in our direction and staring at me a moment too long. I wasn’t imagining him opening the car door and joining in.
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
12
Hunter
When Dixie tells me her fantasy, it takes all the willpower I possess to keep quiet. I want to volunteer—of course I do. I’m not insane. I’m not blind, and I sure as hell am not immune to her.
I don’t know what instinct possessed me to ask her about her fantasies. I wasn’t sure what she’d say, but I thought it would be something a small step up from pure vanilla. Pink fur-covered handcuffs or something like that.
But no. Once again, Dixie is full of surprises. Holy fuck, she likes to be watched. She might even want a threesome.
And I want to give it all to her. I want to make every single one of her wicked fantasies come true.
But I hadn’t said anything. Because as much as I want to, it isn’t a good idea. It wouldn’t be casual sex with Dixie. She’s not that type of woman. She would want a relationship that was about more than kinky sex.
She deserves a relationship that’s about more than kinky sex. I’m just not the right person to give it to her. Not now. I’m too numb to form emotional attachments.
When clients lose their loved ones, I tell them not to expect anything of themselves for a year. The first twelve months is a time for survival. It’s not the time to make any major changes.
Even if I’d volunteered, there’s no guarantee she would have accepted. She’s still grappling with her wants and needs. When I was in my twenties, I might have tried harder to convince her to live out her fantasies, but I’m in my thirties now, and I don’t want to talk her into having sex with me. I want her to want it.
The surge of possessiveness that went through you when she approached that guy? That was nothing, was it? And if she finds someone to participate in her fantasy—
I push away that thought and tamp down my instinctive spike of jealousy. She’s free to sleep with whoever she wants. I have no claim on her.
I turn into the driveway. The house is dark. If she knew I was coming home, my mother always left the porch light on for me.
I park the car and enter the house. The full-fledged erection I sported when Dixie told me her fantasy has subsided, but I’m still semi-erect. It wouldn’t take much to close my eyes, to visualize Dixie in a car with me, naked, writhing on my lap, bouncing on my cock. To picture her eyes going wide as Eric walks up. To hear her gasp of shock. To feel her clench around my erection.
Fuck. I need a cold shower, stat. It’s not the only thing that will take care of my erection, but it’s been a very long time since I’ve jerked off in my mother’s house, and it somehow feels wrong.
You’re a fucking mess, Driesse.
I’m about to head upstairs when a car turns into the driveway. Dixie? Could she have changed her mind?
It’s not her. It’s Mitch Donahue. “I was driving by, and I saw the porch light was on,” he says with an ingratiating smile. “You’re a hard man to reach, Hunter.”
“You can’t see the light from the street,” I retort bluntly. “The house is in a valley. You have to turn into the lane to catch sight of it.”
“Like I said, I was driving by,” he says blandly. “Can I come in?”
I’ve been ignoring Donahue’s attempts to reach me. After my discussion with Brian Holland, my mother’s lawyer, I should have looked into his allegations, but I haven’t. It just all seems so pointless, and I don’t have the time or the inclination or the energy to do anything about it. All I’ve done is dodge Donahue’s calls. You’d think he’d get the message.
I step aside, and he enters. I wave him to the living room. He takes a seat on the couch. “Have you had a chance to think about what you’re going to do with this house?”
No. I’m only in Highfield two days a week, and it seems ridiculous to hold onto this house just for a place to crash. I have many friends in the neighborhood who have offered me their spare bedrooms. Caleb and Nolan both live close by. Xavier owns a freaking castle. If none of that works out, I can rent a studio apartment.