Daddy Crush - Adriana Anders Page 0,41

feeling more lost than I have since I moved here. I could cry right now. All night, the tears built up in my sinuses, my chest. One overly kind word from these two and the dam will break.

The coffee shop’s packed, the music loud, the conversation constant. We’re at our usual corner table. At the next table over, two women are showing each other pictures on their phones. I can’t hear them, which I hope means they can’t hear us either. The air is full of spices and steamed milk and some herbal scent Mikey’s wearing. All things that usually buoy my spirits.

“You two are speaking a foreign language to me right now. I mean, I grew up with people who never talked about themselves. So, I get that it’s a thing. It’s just…” I look around for inspiration, but see none. Everything’s sort of dark today, colorless. “He’s not silent. He talks to me. We talk.”

“About sex? Work? Sure.” Alba’s wearing an almost pained expression. “But not love.”

“Love’s taboo, honey.”

“What?” My face squishes up. “I thought the dad—” Remembering where we are, I whisper, “I thought the daddy thing was taboo. And my wanting to be submissive. I get that about spankings and role play and whatever, but now you’re telling me love is? Feelings? Emotions?”

“No, no, no. Not taboo, like sexually,” Mikey says. “Big Daddy Karl seems to be perfectly fine with pushing those limits.”

Alba nods her confirmation, full lips pursed.

“It’s…” Mikey lets out a slow, exhausted raspberry. “Okay. So. The white American cishet male is afraid.”

I blink, picturing Karl’s face when he kicked that man out of his bar. I see the breadth of his shoulders and the strength in those hands. No fear. At all. “He’s scared of nothing.”

“He’s afraid of you.”

“That’s absurd.” Frustration pushes me to stand. “This is ridiculous. I’m not asking him for anything!”

“You want him to love you back.” Mikey puts out a hand and wraps it around mine. Theirs is warm and dry and strong. Comforting. “Right?”

“It would be nice, but… No.” I sink down and give their hand a squeeze. Alba takes hold of my other one. “Maybe.”

“Give him time.”

I grimace. “I get impatient.”

“You do,” Alba says with a smirk.

I tighten my hold on them before extricating my hands and sip my coffee for a quiet moment, letting the taste and smells lift me up again. I wrap my favorite scarf around my neck. The fact is, whatever happens, however this thing pans out, I’ll do it on my terms. That’s important.

I picture him, last night, hands on me, face on me. I remember the way our bodies worked together, and the feel of him, so hefty, so strong and hot. The way our connection created an energy of its own. I want that again. I want more. “I think of all the stuff we didn’t get to do.”

“Stuff?”

“Blow jobs? Intercourse?” The women beside us are openly listening now. I blush, hard, and roll my eyes theatrically in their direction.

With an impish grin, Alba stage-whispers, “Don’t forget anal!”

I shush her, laughing, despite my discomfort. “You’re a nightmare.”

“I know. I know.”

Beside us, the women rise and head to the door, heads close together, maybe scandalized or excited or a bit of both. Or, given the general volume in here, they’re probably talking about something completely unrelated to our discussion. I watch them push outside and link arms to stroll down the crowded sidewalk.

What would that be like? Walking with someone like Karl. Maybe holding hands, just casually, as we head off to dinner or something.

From out of nowhere, Karl’s words from the night before come back to me. Look, ah, Jerusha. This is probably a good time to stop the lessons.

Mikey squints. “What? What just happened? What are you thinking about?”

“He wants to stop the lessons.”

“He said this? After the I love you?”

I nod.

“No. Hell, no.” Alba’s got that hard-eyed look she gets when something displeases her. “Y’all have too much chemistry. This thing isn’t over.”

I’m not sure I believe that, but I nod, swallowing back the fear that I’ve done something I can’t fix. Something wrong. My eyes land on my hands, which are rough and callused, scarred and stained. More like Karl’s than Mikey’s slender, soft ones or Alba’s plump, dimpled, manicured ones.

My hands are good hands. Strong hands. I suck in a breath full of that strength and face my friends. “I didn’t do anything wrong by telling him.”

They shake their heads.

“No, honey, you didn’t.” Mikey leans in.