5. Wyatt
WYATT
I watch Naomi walk up to the exit. It’s been one long goddamn night. As I watched her, she kept throwing glances my direction, like she could feel my eyes following her. She aced her first night while I lost my goddamn heart.
Here I am planning ways to tie her little ass to me for life while she’s just trying to get out the door.
I want to say something clever, but all I get out is, “How was your first shift?”
Her stunning blue eyes hold mine hostage as she nods, breathless. “It was…unusual.”
I’m sure that’s a goddamn understatement. I smile. “You did good. Most people can’t handle wiping ass marks off the tables.”
She laughs, eyes sparkling. “That was my favorite part.”
We stand there for a second, the silence thick and strange. She tugs her cardigan tighter and looks up at me, searching for something in my face. I wish I knew what.
I suddenly remember she doesn’t know who the fuck I am. “Wyatt Byrne. Head of Security.” I stick out my hand, and ready myself for the jolt when her soft skin touches mine.
Nothing could’ve prepared me for what happens when she takes it, her palm warm and surprisingly strong. “Naomi Bardot,” she says. “Waitress, first day.” She holds my gaze, daring me to say something dumb.
Her hand doesn’t let go, not immediately. We stand like that, locked together, long enough that I can feel every tiny tremor in her fingertips. For a second, the club fades away and the world is just her eyes, huge and blue and very much awake.
She’s the one who finally breaks the contact, but not by much. She keeps her hand on my wrist as she shrugs her bag higher on her shoulder. “I better go.”
Dumbfuck. Get your head out of your ass. “You need an escort to your car?” I manage to ask, trying to sound professional when I’m feeling anything but.
She shakes her head. “I don’t have a car. I only live a few blocks away, so I walk.” Then, softer, “But thanks.”
I want to ask her out for coffee. Or to have my babies. But the words die on my tongue. Instead, I offer. “Would you like a ride then?”
“That isn’t necessary.” I can tell by the stubborn set of her shoulders I’m not going to win this round so I give her slight smile. “I’ll see you later.”
“Yep.” She steps past me, and for a moment her arm brushes mine. The contact sends a jolt up my spine, a clean hit of dopamine and something older, deeper. She gives me a crooked smile and disappears out the heavy metal door.
I wait until the count of ten then I follow her out into the warm Texas early morning.
Calling on all my skills, I stay with her but out of sight.
I watch her walk up the front steps of a small, yet well-kept home a couple roads off the main street.
Once I’m sure she’s safely inside, I head back to the club to finish up my night.
It takes less than a week for my obsession to turn pathological.
One day I’m a pro with a ten-year career in high-stress security gigs; the next I’m a goddamn walking hazard, more interested in tracking a single woman through a crowded room than checking if the fire exits are clear.
It’s almost impressive, how efficiently Naomi Bardot manages to root herself into my brain.
I try to fight it. Every night I tell myself to make my move but this is too important to fuck up and I’m trying to take things slow.
Every night I go home and replay missed opportunities with Naomi until the insomnia burns holes in my REM cycles.
Every morning I wake up with a hard cock, angry, and needing a cold shower just to get back on baseline.
Tonight the club is at capacity, a rolling boil of horny millionaires and their pleasure seeking partners. The cameras catch every angle of the action, but my eyes keep drifting to the main bar, to the blur of black skirt and red curls that is Naomi.
She has a way of moving through the club like she owns it, not just passing by tables but scanning them, memorizing every face, every nuance of every order.
The regulars and staff already love her, but nowhere near as much as I do.
She doesn’t flirt or act shy. She radiates the pure, unfiltered confidence of someone who owns the world around her.
I last exactly five minutes before I start watching her on the monitors.
It’s a fucking compulsion now, the urge to look.
There’s a loop of her on camera three, brushing a stray curl out of her eyes as she jokes with the female bartender.
I rewind it twice, then catch myself and slam the playback window shut, feeling like a dumbfuck. I don’t even recognize myself.
The day shift supervisor, Cara, gives me a sideways glance as I flub the door code. “Rough night?” she says, voice dry as dust.
“New system. Still getting used to it,” I grunt, hating the heat turning my ears red.
Cara doesn’t buy it, but she shrugs and goes back to her report. She’s the only person in the building not drooling over Naomi, probably because she’s married to the job and maybe also because she thinks men are a lost cause.
At least once a shift, Naomi and I pass each other somewhere in the club.
It’s never planned, always accidental, but my body knows the drill.
Every time she’s near, I get a little jolt of adrenaline followed quickly by the sense that I need to make a fucking move.
She never says more than a word or two, but the eye contact is electric.
Tonight, as I round the corner near the break room, she’s there, balancing a tray of empty glasses.
“Hey, boss,” she says, her smoky voice rolling out like a challenge.
“Hey yourself, Fever.” I say, managing not to sound like a stalker.
“Fever?” She asks with a raised eyebrow.
I’m not ready to explain that she’s taken over my body and soul like a fever I’ll never get over so I tell her. “I’ll explain later.” I hope my wink comes off flirty and not creepy.
We’re close enough to touch, and for a second neither of us moves.
The tray tilts, just a hair, and I steady it with one hand.
Her warm and soft fingers brush lightly against mine and that fucking jolt hits me right between the eyes.
She lets me hold the weight for a second longer than is strictly necessary, then grins and pulls away.
“Thanks,” she says. “Would’ve been embarrassing if I dropped those. ”
“Don’t mention it,” I reply, and almost add something dumb like you could drop them all night and I wouldn’t give a shit. Instead, I watch her go, memorizing the back of her neck, the curl of her jaw as she glances over her shoulder.
The dreams of her started the first night we met and they haven’t let up since then.
My very first dream involved Naomi’s top sliding off one shoulder as she leans in close and whispers, “Come find me.” Unfortunately, I fucking woke up before I was able to make a move.
Somewhere around day three, the dreams escalated.
In the newest fantasy, I find her standing at the bar, alone, the place deserted except for us.
The world around us goes dark as she pours a shot of bourbon, neat, and slides it down the counter with perfect aim.
I catch it, sip, and feel the burn all the way to my toes.
She says nothing, just watches me, blue eyes unblinking.
Then she’s on her knees, tugging my belt open with practiced hands, mouth already wet and waiting.
I know I’m dreaming, but I can smell the vanilla on her skin, feel the press of her tongue against my cock.
She takes me in deep, all the way, without gagging and eager.
Her hands are on my thighs, nails digging in, and when I look down, she’s staring up at me with her electric eyes holding mine captive.
I want to tell her how good it is, but I can’t talk.
All I can do is fist her hair and hold on as she works me with slow, relentless pressure, sucking and swallowing until my vision tunnels and I explode in her mouth.
I wake up with my sheets twisted around my legs, breathing like I just finished a foot chase.
I’m hard, painfully so, and it takes a good five minutes of frigid water assaulting my body for me to get back to neutral.
The next morning is even worse; I can barely look at her on the monitors without thinking about her pouty lips and talented tongue or the way her lips curl into a smirk like she’s tasted every secret I have.
I know I need to plan my move carefully, but the club has its own gravity and I’m always drawn to her. I find her at the bar after her shift, counting tips and scribbling in a notebook. I lean against the bar, rehearsing something casual, but when she glances up, my brain blue-screens.
“Hey, Wyatt,” she smiles at me as I stand there with my thumb up my ass.
She always says my name in a way that turns me inside out.
I step closer, feeling the sweat start up under my shirt. Fuck it. “There’s a diner about ten minutes from here that opens for breakfast at four. They have the best pie in the world. You hungry?”
I hold my breath waiting and wondering if I need to switch gears and just tell her she’s going to be the mother of my children. She closes the notebook, caps her pen, and gives me a slow, deliberate once-over.
“What kind of pie?” She asks.
“Cherry,” I say, “and something called Texas chocolate overload. Plus the best coffee. Believe me, nobody ever leaves hungry.” For food. I’m pretty sure I’ll leave even hungrier for a taste of Naomi’s sweetness.
She nods, like she’s debating her options. “Okay,” she says. “I could eat.”
She stands, grabs her jacket, and slings her purse over one shoulder. “Lead the way, Head of Security.”
She’s out the door before I can process it, and I follow, pulse jackhammering, every nerve on high alert. I tell myself it’s just pie, just coffee. But when I open the door for her and she walks out into the dark, I know I’m a dead man.
I’ll follow her anywhere.