The Note by Natalie Wrye (urban books to read .TXT) 📗

outside these huge windows, I cock my head to the side and enjoy the views outside the glass.

It’s been so long since I’ve enjoyed them at all.

In fact… I’d considered selling this apartment years ago, and now in the throes of blue balls agony, I am glad that I didn’t; I know I would miss this sight whenever I was forced to come back to this city.

My body weight feels exaggeratedly heavy as I try to stand to my feet after several silent seconds. Schlepping to my bathroom, I wring the tie from my neck, shrug out of my blazer.

Deciding on a hot shower before I even hit the doors, I fling my clothes to the floor in a heart’s beat.

When I’m under the water, I grab for the soap, the steam only soothing my frayed nerves but so far the slow and inevitable thoughts of Sophia invades my space, system and mind.

Fuck my brain for betraying me right now.

But I can’t do a damn thing as my body joins the mutiny and my hands decide to have a mind of their own. They reach beneath the water, producing suds, and soon suds, bubbles and all, are wrapped around my thickening length, soaking me to my base.

I can’t stop the desire rocking through me. From my dick’s spongy tip all the way to my tightened balls.

My cock is suddenly capable of saluting the flag, and I grab it as it raises skyward, squeezing it tight. Two-handing its stiffness, I think of Little Miss Somerset, remembering the feral smell of her slightly salty-slicked skin.

I’m two seconds from stroking myself into oblivion when my cell phones rings, ripping me out of my fantasy. Hitting the handle, I turn the water off.

I step out of the hot shower—soaked and all—when I reach the bedroom, hair dripping down my shoulders as I reach for the now-lit phone.

I don’t recognize the number on the screen, but I answer it anyway, hoping it’s my fix for the night.

I’m only too shocked to find out it’s not.

In fact, it’s the last number on earth I thought would be calling me and her voice is soft. It’s almost unrecognizable at this volume, but with her silky gasps still in my head, realization dawns on me, and I draw the cell phone closer, nearly imprinting the damn thing into my skin.

My wet face soaks the screen, and I don’t care. I wet my lips despite the water still there.

“Sophia?”

“Yeah…” She hesitates as if she doesn’t want to admit it. “Are you up?”

“No, I’m sleep-talking.”

“Were you reading?”

“Depends on what you consider reading.”

“Was it Stephen King?”

I exhale. “Sure. His novel, Misery. And you were the source material.” My voice is a huff, and I try to think, but my brain’s still muddled. Muddled with the thoughts of her.

I knew something was wrong with me. But I didn’t think it was this wrong.

Because only a fool would bed a woman who stole from him. Or even think about it. And I’m choking that fool inside me by the neck when Sophia speaks up again, this sentence clearer—stronger than the last. She shouts out suddenly.

“Helloooo? Noah?” She breathes quietly on the other end. “Did I lose you?”

“I would hope not.” I feign normalcy. I sit, dripping wet, on the corner of my bed, my mind swirling with a thousand different thoughts. I start with the first. “What are you calling me for, Miss Somerset? I gave you my number before we left for emergencies.” I wait. “So, what, do you have something for me? Because if you haven’t, then…”

“I have.” She interrupts. “I just have one condition. And I think you need to hear it.” She sighs. “Can we meet now?”

The red digits on my nightstand clock barely blink, reading two AM. I don’t even know why I’m considering it, but losing my father’s watch to Sophia has a way of screwing up my plans, and I decide to go for it, the twist in my gut just a subtle reminder of the danger I’m getting myself in every time I say “yes” to this girl, my heart hammering a million beats per minute.

I exhale out loud. “Alright. Where?”

Within twenty minutes, I’m dressed, hair still wet, t-shirt soaked underneath my coat as I head out into the frigid December air.

My faded jeans hang loosely on my hips and beneath the denim, I wear nothing, not wanting to waste another minute getting to Sophia.

The address she gives me is suspicious. It’s in the Bronx.

But I’m armed this time. Not with any weapons. But with the knowledge that I can’t trust this girl, no matter what she says.

Sophia Somerset is only an asset at this point in my life.

With my brothers, with the night at the bar, and everything surrounding it, I now know that the last week or so in New York has only softened my hard-earned instincts.

Grandfather Quinn’s deathbed words ring truer than ever:

“Only trust yourself.”

And “myself” is telling me that I only need Sophia to return my father’s watch. My plans to return to Sydney haven’t changed. And after closing up the claim on my inheritance, that’s exactly what I plan to do.

I don’t need another reminder of all that I’ve lost here. Here in a city that’s loyal to no one.

I shake off those thoughts the moment the street signs announce my arrival.

Arriving to the Bronx address with not a minute to spare, the cab I ride in saddles up to the curb at exactly three o’clock, the rain having reduced down to a drizzle.

I stare at the front door of the building where I’ve been dropped off, red flags rising as I step over the soaked sidewalk, the light from the shop in front of me beckoning me in.

I resist. Until I see her face.

Sophia stands just inside on the tiled floor of the pizza shop now settled in front of me. Her makeup’s wiped clean, a smile on her face.

She laughs across the counter to an elderly man, her