Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
AN OUTDOORSY GIRL?
A fter dinner, Davis cleaned up and then appeared with popcorn, gluten free Oreos, and two diet sodas.
Despite being full from our meal, there’s something about movies that brings out the snacker in both of us.
Snuggled close on the outdoor sofa, we munch on the popcorn from the shared bowl in my lap and watch Star Trek: Generations .
“Do you ever think you’ll write a Sci-Fi romance?” he asks as the credits roll on the screen.
“I’m not sure what I’ll write next… or if I will,” I say, my voice quiet.
Even after the talk with Doc this week, I’m still stuck.
This morning, before everything, I sat on my couch with my laptop, and nothing came.
Each idea I considered just wandered in my mind, without forming sentences or paragraphs, let alone an entire chapter.
I thought that by letting go of the expectations for what I believed I needed to do, that it would free the stories within me. But they remain locked away.
“Maybe my stories really are gone,” I whisper my confession.
“That can’t be true.” His mouth purses. “The force is too strong with you. Even if you hadn’t been the Yoda to my romance education, your passion and talent oozes from every page of your books.” Forehead creased, he sits up. “Is it because of this situation? Because of Lord Fuckwad?”
“First, blasphemy. You do not make Star Wars references while we’re watching Star Trek .” My tap on his chest is playful. “No, this we can’t blame on James. I’ve been blocked for months. Every time I start something, it just doesn’t work.”
“What doesn’t work?”
“The ending.” Sighing, I lean against the sofa cushion. “When I write a book, it’s like watching a movie in reverse. The ending comes first, and then I reverse engineer the story to get there.”
“And that’s not working?”
“No,” I whine. “I’ve started four different manuscripts in the last six months with no progress beyond the first twenty thousand words.”
His brow dips. “Do all writers start with the ending?”
“Every writer does things a little differently. Your grandpa thinks that my intense focus on the ending is what’s blocking me.
That I should let the story just breathe and listen to what it has to say to me.
” I scoff a laugh. “It’s silly, but I hoped letting go of the expectations in my actual life about how things should end might free the words.
Like they were blocked because I was blocked in my own life by the concept of endings.
Like going to Lena and Will’s wedding to show that I’m over what happened and complete that heartbreak to badass arc…
” I motion between us, “…or by pausing my life to figure out how to fulfill an accidental wish.”
Nodding, he seems to consider something before speaking, “I don’t write books, but I do write code, so I get it. With apps, we start with what we want it to do and work backwards.”
“And what happens if you get stuck?”
“We try to figure it out, but if we can’t, we tweak the final product. If the coding isn’t there yet, it doesn’t mean the app won’t work. We just adjust what it will look like.”
“The app serves the code, not the code serving the app,” I mutter.
“Huh?” He tilts his head.
“It’s something your grandfather said about the ending serving the story versus the story serving the ending.”
“Pop and his sage advice.” He smirks. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think starting with the end is the issue, but not being open to tweaking that ending may be.
Let that ending inspire you to start the story, and then let that story reveal itself to you.
It may surprise you and be far more than what you’d originally thought. ”
I can’t help but think of my book boyfriends at this moment. All three men are different from what I wrote for them. Both Lars and Owen express a desire for a happy ending different than what I wrote. The stories I wrote aren’t bad, they’re just not their stories.
Neither is the story I wrote about Davis. After I walked out on him at Fisher’s Landing, I thought he’d just be a footnoted bad date.
“I have a recent appreciation of stories turning out differently than I thought,” I say, my voice is breathy.
“Yeah.” He leans close, and playful wickedness flashes in his beautiful eyes.
“Yeah,” I say, every drop of tension dissolves into the ooey gooeyness inside me. This man.
Something about the way Davis looks at me feels like a warm embrace, as if his strong arms had already enveloped me. This man is quickly becoming my comfort food. His presence is both nourishing and decadent.
“It may not seem like it now, but I believe you have many stories still in there, and I know you’ll be able to hear them… when you’re ready.” He nuzzles his nose along my jawline. “Just don’t write anymore dukes.”
Laughter bubbles out of me. “Deal.”
“Deal.” He presses a string of gentle kisses from my chin to the corners of my mouth until he captures my lips in a slow embrace.
The buzz in my bloodstream grows with each kiss. Davis’s languid kisses are like savoring sips of an expensive wine; both restrained to not consume too quickly but greedy for every drop.
“Davis, wait,” I say breathless, scooting from him, his head tilting.
Placing the popcorn bowl down on the wicker coffee table in front of us, I unwrap the little moist towelettes he’d brought with the snacks and clean off my hands. “Would you mind cleaning your hands?” I grab a second towelette and hand it to him.
His right eyebrow quirks. “Why?”
“Because you likely have salt and butter on it from the popcorn, and I’d prefer not getting it all over me.” I flash a sultry expression.
In one of my books, I wouldn’t write my characters stopping to clean their hands.
Their passionate kisses would just lead to a sexy romp with no thought of what fingers slathered in butter and salt may do to one’s lady bits.
But this isn’t a book, this is my life, and as messy as it is, I’d prefer my vagina be unsalted and unbuttered.
Nodding, his mouth forms an O . He opens the packet and cleans his hands.
“Do you want to go down to my apartment?”
I crawl onto his lap. “Nope.”
“Here?”
I slip my jacket off and drop it on the sofa beside us. “Is that okay?”
“Very okay.” His hands coast down my body, cupping my backside. “The back gate, almost the car, and now the roof… Perhaps, you are an outdoorsy girl.”
“ Perhaps … Or maybe you just bring a more adventurous side out of me?” Clasping his face, I lean in and take him in a deep kiss.
There’s no sweet preamble or tease. I want him, and I’m not holding back, not anymore. He opens fully for my demanding kisses. A pleased moan rumbles in his throat as my tongue slides over his.
His fingers curl tight around my ass, settling me on his growing erection.
I move against him. The friction fans the wantonness crackling inside me.
Tugging my blouse off, I toss it on top of my jacket and then remove my bra.
Goosebumps erupt across my heated skin with the lick of cool air over my naked upper half.
Davis’s gaze meanders down my body, his eyes dark with need.
“I like the way you look at me,” I murmur.
“How do you think I look at you?” He trails one finger in a slow glide from the top of my belly button up my torso.
“Like you want to savor and gobble me up,” I say with a tiny hitch of breath.
“Mm hmm.” He leans in and flicks his tongue against my right nipple. “Perhaps, I’ll do both.”
“Oh god,” I whimper.
“God? I’ll have to do better, so it’s my name you’re moaning,” he hums against my skin before taking the hard bud into his mouth.
Back bowing, my fingers thread into his hair, keeping him in place. The combination of his animalistic noises, the loveliness of his mouth on me, and the friction of our middles coming together cranks the tension tight at my center. With nipping kisses, he moves to my other breast.
“Yes.” I move against him, chasing relief.
“Does my greedy girl want more?” he rasps and then bites on my nipple before soothing the tip with gentle strokes of his tongue.
“Yes!”
He kisses upward, sucking along my neck. “Do you know how sweet you taste?”
“And you haven’t had all of me yet.”
“Is that an invitation?”
I grind myself against him. “Yes.”
“Fuck,” he groans, flipping me off him and onto the sofa.
Before I’m able to get my bearings, he slips off my shoes and drops them in front of the coffee table.
Standing between my legs, he bends, his arms coming to either side of me, and takes my mouth in a ravenous kiss.
With slow kisses down my body, he lowers to his knees before me, his hands stroking along my thighs.
His sinful smirk teases with the unbuttoning of my pants.
My pulse thuds as he slowly drags my pants down my legs. My barely-there black lacy panties soon follow. Tossing my clothes aside, he spreads my legs wide. His fingertip glides up my inner left thigh, across the small triangle of hair along my pussy, and down the inside of my right leg.
“Look at you,” he says, his voice hoarse and dark. “I wish you could see how fucking beautiful you are.”
“Tell me,” I murmur.
He makes a pleased noise in his throat. “This soft, flushed skin. These thick thighs that I’ve dreamed about burying myself between since I walked into that bar and saw you in that short black dress.”
“Thick thighs?” I laugh.
“Yep.” He grips them tighter, causing a soft moan to fall out of me. “Maybe it’s the wrong thing to say, but I love your thick thighs. I fucking love your body. It’s soft, strong, and sexy.”
The way he looks at me is thrilling, like he’s both a starved wolf ready to devour and a devoted acolyte on his knees in worship. He doesn’t just appreciate my body, but revels in it.
He rises, his mouth coasting down my neck, sucking and nipping the flesh. “This long throat. Your silky skin. These pink nipples and lovely tits of yours.”
My laugh is cut off by his hard suck of each peak.