12. Hannah

TWELVE

This is a nightmare.

I've fallen asleep. I'm dreaming. And I'm having a nightmare.

I try to pinch my thigh through my jeans, but the material is too tight and I can't get a grip on anything.

Not that it would do me any good. I'm not lucky enough for this to be just a bad dream.

Right after we all sat down— me surrounded by the two men I want to see the least— the server came around to take our drink orders.

That gave me a whopping minute to try and compose myself.

Spoiler: it wasn't enough time.

Taking a slow, deep breath, I remind myself this is just lunch with some coworkers and our new boss.

I glance up at Maddox.

He's talking to one of the guys down the table about something football related, giving me a chance to take in his profile.

I hate it.

Because it's so perfect.

The trimmed facial hair. And the memory of the way it tickled the sensitive skin on my inner thighs.

The lips that are that perfect shade of pink. And the way they kissed me like I was all he needed.

Maddox places his elbow on the table, and I follow colorful tattoos down his forearm to his hand.

It's curled into a loose fist, but god, it's so big. If he flattened it out, it would take up the space of a dinner plate.

His fist loosens a little, and I have to tell myself to keep breathing. Because I'm remembering the way he looked, standing over me, naked in the shadowy library, stroking his length.

Maddox taps his pointer finger against the table, and my eyes snap up. Locking with his.