Viv:
Three days.
It had been three whole f*****g days.
Not that I was counting. Not like I’d checked the front room twice the night before or wandered past the bar a few extra times hoping to catch a glimpse of his stupid f*****g leather jacket. Not like I’d picked up my phone and put it down so many times I was starting to wear the screen out.
He was just gone.
After that kiss—after the heat and the couch and his mouth on mine like he was starving for something only I had—he’d looked me right in the eyes and walked away.
Walked. The f**k. Away.
Like I wasn’t the one who decided when a man got to leave. Like I didn’t hold the leash.
I woke up the next morning still feeling the phantom press of him—his body over mine, the callused roughness of his hands, the clean-shaven drag of his
