The only visible accessory he wears is a watch on his wrist. Even from where I sit, I can see it’s quality. One I could never afford, and I probably wouldn’t know the brand. But it screams expensive.
His legs are long and unmistakably solid, giving him a confident stride as he beelines to the counter.
Why does he stop here for black coffee? I’m sure he can afford a coffee maker. It isn’t difficult to make. Some grounds, a filter, and some water. Push the button, wait, and voilà…
Ah, maybe he doesn’t like to wait. But is it actually quicker to stop here every morning?
Maybe he doesn’t like to clean up. Though, after studying him, my gut instinct says he can afford someone to take care of dirty dishes. Perhaps he even has a significant other who would be willing to do it. A wife. A husband.
A lover…
It doesn’t matter why he stops each morning because once I notice him, I can’t take my eyes off him. I can’t concentrate.
I watch his lips move as he places his order. I wait for the corners of his lips to turn up as he talks to the barista. They don’t. No eye crinkle, no smile, not even a nod of his head to acknowledge that he’s speaking to a fellow human.
Nothing.
He never takes out a cell phone once while waiting for his coffee. I have never even seen him with one in his hand.
He would be the kind of person to think it rude to be on your phone instead of giving your full attention to the person serving you. Even if that attention is cold, lifeless.
He’s consistent, and he always comes alone.
One day I switch from my regular table in the corner to a table where I can see his left hand. His ring finger appears bare. Though, that doesn’t guarantee he isn’t married. Or in a committed relationship. A lot of men don’t wear bands.
I watch him every day. I learn the way he moves, that he’s right-handed, that he takes fifteen strides to the coffee counter. That he always checks the lid on his coffee to make sure it’s secure before pivoting to leave.
I turn into Pavlov’s dog. When the bell rings at 8:02 every morning, I have to glance up. I can’t fight it even if I want to.
After I watch him walk out the door, I spin fantasies about him. How he will look naked. How his face will twist when he comes. How his fingers will feel deep in my pussy, stroking my insides, making me wet.
How serious his kiss will be when he crushes me against him.
I can’t escape my thoughts. My desires. My panty-soaking fantasies.
I think about changing coffee shops because I‘m becoming obsessed.
I want to touch him. I want to see him smile. I want to make him laugh.
I imagine that something is missing from his life. Like me. I can solve all his problems. I can smooth his brow when it furrows after being overwhelmed at work. I can kiss away the tension. I can whisper soothing words in his ear to distract him from all the important tasks he’s responsible for.
The only good thing about my obsession is it helps me write. Once the bell rings as the door closes behind him, my fingers tear across the keyboard. I no longer suffer from writer’s block. Fantasy after fantasy pops in my head, and I squeeze my thighs together until I ache as the words spill out onto the screen.
He is my muse.
My inspiration.
His skin is dark, but I can’t imagine him lounging by a pool. He seems too important for that. Or too impatient. He probably doesn’t have time for fun. Life for him is about getting things done.
So, it isn’t a tan. No, his skin tone appears natural. His heritage makes him dark. Brooding. Intense. Something lurks in his lineage that is far from middle America. Even if his driver’s license classifies him as white, his family tree would say otherwise.
Kane with a K intrigues me.
I never sleep in anymore, but I don’t have to set my alarm. My eyes pop open every weekday at the same time, my head already filled with him. I make sure I am at the coffee shop, in my usual spot with my laptop open, my chai tea fresh and hot in front of me by 7:50. Just in case he’s early.
He never is. He’s like clockwork. He has a routine, and sticks with it.
Every. Single. Morning.
I want to know what his last name is. What he does for a living. What kind of car he drives. Does he walk to the coffee shop? Does he live or work nearby?
When the tiny bell rings, I glance up. My eyes flick to the time in the corner of my screen, 8:02. Then they land back on him.
Today he wears a jacket over his light blue dress shirt, one that emphasizes the color of his eyes. His dark blue patterned tie is knotted perfectly, precise, tight to his collar. The cuffs of his shirt are visible over his hands. The correct length for a well-dressed man. His gold cufflinks flash as his arm swings in rhythm with his gait.
He’s so out of my league, he never, ever glances my way. Not once.
I don’t understand how he can’t feel the heat of my gaze, the filthy sexual nature of my thoughts.
How can he not feel me undressing him?
Every. Single. Morning.
He has to wait this morning. Two people are ahead of him with much more complex orders than his usual large black coffee. The staff is short-handed today. His sharp gaze sweeps the space behind the counter before realizing the issue. He lifts his arm and checks his watch.
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 w
ant 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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