Page 16 of Rescuing the Writer

“Ah, Melbourne…” he groaned, his voice tight with the effort of restraint. “I can’t… I need to…”

He was fighting a losing battle. The telltale signs of his climax were building rapidly, the tension in his body winding tighter like a coiled spring, and his movements becoming more erratic. Biology was taking over.

“Let go, Waylon,” I urged, wanting him to experience the unbridled pleasure without the shadow of self-doubt. “It’s okay.”

With a final, desperate drive and a mighty moan that reverberated through the room, Waylon shuddered above me, his release overtaking him. He was stunning, his head thrown back, his eyes closed, his face radiating pure ecstasy.

But then he stilled, his breath hot and heavy on my skin, and he opened his eyes again. “Fuck.”

The single word was laced with a vulnerability bordering on pain, and it clenched at my heart. “Darling, it’s?—”

“I’m sorry. I fucked up. I didn’t mean to… Should’ve focused on you first.”

“Hey,” I said softly, cradling his face in my hands and drawing him down for a gentle kiss. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. Look at me.” When his gaze met mine, I let every ounce of affection I harbored for him shine through, maybe more than I should have. “This was your first time. It was bound to be a little awkward, but you did great. Didn’t you see how much pleasure you brought me?”

“But you didn’t come.”

“Are we done? Are you gonna walk away now and leave me here, blue-balled and all by my lonesome, to take care of it myself?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you forgot the word ‘yet.’ I didn’t come yet. There’s time, isn’t there?”

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, bashful and endearing. “We have all evening.”

“And all night.”

A chuckle escaped him, warm and rich, easing the rigid set of his shoulders. The insecurity that clouded his cerulean eyes dissipated like morning fog giving way to the sun’s persistent coaxing. “I bought a mega pack of condoms.”

I snorted. “Look at you being all prepared. A regular fucking Boy Scout.”

His laughter rumbled through the room, genuine and unguarded. “I was, actually.”

“I bet.”

“Thank you. For everything.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead that lingered with the promise of understanding. His actions kindled warmth in places I hadn’t realized had grown cold from years of fleeting touches and temporary connections.

Watching his embarrassment ebb away, replaced by a dawning sense of acceptance, my chest swelled with something fierce and tender.

Uh-oh.

Sex. This was just sex.

Right?

7

WAYLON

I’d wanted to crawl into a hole and pretend this had never happened. How could I have been this clumsy, this dumb? All I’d wanted was to make it a good experience for Melbourne, but instead, I’d come within two minutes. If even that.

But when he assured me it was fine, he’d meant it. Melbourne had to be the world’s worst actor. He didn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve. He wore them on his face. All of them. I’d never met anyone with such expressive nonverbal communication. You never had to guess how he felt. You could read it right off his face.

So when he said it was okay and he wasn’t upset, I had to believe him because all I could see in his eyes was kindness and honesty…and maybe a little empathy. I’d take it.

“I need to dispose of the condom,” I told Melbourne.

“I’ll be right here waiting for you.”

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