Page 9 of Rescuing the Writer
It wasn’t just his words that sent a jolt of electricity down my spine, but the earnestness in his eyes, the unmistakable glint of genuine interest and attraction. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Sure. No pressure at all. You should only say yes if you truly want to.”
I wanted to. God, how I wanted to. But there were risks, weren’t there? What if this changed everything? What if it changed nothing at all? “I know.”
“But I think we would be good in bed, Deputy. Very, very good.”
There was a promise in his words, a silent acknowledgment of the chemistry simmering between us. Melbourne smiled then, a slow spread of lips that promised adventure and whispered of pleasures yet to be discovered.
Oh, I wanted. But could I say yes?
After all, he was only offering sex.
4
MELBOURNE
The heat was already clawing through the window when I woke up, a gentle but insistent reminder that Waylon’s guest room faced east. I stretched out under the sheets, relishing the stretch and pull of muscles, my yawn a silent echo in the quiet room.
Five days, I’d been here, and I’d gotten more work done than in the last month. Things were so much easier here. Waylon was not only kind and sweet—and super, super hot—but also a motivator, someone who inspired me to get my shit together. And he took care of me in ways I couldn’t even begin to count.
I liked him. I’d hoped he’d take me up on my offer to teach him about sex, but so far, he hadn’t. Sadly. But the ball was in his court. If friendship was all he offered, I would accept it. He was an easy person to talk to, mature for his age. I’d told him more about myself than I’d shared with anyone.
Pushing off the sheets, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, my feet sinking into the plush rug. I threw on some shorts and a T-shirt, then padded down the hallway, drawn to the kitchen by rhythmic thumping and the scent of something delicious wafting through the air.
And came to a sudden stop.
Oh my, what a sight.
Waylon, in all his muscled glory and dressed in only a pair of workout shorts, was doing push-ups on the kitchen floor. His feet faced me, so he couldn’t see me, and I unashamedly gawked. Sweat glistened on his skin, muscles rolled and rippled as he counted off reps under his breath, and that ass…
Jesus, he was a thirst trap. I’d never wanted anyone this fiercely.
The smell came from the oven, where something bubbled behind the window. Some breakfast casserole, probably. The man moved like a machine, his movements clean and sharp, each push-up purposeful and measured.
I palmed my hardening cock with the back of my hand. Down, boy. It would be rude to repay Waylon’s hospitality by flashing him my hard-on, even if he had caused it in a way. Subjugating a few French verbs usually did the trick, and that worked now as well.
“Morning,” I said once I was certain I was decent, my voice gravelly from sleep.
Waylon paused mid-push-up. “Hi. Sleep well?”
I waved my hand at him. “Like a log, but don’t let me interrupt your workout.”
He smiled, then resumed his push-ups. I watched him move, his biceps flexing, that clean-shaven jaw set in concentration. The guy was the picture of discipline, and damn if that didn’t crank up my admiration for him a notch—or ten.
“You’re just gonna stand there and watch me?” he asked without pausing.
I grabbed a glass and poured myself some water, then leaned against the counter. “It’s a magnificent view.”
He faltered, almost hitting the floor with his upper body before catching himself. “The things you say…” he muttered.
“Should I stop?”
He took his time answering, continuing his push-ups. “No. I don’t know how to respond, but I don’t mind.”
“‘Don’t mind’ is a pretty low bar. It’s called flirting, and the idea is that you like it and flirt back.”
He snorted. “I have zero flirting game.”