35. Nate

THIRTY-FIVE

NATE

It only takes a few minutes before it happens.

My phone alerts me to a text.

Rosie: Nate, this is Rosalyn Edwards. Although generous, I can't accept your tip.

I smirk at the phone.

Does she realize how that sounds?

And does she really think I need her last name to know who she is?

I might've forgotten about Rosie once. But I remember her now.

Rosie: It's too big.

This time, my smirk grows into a grin.

Rosie: Seriously, I can't take it.

I shake my head and type out my reply.

Me: Rosie, you're killing me.

Me: And it's Nathan.

As I wait for her to realize what she said and how it sounded, I lower my left hand and stroke Charles.

He rumbles under my touch. And when I stop—hovering my hand over his ribcage—he twists his neck so he can bump his little orange head against my palm.

"Such a needy boy," I pretend to complain.

He meows in response.

I look back at the phone screen and wonder if Rosie is lying in bed like I am.

Wonder if she's stripped down to her underwear, like I am.

Wonder if she's feeling warm.

Wonder if she's read her texts and is thinking about my cock now.

Wonder if she's remembering the way she spread her fingers around the base of it when she shoved her hand down my pants in the pantry.

And I wonder if she'll touch herself tonight.