“One minute,” she calls. I hear her bedroom door click shut…fuck. Did she notice me watching, I wonder? I feel like I’ve hit a new low. I’m doing my best to avoid spending too much time with her, but it’s no use. I want her like a parched desert wants rain, and the more I deny myself the more intense that desire becomes. I adjust my throbbing cock, pulling at my jeans hoping to create enough space to ease some of the discomfort. I brace myself against her kitchen countertop, taking a few deep steadying breaths and willing the effects of seeing her undress to subside.

The door to her bedroom creaks on its hinges as it opens, and I turn in time to see her emerge from the room with her hair flowing loosely across her shoulders. I try not to watch the way her chest bounces with each step—I fail. What’s left of my decency forces my gaze south, away from the magnificent display that she has no concept is playing out. My vision crashes into her legs; they look a mile long, barely covered by the tiny scrap of material she’s wearing. I swallow hard, my mouth dry, and look away completely. She exudes innocence and sensuality all at once; my whole body is on fire, and if I look at her face right now, there’s no way I’ll be able to conceal the hunger.

I fumble in my attempt to make small talk as I carry her bag down to my Harley, securing it to the back as she tells her neighbor goodbye. I refuse to look over, instead focusing my gaze at the street ahead. The bike dips as she settles her weight behind me, bare tan legs clamp down around me and I have to make a concerted effort to hold back the groan making its way from my chest. It’s threatening to spill from my mouth in a confession of how badly I want to pull her around me and bask in the delight of her chest pushed into my face. Her fingers slide around my torso painfully slowly and lace together as she secures herself.

I know she doesn’t particularly enjoy riding the bike; it scares her. And if I weren’t such an asshole, I’d have brought her in my car. I’m not even sure she knows I own one. After letting her ride pillion that first time I brought her home, I’d unintentionally ruined the enjoyment I get from driving this thing alone. I rev the engine and pull away from the curb at top speed. I don’t mean to scare her, but I’m annoyed with myself. The bike lurches forward, and her body reacts by squeezing every part of me that it’s touching even tighter. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my t-shirt and I slow down, not because I want her to loosen her grip—fuck, I’d love for her clamp down on me harder—but the thought of scaring her doesn’t sit well. I’ve witnessed her frightened already, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to be the cause of that fear.

In kindergarten it was physical abuse: pulling hair, purposefully tripping and being a little shit, all with the intention of getting attention. Then came the whispering, passing notes and bribing your best friend to put the feelers out in middle school. By high school it was straight-up defamation—now it’s subtle tactics, playing it cool and admiring from a distance. Why? Because to actually admit to one, yourself, and two, the person in question that you actually like them would be nothing short of fucking crazy. But I’m considering it. The whole journey back from Tweet’s apartment had my mind in tatters. So what if she works for me? The only rules I’d be breaking are self-imposed.

I almost do it.

As I’m walking back into the club and watching her ass ascend the stairs, I almost tell her that I can’t think of anything but her when she’s within 200 feet. And right as the declaration lingers on the tip of my tongue, ready to stumble forward off the cliff, straight into the murky waters of mixing business with pleasure, she tells me she has a date. I swallow my admission like a bitter pill, disappointment and jealousy fusing acridly, leaving a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. I reason that it’s a good thing. My rules are intact; no lines have been crossed—at least none that she’s aware of. Yes, Tweet dating is a good thing…and if I keep repeating it to myself. I might even start believing it.

She’s smiling as she tells me she’ll be back before her shift starts, and I fake disinterest. I want so badly to ask her where she’s going and who she’s going with. Is this a spur-of-the-moment thing, or a first-time occurrence? And fuck if I don’t want to interrogate her and then forbid her to go.

“See you later,” I reply. I sit my phone in the docking station, selecting the moodiest, pissed off anger-infused piece of music I can find while she’s still in the room. I try not to watch her twisting her long waves into a loose knot at the base of her neck as I sink down into the sofa, the weight of my annoyance balanced precariously on my shoulders. Not overstepping the mark, telling her to stay here, is far harder than it should be.

Muse fills the room, the heavy bass pulsing through the speakers. She stops halfway to the door.

“You have really eclectic taste in music.” She grins. “I like it.”

It’s not the response I was expecting. I don’t want her to like it; I want her to get it.

“I play what reflects my mood, so if you come home and I’m playing Nine Inch Nails, you should probably stay out of my way.” I mean it, but she laughs, thinking I’m joking, and all I want to do is groan in frustration. Can she really not see the effect she has on me?

“So if you’re playing Pharrell’s, Happy, I’m all good. But if I can hear the tortured sounds of Ian Curtis singing Atmosphere, I know to go get the whiskey and Xanax.”

“Something like that.”

She looks at me for a beat too long and I wonder if she’s finally noticing my mood, but if she does she dismisses it with little contemplation and a small wave as she disappears out the door.

I’m coiled like a spring, angry and confused and so frustrated that I don’t know what to do with myself. The thought of her meeting up with some asshole has my mind reeling. I shut off the music and storm into the bathroom, turning on the shower and deciding that I need to let the burning hot water soothe the tension in my shoulders. The room steams as I tear out of my clothes and step into the spray in a foul mood.

The scalding water bounces off my skin but I don’t feel the heat. My blood is already boiling. I lean forward resting my forehead against the smooth, cool, wet tiles. My eyes close as water cascades over my face and drips from my nose. I remember the bounce of Tweet’s breasts as she walked through her apartment, and the curve of her ass in the tiny black thong that left nothing to the imagination. I want to blame the steam for making it hard to breathe, but I know it’s not the case. Tweet’s responsible and I can feel myself swelling as I continue to imagine what she would have looked like from the front in that tiny thong. The ache in my groin strengthens. Fire licks at the base of my shaft and my balls draw up at the thought of walking into her room, laying her across the bed and removing her panties with my teeth while my tongue tastes every delicious inch of her. I reach down to palm my dick; my thoughts are making it impossible not to do anything other than sate the need for a release.

I go back to Saturday night, her first real performance. She’d been part of the chorus girl lineup, wearing little more than feathers and sequins strategically placed but showing enough flesh to drive the customers and me senseless with the intrigue of what lay underneath. I thought I’d about die watching her, but when she graced the stage a second time that evening dressed as a marionette doll, I almost lost it. Annie had told me Tweet and Rae were working on a new routine Tweet had come up with and Rae had agreed to, which in itself is a miracle. She’s not known for her openness to suggestions. Robyn must have weaved one heck of a spell over her.