11
WYATT
I’d never met the whole package before, the type of woman who could listen without interruption, ask questions because she truly cared, and who looked as delicious as a luscious slice of coconut cream pie.
The beguiling curl of her lips begged my tongue to take a taste. A gentle slope of tanned skin along her neck peeking at me through maroon-colored tresses made my teeth itch to scrape the flesh. Slender shoulders and a perfect amount of cleavage from her low-cut white shirt caused dampness to coat my palms time and again.
I’d been on a goddamn roller coaster of emotions since early that morning, but just chatting about our favorite TV shows—reality for both of us—settled my insides better than any pink chalk-like liquid medicine.
We got into the latest dating show that had
