Page 85 of A Not So Merry Rescue
I shouldn’t be this comfortable, this giddy, with wanting to spend time with him.
I certainly shouldn’t be falling for him.
But I am. Undoubtedly.
Perhaps it’s my body’s way of finding some closure, especially after my meltdown a couple of days ago. Or it’s my version of casual, and when I leave in a few days, the feelings will stay here. As if casual feelings are only synonymous with Winterberry.
I laugh at the absurdity of that being true.
The fun side of my brain convinces me to stop thinking about it as a negative, to embrace the time I’ve been given with him,and let it happen. It’s not like I’m going to leave here with another broken heart for a future guy to mend.
Thoughts for another day and time.
“I’m gonna go work out in the garage before I have to report for duties. You, write some words.”
Beckett leans against the doorjamb, his feet crossed at the ankles, dressed in workout pants and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Leave it to Beckett to prove that’s a look I enjoy. From my vantage point in the bed, I wish I wasn’t so freaking sore. Because if we had time, I’d jump his bones.
Gingerly, of course, to not break any.
Except, no. Good thing we don’t have time because my vagina needs a rest.
That’s something I never thought I’d think.
“I’ll see what I can do. My editor will thank you if I manage any.”
He scratches his head, the movement causing the shirt to rise and showcase a band of skin. I soak it up, as if I wasn’t intimately acquainted with every inch twelve hours ago.
“Does incentivizing help you?”
“Depends on the incentive.”
He stares a moment, his eyes blinking slowly. “Sex, Willa.”
My vagina weeps with the thought.
“Sex won’t do it today. Before last night’s pounding, I probably would have said yes.”
“Dessert?”
My mouth waters. I want to tell him no, but damn if whatever he’s thinking isn’t appealing. Even if I don’t know what it is.
“Maybe.”
He snaps a finger. “New lingerie.”
Damn. I was hoping he wouldn’t go there . . .
My eyes shut, a moan escaping. “Don’t tease me. I’m weak regarding that, but I’ll just fail. And then be mad at myself fornot earning new bras and underwear and having no words. It’s a trap I can’t fall into.”
As much as I want what he’s offering.
Incentives used to work. Even small rewards. A small piece of chocolate for every one thousand words written. A new notebook for every ten chapters written. A massage when my book was finished.
That was before. Before Elias died.
Now, nothing works. Not even the “open the manuscript” as the one task. Some days, that was too much. This week was supposed to be a jump-start to writing again, but look where that’s gotten me.
Being spoiled rotten by this hottie.
