Finding My Dream Man

“Oh my God,” I breathed out, feeling like I was floating somewhere beyond my own body as the rush of pleasure tore through me. Every nerve was alive, every inch of my skin tingling, and my mind slipped into this warm, blissful daze, completely blank but for the feeling of him.

When I finally opened my eyes, I found him still moving over me, his body wrapped around mine like he was pouring himself into me with every heartbeat. He looked... God, he was stunning. Dark hair just a mess, his chest glistening, and those steel-gray eyes fixed on me with a fire I’d never seen before. Not once in the four months we’d been together had he ever looked at me like this, like there was no one else in the world but us. Something in me clicked, in a way I hadn’t dared let it before. This gorgeous, wild man was mine.

“Zach,” I whispered, tightening my arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his thick, dark hair. His eyes flickered closed for a second as I said his name, but when they opened, there was something else there, something that looked almost... painful.

Wait—what was going on? I didn’t have time to wonder before he buried his face in my neck, his rhythm changing, hips pressing into me with a little more urgency, a little more edge. I could feel his hot breath against my neck, rough and jagged, and it sent a rush of warmth down my spine. My hands ran over his back, feeling the taut lines of his muscles under my fingertips as my legs wrapped tighter around him. He was buried so deep inside me that I could hardly think, could hardly breathe.

“Damn, Emily,” he growled, his voice coming out low and rough, vibrating against my neck just as I felt him tense, his whole body shuddering before he let go with a groan. I clung to him, feeling his weight settle against me, grounding me.

We lay there in the stillness, just breathing, wrapped up in each other. After a while, he slipped out of me, rolling onto his back beside me, his gaze drifting up to the ceiling. He lifted his hands, pressing the heels into his forehead, his eyes clamped shut.

“Zach?” I murmured, my voice tentative, worry creeping into my chest as he lay there in silence, distant.

“Yeah?” he muttered, his tone far from the soft, playful teasing he usually had after we’d been together. He didn’t look at me, didn’t even move his hands from his face.

I pulled a blanket up around myself, hugging it close as the room filled with this strange tension. Just minutes ago, it felt like everything between us had fallen perfectly into place—like we’d crossed a line, stepped into something real. And now he was here in my bed, but somewhere else entirely. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but a cold knot of worry twisted in my gut.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, barely more than a whisper.

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Not even close,” he muttered, dropping his hands to look at me. His face was calm, but his eyes—those intense, molten gray eyes—held something that made my stomach clench. I’d never seen regret in his eyes before. Not once.

God. No. This couldn’t be happening. I clutched the blanket tighter, pulling it up to my chest as the realization hit me. Martha had been right, damn it. She’d warned me, and I’d brushed her off, sure that she didn’t get him like I did. But now, lying here, I could see she’d seen what I hadn’t.

His gaze dropped to where my hands held the blanket like a lifeline, then softened in that familiar, quicksilver way of his. He reached out a hand, but just as he did, his phone buzzed—loud, grating, slicing right through the quiet.

“Fuck,” he muttered, rolling over to grab his jeans, pulling the phone out of the pocket. I found myself watching him as he moved, tracing the lines of his back, the strength in his shoulders. But there was a hollow feeling in my chest now, the certainty that none of this had really been mine, not the way I’d thought.

“Yeah?” he snapped into the phone, his tone sharp and clipped. The energy in the room changed, like the light had dimmed, and I could feel his irritation pulse in the air between us. Zach was never one to hide his moods. From the second I met him, he was all fire and edge, a walking storm that pulled you right in whether you were ready or not. And whatever he was feeling, you felt it too.

Whoever was on the other end was getting to him, and he wasn’t trying to hide it. “I need an hour,” he barked, a muscle in his jaw tensing. “I said give me an hour. Damn it, I’m telling you, this can’t happen now.” His face tightened, and I could practically see the frustration building in his eyes. “If you mess this up, if anything happens to her, you’ll answer to me.”

With that, he snapped the phone shut and tossed it aside, raking a hand through his hair. He turned to look at me, his face softened, almost apologetic.

“Babe, I gotta go,” he said, not even making a move toward me.

I shut my eyes, trying to hold back the sting of disappointment. This was Zach, after all. He was unpredictable, wild, the kind of guy who’d show up at my door at midnight just because he felt like it, then disappear for days without a word. I knew this about him—I’d known it from the start. But tonight felt different.

When I opened my eyes, he was watching me with a look I couldn’t quite read, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. “Emily,” he said softly, leaning closer. His face was inches from mine, and I could see every detail, the way his mouth softened just the tiniest bit. “We’ll talk later, alright?”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, feeling a tiny spark of hope even as my heart clenched.

“Promise me,” he said, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.

“Promise,” I whispered, feeling like I’d give him anything if he just asked. He nodded, his hand moving to the back of my neck, pulling me in for one last, lingering kiss. His mouth was warm and familiar, and for a second, it felt like maybe this could still be okay.

But then he was gone, just like that. The room felt too quiet, too still as I lay back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling, feeling like the ground had shifted under my feet. I knew Zach was a complicated guy, full of rough edges and buried secrets. He had this way of making you feel like you were the only person in the world, even as he held a part of himself back, just out of reach. Being with him was like holding on to a live wire. You knew you could get burned, but you just couldn’t let go.

Finally, I sat up, pulling on a nightie before curling up under the blankets, trying to make sense of what had just happened. I’d never felt so close to anyone, never felt this raw, this vulnerable... and then he’d left. I reached over, switching off the light, and lay there in the dark, my mind racing.

It took forever to drift off, but I must have finally dozed because, hours later, a loud crash jolted me awake. I shot up, my heart pounding as the sound of my front door being slammed open filled the apartment. Before I could even process what was happening, men in dark bulletproof vests and loaded with weapons were flooding into my home, shouting commands, hands grabbing me, dragging me up. I could barely register their words as I was pulled out into the hallway and whisked down to a waiting car.

Within minutes, I found myself being hauled to the police station, surrounded by people demanding answers, asking questions I didn’t even understand.

The door to the small, stark interrogation room swung open, and in walked a man whose outfit looked like he’d chosen it blindfolded—wrinkled slacks, an old shirt, a tie that didn't quite match, and a sports jacket that barely fit across his shoulders. He was holding a manila folder, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that felt out of place, almost too focused. He let the folder drop onto the table in front of me, sliding into the chair across without breaking eye contact.

I stared right back, holding his gaze, the same strategy I’d adopted since they dragged me in here, however long ago that was. My sense of time was shot; I hadn’t seen a clock, and there was no window. The only thing I could focus on was the mirror on the wall to my left, the one I’d seen enough times in TV cop shows to know it likely concealed recording equipment and, probably, a couple of officers watching from the other side.

"Mrs. Miller," he started, and my heart lurched at the sound of that na