Needing Him

by Jeanne St. James

His toe taps. Most likely from impatience, not nervousness. His body turns as he surveys the shop. For once, he's noticing that there are other customers and things in the café other than just him, the barista, and his large black coffee.

  I feel him, though he’s not even close, not even touching me.

  I sense the air shift with every breath he takes. I notice every blink. His long, dark eyelashes open and close like two Chinese fans.

  Then his gaze bounces to me. Instead of continuing past, it stops. It stays. He stares. Possibly because I’m staring back. Maybe because my mouth gapes open and I’m breathing more shallow than normal.

  I shift awkwardly in the hard, wooden chair as heat rises into my cheeks, and I’m mortified that I can’t tear my gaze away from his.

  His eyes narrow and his brows furrow, making his eyes appear darker than normal. They remind me of a stormy sea instead of the tranquil Caribbean Ocean.

  My heart beats furiously as his eyes roam over my hair. I fight not to run a hand through it and hope it’s all in place… because it usually isn’t. I curse under my breath when his gaze drops lower to my mouth. I lick my lips before slamming my jaw shut, narrowly missing my tongue. His inspection of me is slow, thorough. Down my neck and then lower.

  I’m glad I tossed on a V-neck cashmere sweater this morning and not an old sweatshirt. Never in my wildest fantasies did I think he would notice me.

  Never.

  His eyes roam smoothly to my cleavage and pause again. One second, two seconds, three seconds. Blood rushes to my head, and I squirm. Heat pools at my core making me wiggle in my seat.

  God, just his gaze makes me want to come. My pussy throbs and I have an urge to touch myself.

  All of those fantasies.

  If he only knew.

  He’d probably laugh and think I’m silly. That he’s way out of my league. He would never be with someone like me.

  But I want him to touch me. I want his fingers to rake through my hair, rip my head back. I want to feel his lips, his teeth, along the strong pulse in my neck. I want him to brush his thumbs over my hardened nipples.

  I find myself light-headed and realize I stopped breathing. I’m waiting. Paused for him to make his move. To grab my hand, pull me out the door, to his house, his car, his office, where he could fuck me thoroughly and hard until he makes me explode into a million pieces.

  I want to climb on his lap and spear myself on his cock, riding him hard until I’m slick, sweating, and clinging to his skin with my fingernails. I want to feel his teeth along the sensitive curves of my breasts.

  I want.

  I want.

  I want him to touch me.

  I need him to touch me.

  I need his fingers, his hard cock, inside me.

  And I’m as impatient as him.

  I need it now.

  I want him now.

  Now!

  I scream silently. A voice I don’t recognize as mine yells, “Touch me, damn it! Touch me!”

  Then I realize all customers’ eyes are on me. Those words, that demand, were not contained in my head.

  No.

  I shouted it out loud. The rawness in my throat unequivocal proof.

  My chair squeals as I shove it back and it falls to a clatter behind me. I grab my laptop, slamming the lid down. I tuck it under my arm and rush out of the coffee shop.

  I leave my dignity behind, just like my chai latte.

  My cheeks remain hot, my heart pounds, my stomach rolls. I’m about to evacuate the contents of my stomach.

  I push through the front door and suck in fresh air, willing myself to breathe. In through the nostrils, out through the mouth. Slow, steady. Keeping the rhythm until my nausea subsides.

  My back faces the store front, and cars with occupants, who are clueless to my recent life-changing outburst, whiz by. They don’t know how crazy I sounded shouting to a man, a stranger, in the coffee shop behind me.

  But I know.

  And he knows.

  I need to get away before the door opens, the bell rings, and he steps out onto the sidewalk. One we would have to share.

  Because right now, the thought of sharing anything with him is too much.

  I force my feet to move, my legs to function. I move forward blindly. Step by step.

  Then a car horn blares, scaring me out of my stupor. And my whole body becomes a rag-doll.

  For more information on Forever Him (An Obsessed Novella): http://www.jeannestjames.com/forever-him

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