Vital Sign by J. L. Mac Page A

words and I find it difficult to disguise what I’m thinking about. I grab hold of the irritation I feel and hope that it does the trick to cover me as she tries to search for words. Her brown hair is dark with seawater and sticking to her everywhere, looking wild like bare vines crawling in every direction up a trellis. Her hair is long and out of nowhere, a highly unnerving image of me tangling my fist into it and tugging it backward until that neck of hers is helplessly exposed to me cascades into my head. Parts of me that have been long forgotten begin to stir.
    It’s been too long. Far too long. I need the company of a woman soon. Maybe this woman’s company.
    She stutters out some poorly formed explanation and before I know it, she’s turned away from me and is headed in the opposite direction. Her ass is perfectly formed into a tight, round little shelf. It’s not too big. It’s not too small. My hands ache to pull her back to me so that I can squeeze her in my hands. My reverie pauses just long enough for me to see that she’s leaving. She’s walking away.
    I can’t just let her go. I need her name. My head screams out for me to stop her. To get her name. To invite her to my house. To drag her to my house if I have to. I have to spend some time with this woman. On some animalistic level, my body picked its mate and I feel compelled to talk to her. I panic at the thought of her walking away. I don’t know why. That’s not like me. I like my seclusion. I’ve given up a lot to keep my privacy. It’s better this way. It’s easier this way. No temptations.
    But s he—she’s the first person who I find myself wanting to be closer to. It pisses me off. Who the hell does she think she is, coming to my stretch of beach and screwing with my head like this? I’ve had everything in order, under control, just long enough for me to forget that at one point it wasn’t. I was spinning, tumbling, spiraling dangerously out of control and it seemed that fate or God or whoever stepped in and smacked me in the face with a cruel wake up call. I can’t go back. I have to keep things in order. It’s how I’ve needed it to be. It’s the only way for me to survive. But ...the way her eyes flick from side to side, the way her body seems to cower right in front of me, everything about her calls to me. She summons me. Her presence speaks to me without saying a single word. Something inside feels like I more than want the beautiful woman in front of me with haunted brown eyes, I need her. My body wants her. The twitch in my cock tells me that loud and clear. It’s the little pang of sadness filling my chest that tells me that I need her. Maybe she needs me too.
    She stops and turns to face me again when I call out for her.
    Thank God .
    “What’s your name ?” I fire off like I’m barking an order. It’s a dick way to sound, but I feel a little urgent. I feel… off .
    I watch her mouth move, answering my question. I asked her name but I don’t hear a thing with my eyes so focused on that mouth of hers. I glance up from her mouth to her eyes and see her questioning look. She’s asked my name too.
    “Zander,” I toss out my name and put my hand out towards her. She slips her hand into mine and I realize that she’s freezing. Her perfect lips tremble and my damn my stupid body wants nothing more than to hold her close, to cover those lips with mine until they tremble with need instead of cold.
    I let my eyes begin to skate ove r her body. My heart nearly grinds to a halt in my chest when I see a fucking wedding ring on her thin finger. Normally, back in Atlanta, before everything changed, I wouldn’t have cared. I’d ignore the ring on a woman’s finger if I wanted her bad enough. I’d fuck her stupid then discard her so she could return to her husband, who likely would never know the difference. Or sometimes they would. I didn’t give a damn either way. But seeing a ring on her— her —feels different. Anger