“Are we going to ride today?” She quits humming to speak to me and her voice is just as pleasing as her hums.
“I have to leave,” I tell her and wonder if I will ever be able to share what I do, or what I will tell her when she finally asks. She knows I’m not leaving for good. The fact that we have crossed that bridge and she now trusts me, tells me that we are making progress. I look at the time and see I have two hours before I have to leave. I’m hungry, so I’m sure she is too. “Get dressed,” I tell her and roll away from her and toward a cold shower.
Most men claim they can’t live without *. I have been trained to live without food, water, and light. Pussy was the last fucking thing on my mind. But I now see why men say it. I’ve never had a woman like Saylor in my life. Hell, I’ve never had any woman in my life, but I see the impact she has on my self-control. I can feel it slipping, and soon, I’m gonna fucking lose it.
I’m washing my hair when I feel her behind me. I try to ignore her, but she puts her hands on me and they are full of soap, just like the last time we showered together. The cold water doesn’t affect her in the least. I like how she washes me. I can’t remember it ever being done before. And I really like that she expects nothing in return.
I’m clean enough and I step out without facing her. I have too much shit to do today to have visions of her naked under a cold stream of water in my head. It will be hard enough as it is.
I’m dressed before she is out, and now I’m rethinking taking her somewhere for lunch. I know it’s shitty of me to keep her cooped up in here alone, but being around her softens me. I need to get into kill mode and she will fuck up my vibe.
“I’ll be back,” I yell through the door and leave before she has a chance to answer. This time I grab chicken sandwiches instead of burgers. I know it’s not an equal exchange. I know it won’t make up for it. But just the fact that I tried makes me feel better.
Saylor seems to sense when I’m going to fuck up because when I get back, she isn’t dressed, ready for me to take her out. She is wearing another T-shirt and some shorts, sitting at the table waiting for me. She didn’t wash her hair and I’m glad she chose to leave it like it was.
“I got chicken,” I say as a form of greeting. She smiles and I’m forgiven, not that she was pissed in the first place. We eat in silence and I wait for her to break it. She lets me suffer until we are almost through, then she finally speaks.
“I like that you don’t talk a lot. Have I told you that?” She looks at me and her face is confused. She is thinking hard, but there is no need for it. I know every line she has ever said to me, and that’s not one of them.
“No.”
“Well, I do,” she says and continues eating. I want her to talk more. I only have forty-five more minutes before I leave, and I want to hear her talk the whole time. It’s not good, I know that. I am contradicting myself. I didn’t take her to eat because I needed space from her. Now I want anything but space, and I don’t care that it will likely fuck up my game tonight. “Does my talking bother you?”
“No.” Hell no. Fuck no. No.
“Riding is therapy for you, isn’t it?” she asks me, and by the way she is looking at me, she wants an answer.
“Yes.” I’ve forgotten my food. I’ve forgotten T-Man. I’m just sitting here waiting on her to finish whatever it is she wants to say. If there even is anything else she wants to add.
The next thirty-nine minutes are pure fucking turmoil. I have to leave and she hasn’t said another word. We just sit in silence. She writes in her diary. I watch her write in her diary. When it’s time for me to leave, I’m so anxious to hear her voice that I can’t wait to tell her I’m leaving because I know she will say something.
“I’ll be back later. Have your stuff packed and ready. But don’t wait up. I don’t know when I will be back. It might be late. But it shouldn’t be too late.” I’m rambling. I’ve never rambled in my entire fucking existence. What is it about her that makes me do crazy shit that’s just not me? I’m pissed when I grab my bag and stomp toward the door. I’m dangling by a thin rope off the side of a mountain. I don’t even want to hear her talk because I’m sure she will say something that will push me over the edge.
“Dirk?” She says my name like she wants to ask me something. She wants me to look at her. I don’t want to, but I can’t fucking help it. I turn to her and she is serious. There is no smile, just wide, honest, green eyes that suck me in with the force of a category-five hurricane. “You’re my therapy.” And just like that, I’m falling.
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