Déjà vu.
A banging of firm thwacks shook me out of sleep, somewhere in the fuzzy corridors of my dreams where I was fantasizing about kissing another guy.
But this was no dream. I opened an eye. The room was dark. I heard someone calling my name twice, three times. I shook the cobwebs from my head.
“Yeah,” I muttered, turning and thinking it was Rocco knocking at my window. I dreamed of his mouth on mine, our lips red and raw from kissing. I smelled the soap he used to wash up: pine, lavender, sage, and ivory, maybe a combination of all four.
He tasted sweet like a loaf of warm baked bread. His tongue mapped the length of my torso in long, comforting strokes, the smooth, controlled gesture pleasing my bare, sunbaked flesh.
No. It wasn’t Rocco at my window.
Fuck.
The knocking was com
