Page 30 of Knot By Design
I needed this. The music. The warmth. The way Jude looks at me like I’m not someone carrying all the pieces of a broken past.
Ryker joins us later for darts again, shaking his head at Jude’s terrible aim. We talk about work, about the snowfall coming in heavy by morning, about the town festival, and how Wren’s café has been doing so well since they completely renovated the place.
It’s easy. It’s fun. It’s normal.
When the clock behind the bar hits midnight, Jude checks his phone and groans. “We should go. Ryker’s got an early morning.”
“Meeting with the mayor,” Ryker says dryly, setting down his drink. “Jude told me all about the plans for the black flowers. That’s sick. I can’t wait to see your presentation, although I’m sure it will be a hit.”
“Thanks,” I say. My cheeks feel warm. Am I blushing? It has to be the alcohol.
Ryker stands, grinning. “See you around, flower girl.”
We say our goodnights in the parking lot, breath fogging the air, snow still falling slow and quiet. Jude waves as he climbs into Ryker’s truck. I stand there a moment, watching their taillights disappear down the road.
When I head back inside for my bag, the bartender nods toward the chair. “Your friend forgot this.”
Jude’s leather jacket.
I run my hand over it. It’s soft, worn, faintly smelling of vanilla and cedar and the woods. Something about it makes my chest ache. Maybe I’ll drop it off at their office tomorrow.
No. Nope. Haven’t I learned my lesson about barging into people’s lives?
I’ll just keep it, and then he can get it from the flower shop whenever he comes around.
Outside, the snow’s thickened, falling in lazy spirals under the streetlights. I pull my scarf tighter, slide into my car, and glance once at the jacket on the passenger seat. It looks out of place there, but it feels right.
As I drive home through the sleeping town, I don’t think about how meeting the two men completely ruined my plan for a very casual hookup.
In fact, I don’t think about anything else but how fun the night was.
I wake up in a slick, sweaty haze, my skin sticking to the sheets like I’ve been running a fever.
The room is dim, early morning light filtering through the curtains, but my body feels heavy, overheated from the inside out. My thighs are damp, a telltale slickness between them that makes my cheeks burn even as I shift under the covers.
What the hell was that? I’m way too fucking keyed up from the remnants of that sex dream.
Of all things going on in my life, a freaking sex dream? C’mon!
I climb out of bed, the cool air hitting my bare legs and sending a shiver up my spine. I grab my phone from the nightstand.
The screen lights up, and I scroll straight to my calendar app, where I meticulously mark every check-up, every cycle, every warning sign for my heat.
It’s not due. Not for weeks.
The suppressants have been working like clockwork, keeping everything locked down. But that doesn’t explain the ache low in my belly, the way my core throbs just from the remnants of sleep.
Jude. Yesterday’s dream crashes back in full force. Him in that worn leather jacket, dancing close in some crowded bar. His hands on my hips, pulling me against him, the scent of leather and something darker wrapping around us. The rest of it is a blur of heat I still feel in my bones.
I’m not even sure what’s memory and what’s fueled by the dream, but all of it makes me throb harder. A pulse echoes through my pussy, leaving me wet and needy. I squeeze my thighs together, but that only makes it worse.
I can’t deal with this right now.
My fingers fumble for the bottle on the nightstand—the suppressants, the small white pills that promise control. I pop one into my mouth, swallowing it dry, and head for the bathroom.
A cold shower. That’s what I need. Something to shock the heat out of my system, to rinse away the fog.
I peel off my sleep T-shirt and walk in.
