Finding My Dream Man

"Oh my God," I gasped as pleasure washed over me, leaving my mind blissfully blank and my entire body pulsing with ecstasy.

When the waves of pleasure finally subsided, I slowly regained my composure. Opening my eyes, I found him still moving above me, within me, and he looked divine. He was utterly beautiful, and the way he felt was nothing short of amazing.

His striking, silvery-gray eyes bore into mine with an intensity and heat I had never seen from him before. Not once during the four months we had been together. In that moment, I understood the depth of that look, and I knew that this extraordinary, untamed man was unequivocally mine.

The feeling surged through my veins, leaving no room for doubt.

"Zach," I breathed, my limbs wrapping around him even tighter. One of my hands found its way into his thick, dark, unruly hair. His eyes closed briefly at the sound of his name, but his expression seemed pained.

Um... What was going on?

Suddenly, he buried his face in my neck, intensifying his movements, thrusting with more urgency, his ragged breath hot against my sensitive skin. My thoughts shifted from confusion to the sensations coursing through his body. My hands glided over his skin, my legs tightened around him, and I tightened my legs as his cock drives deep within my pussy.

"Damn, Emily," he growled, his voice vibrating against my neck as I felt him tense and then release with a groan of satisfaction.

I held onto him tightly, relishing the weight of his body against mine.

After a moment, he withdrew and rolled off me, landing on his back. As soon as he did, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. He lifted the heels of his palms, pressed them against his forehead, and shut his eyes.

Uh-oh. This didn't look good.

"Zach?" I called softly, concern lacing my voice.

"Yeah?" he grunted, his tone far from gentle, and he didn't budge or remove his hands from his face.

I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. Just moments ago, I had been swept away in the euphoria of being with the man of my dreams, but now he lay there, in my bed, seemingly lost in his own world. I moved quickly to cover my naked body with a throw from the end of the bed.

"Is everything okay?" I asked in a hushed tone, my worry growing.

"Absolutely not," he replied, and a shiver of apprehension ran down my spine.

His hands dropped, and he turned his head to face me. But the look in his eyes was no longer intense, heated, or filled with desire. It was conflicted, and as I stared into them, I couldn't believe what I was seeing — regret.

Oh no. God. Shit. Oh no.

I quickly pulled the blanket closer to me, my mind racing with the realization that Martha had been right. Damn it, she'd been right all along.

His gaze dropped to my hand clutching the blanket to my chest. Then I watched as his eyes softened like quicksilver, and he turned towards me. His hand reached out, and just as it was about to touch me, his phone rang.

An irritated "Fuck" escaped his lips, and he rolled away from me, stretching out his long arm to grab his jeans. I found myself staring at the contours of his back, the smooth skin, and the defined muscles, feeling a deep sense of disappointment. None of this was for me. It wasn't meant for me.

I had known it all along.

From the moment, four months ago, when his silver eyes locked onto me, tracing the length of my body behind the display cabinet, and when our gazes met again, and he offered that sexy, slow, lazy smile, I had known.

He wasn't meant for me.

There was no perfect man destined for me.

But he was so captivating that I couldn't resist.

"Yeah?" he answered the phone call, and suddenly, his mood filled the room like an abrasive force against my skin.

In the four months we'd been together, Zach never concealed his emotions, not for a second. He wore his feelings on his sleeve, from the very beginning. Zach had an array of moods, and he made sure you were well aware of them. If he was angry, you'd know it. If he was happy, you'd sense his joy radiating. Whether he felt playful, annoyed, frustrated, amused, distracted, content, or any other emotion, it was impossible not to feel the change in the atmosphere when he entered a room.

The person on the other end of the phone was clearly getting on his nerves and pushing his buttons.

"Give me an hour," he spoke into the phone, then paused before continuing, "No, man, seriously, I need an hour." Another pause, and frustration was evident in his voice. "Damn it, you must be kidding me." Another brief silence followed by, "This can't happen right now." A very short pause, and then he growled, "I'm telling you, this absolutely cannot happen right now." Shifting his powerful body, he sat on the edge of my bed, hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees, still on the call. He muttered with a low, menacing tone, "Alright, you better understand this, if you mess this up, if you hurt her, remember, you'll answer to me."

Then, with a swift movement, he snapped his phone shut and leaned forward to retrieve his jeans.

He addressed the other side of the room, announcing, "Babe, gotta go."

I closed my eyes.

Alright. Alright.

When Zach was in a certain mood, his mood was palpable. And when he had to leave, he left.

This situation wasn't out of the ordinary.

Sure, we had been seeing each other for four months, and this was the first time we had made love.

It might seem peculiar, especially considering he was a rugged man, a wild one, but he had always been incredibly gentle with me. It was as if he could sense that I needed that tenderness, that I needed him to take things slow. And I did need it—oh boy, did I. So, I didn't think much of it.

Sure, we had made out and fooled around extensively, and it was incredible. The absolute best.

He had brought me to climax with his hands before, although he never allowed me to reciprocate in kind. He claimed he enjoyed watching, and the first time I brought him to climax, he expressed a strong desire to be inside me. Just hearing him say that nearly brought me to climax. However, we had never gone all the way, and, in fact, I had never been completely naked with him, not even close—until now.

Every girl would naturally anticipate that, after all that time spent with a wild man who was unlike any other she'd ever been with, a wild man who had managed to temper his inner ferocity to be gentle with her, he would stick around after the momentous event.

But not Zach.

I was well aware of that aspect of his personality.

Yet, this felt like something out of the ordinary.

I was equally aware of that.

"Emily," he called, his deep voice carrying a gentleness that prompted my eyes to flutter open.

He appeared somewhat blurred, as I hadn't put on my glasses yet, but I knew he was still unbelievably handsome. His image had been etched into my memory in a way that I knew would never fade.

"Yeah?" I replied, my gaze fixed on him as he leaned closer to the bed, fully clothed now, with a hand resting on the mattress beside me.

I remained motionless as he approached, gradually coming into clearer focus.

"Grab your glasses, darlin'," he whispered. I must have squinted or made some kind of expression because, as I also knew, Zach didn't miss much.

I willed my body to move, peeled myself away from the bed, and reached for my glasses on the nightstand. Sliding them onto my face, I then rolled back toward him.

Observing his focused expression, I noticed that his eyes were no longer filled with conflict and remorse. They still had that quicksilver gleam, but it was mixed with affection, like the way he looked at me when I imagined he found me cute. Or at least I hoped that was the case.

Zach had a thing for me wearing my glasses; he'd made that clear. He once said it was like dating a sweet, sexy schoolteacher. I'd never felt sexy before in my life, not until Zach.

"We'll chat later, alright?" he spoke softly.

"Yeah," I replied, a glimmer of hope rising within me as I noticed his look, his tone, and his words.

"We'll talk later, Emily. Okay?" he reiterated somewhat, and I blinked.

"Yeah," I repeated.

"Promise me, babe."

I stared at him, uncertain why he needed that assurance. I didn't play games with him, not at all, even though Martha repeatedly told me I should. Things like testing the waters, testing him, not being too available, or not revealing how much I liked him.

But I was beyond those games, too old for that, and Zach was unlike any man I'd ever been with. There was no way I was going to mess things up with mind games.

So when he asked for a promise, I didn't quite understand where he was going with it. Nevertheless, I'd give him anything he asked for, just as I had from the very beginning.

"Promise," I whispered.

He nodded.

Then, out of the blue, he asked, "Do you sleep naked?"

A shiver, one I couldn't quite decipher, danced over my skin. It wasn't necessarily a bad feeling, but it wasn't entirely good either.

"No," I replied.

"Don't start tonight," he ordered. I stared at him, and in that moment, I saw his eyes roam over my face.

He leaned in closer, the hand that wasn't in the bed moving to cup the back of my head, pulling me toward him for a passionate, wet kiss. His mouth left mine, but he allowed me to pull back only an inch before his hand at the back of my head exerted pressure, preventing my retreat. Our eyes locked.

"We'll talk later," he whispered.

Then, just like that, he was gone.

I heard the sound of my front door closing, and with a sigh, I let my body collapse back onto the bed, my gaze fixed on the ceiling.

There was no denying that Zach Knox was a complex man, through and through. And even though I thought I knew him, I couldn't have been more wrong.

The whole scene that had just unfolded was nothing short of wild.

But then again, Zach was wild in every sense of the word. From his motorcycle boots and well-worn bike to his beat-up pickup truck, his perfectly fitting old t-shirts, those faded jeans that hugged him just right, his dark brown, slightly unruly hair, and those captivating silvery gray eyes that seemed to hold a million secrets while revealing nothing at all. He could down beers, shoot back shots, devour hearty meals, howl at the moon, and kiss with a ferocity that made you feel like every moment was your last on Earth, and he intended to make it count.

Being with Zach was akin to riding a mechanical bull. You never knew which way it would jerk or how wild the ride would get. All you could do was hold on tight and savor every exhilarating moment for as long as it lasted.

I needed to take a step back, calm my racing thoughts.

Everything would be alright.

It had to be.

I climbed out of bed, slipped into some underwear and a nightie, then settled back into bed, switching off the light.

Even after experiencing an incredibly sweet orgasm, courtesy of Zach – one I had eagerly awaited for a very long time – sleep eluded me. He had kissed me as if it were the final moment on Earth, promising that there was more to our connection, that we needed to talk.

Eventually, exhaustion claimed me, and I drifted into slumber. However, my rest was short-lived as I was abruptly awakened by the deafening crash of my front door being violently forced open. A team of heavily armed, bulletproof-vest-clad men stormed into my home, and within minutes, I found myself being forcibly taken to the police station for interrogation.

The door to the interrogation room swung open, and a man in slacks, a shirt, tie, and an ill-fitting sports jacket sauntered in. His gaze was fixed on me, clutching a manila folder in his hand.

He nonchalantly dropped the folder onto the table where I sat and took a seat opposite me. I maintained eye contact with him, following the same strategy I'd adopted since they ushered me into this room what seemed like hours ago (although I had no way of knowing the actual time). I resisted the urge to glance at the mirror on the wall, aware from countless TV cop shows that it likely concealed recording equipment and possibly some watching officers.

"Mrs. Miller," he began, causing my heart to skip a beat upon hearing that name.

"Ms. O’Hara," I corrected him, returning his unwavering gaze.

"Sorry, ma’am?" he inquired, though there was no hint of apology in his tone – I knew that.

"Ms. O’Hara is my name," I responded,