Fahrenheit (Preview). Release Date: 9/22/15

Chapter 4

My knees have had a hard time functioning since Nathan dropped me back off at the cafe. The rogue kissed the inside of my wrist instead of my hand before releasing me back into the wild. I smiled, but did my best to avoid eye contact. It was for my own hormonal safety.

Currently, I'm finding the steps up to my apartment more difficult than that one time I attempted them after I ate the worm at the bottom of a bottle of tequila.

I push open my front door, and for once I hate seeing Garrett there, flipping through Netflix in our living room. It's nearly one-thirty in the morning.

"Garrett," I greet probably too crisply.

Doesn't he have other things he could be doing? Like, sleeping?

His eyes fling themselves to the doorway. He grins comically, giving me a double eyebrow raise. "How was it?"

What a question.

I grit my teeth, releasing an exhale as I walk into the living room, my heels clicking on the wood floor too loudly for my liking, and all I'm trying to do is not giveaway how wobbly I am.

I hold up my index finger, knowing I can't avoid Garrett on this. He'll only be more curious.

"Let me change first."

I don't dare looking at him. I speed walk into my bedroom. I need a pair of panties and a sweatshirt, stat. It might give me a sense of normalcy.

Garrett was right about one thing. I am out of my league no matter how wonderful my lady bits feel. I can't understand how I want more; more Nathan Sanders, more information, more touchy, more feely, more everything.

I look forward to my mundane morning at work in order to ground me, but how I'm supposed to focus finalizing the online edition of the magazine when I have Nathan's hands seemingly tattooed all over my body is beyond me. I can still feel the indentations on my thigh, and the soreness on my ... mouth.

Focus.

I kick off my heels, and then willingly pull out a pair of granny-panties as a way to feel more like myself before slipping on my Cal Fullerton sweatpants and a tank top.

Bending over my vanity, I squint at myself in the mirror, smirking. I do look as rattled and satiated as I feel. My black eyeliner isn't as crisp as it was when I left, but instead a little fuzzy and blurry around the edges, kind of like how my body feels.

I grab for a makeup remover wipe, and clean off the nights worth of pretty dirt on my face, further grounding myself. By the time I blink my eyes open, this mousy-brunette feels herself entirely.

Now I'm ready to face Garrett. God help me.

I walk back into the living room with a water bottle in hand, gulping from it when I take a seat on the couch.

Garrett isn't a shy person. So I'm not surprised to see his blue eyes annoyingly probing me. His half smile ignites the embarrassment I don't want him to see. All because I know he wants all of my salacious details.

"Did you get what you wanted?" he asks into the void.

I screw on the cap of my water bottle, letting my grip tighten around it as if to use it like a stress ball. It gives me a moment to turn away as I quip, "In a manner of speaking."

"Hanky-panky?" he asks, practically singing.

My cheeks heat. "You're in a much better mood than when I left you."

"Oh, Amy came by."

My brows pull together, dumbstruck by the moron that is my best friend. "Blow off some steam, then?" I ask, rolling my eyes. Does sex just solve men's problems? Is that what I'm supposed to understand? If so, then sign me up, because yoga is doing nothing for me.