on his big, fuzzy chest and listen to his heart thump.

I keep asking every night, and Greg keeps saying no. Each time, he says it with a gentle smile, with warmth glowing in his eyes, because I guess he really does think it's better this way. That I want to keep this last scrap of distance between us.

He's so wrong. He's got this all wrong, and maybe I'd stop asking if I thought he didn't want me back, but I see the way his jeans go tight around the crotch when I come downstairs in the morning. I'm one hundred percent sure that's why Greg won't sleep in his boxers like a normal person.

I catch his wrist again tonight, my skin flushed and still a little damp from the bath. Greg's wrist is thick and strong, dusted with wiry red hairs.

"Stay," I beg.

His eyes crinkle. He gently pulls free, then finishes tugging the bed sheet over my body. "You'll be more comfortable—"

"No." I'm so snappish, Greg jolts. Frowns down at me, concerned, and all my blissful bath time relaxation is gone. "No, I won't be more comfortable alone. God, we do this dance every night, and you never freaking listen. I want you here, Greg."

My neighbor stares at me with those piercing blue eyes. He swallows hard, throat shifting.

"I know you feel guilty about using my bed, Tessa, but the sofa really is fine. And I can buy a second bed if that makes you feel better—"

"It doesn't."

God. I flop back against the pillows, clenching my jaw so tight I could crack a tooth. Digging my fists into my eyes, I gust out a long groan.

Is this all he'll ever give me? Is this as far as we'll ever reach?

It's not enough. My heart doesn't beat for baths and motorcycle rides. It wants him.

"Tessa." Greg's voice is pure gravel. "I don't understand."

I huff a bitter laugh. "Yes, you do. You just won't admit it." Because have I given this man any mixed signals? Have I played it even slightly cool? No. I have not.

No, I've put myself out there time and time again. Asked him to stay, over and over.

My body feels a thousand years old as I push up to sit. "I'd better go home." My lips are numb, but my eyes are dry. I stare at Greg's big belly pushing against his black t-shirt, summoning the will to drag my exhausted form all the way back down the stairs and next door. Can I take the shirt I've borrowed? Or do I need to get dressed in my gross work clothes again?

"What? No." My neighbor sounds panicked. He nudges at my shoulder, trying to get me to lie down. "It's late, honey. Can't we talk about this in the morning?"

Finally, I raise my chin. The stars pulse through the open window, and Greg stares back at me. Wrecked. Ruined.

"Do you want me?" I ask it as bluntly as I can. "Because I want you. And I can't keep coming over here, play-acting like your girlfriend, if acting is all it will ever be."

Greg's eyes go so wide, it'd be funny on any other day. I'd tease him for it. Do impressions.

Tonight, I'm not laughing.

And my neighbor shakes his head, mouth opening then clicking shut. Ouch. My heart sinks beneath the bed, drops down to be a dried out husk on the patterned rug, and I swing my feet down to the floor.

"No," Greg growls, then he's pushing me to lie back. Climbing onto the bed with me, the mattress dipping, his big body looming over mine.

My viking stares down at me, cheeks flushed and eyes wild. His chest and belly brush against my front, and my thighs fall open automatically, knees raising to cradle his hips.

Greg lets out a broken groan and lunges down, his face burrowing into the hollow of my throat. His beard is tickly and his breath is hot, and this is happening. He's on top of me. Gripping my waist, my ribs, my—

"Fuck." Greg licks my neck, his big hands dwarfing the swell of my t**s. He still kneads them, cups them, pinches my n*****s, his breathing ragged. Still settles his hips down harder against mine, rocking the hard line of his c**k against my inner thigh, and god, that sends shivers down my spine. "This is insane, Tessa. You can't really want this. You can't really want me."

Um. Can't I?

The heat scorching through my veins would beg to differ. The wetness spreading between my legs; the tension coiling tight in my belly. Signs all point to yes.

"Shut up." I grip two handfuls of Greg's black t-shirt and hang on for dear life. If he climbs off me again, I will scream. "This is happening. Believe it."

"But I'm..."

What?

Older? Unpolished? A big, burly mountain of a man?

"Perfect," I hiss. "You're perfect, Mr Erickson. And you're mine."

Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself, claiming him like that, but Greg groans, loud and guttural, and flattens me into the mattress. So, you know. I'm counting that as a win.

"This is—Tessa, you're—"

I like to think these are nice thoughts that he keeps cutting off. Complimentary. The lead pipe digging into my inner thigh sure implies so.

Greg's sandy red hair is thick and surprisingly soft when I grip it. I scratch his scalp, and shiver when he groans.

He's just so big. And when he flattens me like this, when he presses our bodies air-tight close, I feel every thump of his heart, every shuddering breath, every tense and twitch of his muscles.

I flick his shoulder. "Hey, Greg. It's your line. Tell me you want me too."

My neighbor laughs, weak and muffled, then grinds down against me. Licks my throat again before raising his head.

Those wind-burned cheeks are redder than ever. "Oh, I want you, Tessa. I want you more than anything. I want you so bad I can't f*****g think."

Good. Phew. The last ounce of tension bleeds from my body, and I melt back into the mattress, and now, finally, I can let myself enjoy this: I can focus on every growl, every squeeze, every touch.

"Kiss me." When did I get so bossy? It's so not me. But Greg doesn't seem to mind, and I guess I don't either when he ducks his head, slanting his mouth hungrily over mine.

He kisses me like a starving man.

He kisses me like I'm bringing him back to life.

The bed frame creaks beneath us, and I'm sighing against his lips, his beard tickling my chin, my cheeks, my throat.

"Mmph." Greg's tongue dips past my lips, stroking inside my mouth. And I might have bossed him around, might have taken charge so far, but now it's all him. He's owning me. Staking a claim right back.

My shy, sweet neighbor grips a handful of my hair and tugs my head to one side. And I let him move me, manhandle me, my heart singing and my pulse heavy between my legs.

"I'm yours," I breathe.

Greg snarls and sucks a bruise on my throat.