8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
B raxton
Sitting at my desk, the clicking of my keyboard punctuates the silence. I pause, fingers hovering, then sigh in frustration, taking off my glasses and rubbing my temples. The feeling of guilt gnaws at me. Rose's crestfallen face haunts my thoughts.
I'd rejected her.
What a dick. To finally taste her, tease her, and then reject her because she’s a virgin. A fucking virgin. When I realized how close I was to taking Rose’s innocence the other night, I had to stop the madness. I’m too old for her. Period. She deserves better.
I can’t indulge in a romance with Rose. She’s a vibrant young soul full of laughter and happiness. And me? I’m tied to my writing. Likely not to make Sea Shanty my permanent home. It’s not just the age gap; it’s the life I’ve chosen. A solitary existence where my characters are my only companions.
Not to mention I’m an ass who isn’t capable of giving Rose the affection she deserves.
A soft thud against my back door tears me from my thoughts. Honeybun has paid me another visit. Rolling my eyes, I rise from my chair, then go to open the door to find another wadded up ball of cotton left on my porch.
I sigh. "Again, Honeybun?" Picking it up, I know I should return it, along with the growing collection of other items the dog has pilfered. But they’re Rose's and the thought of parting with them twists something inside me. "What am I supposed to do with this, huh?" I ask the dog, who tilts his head in a way that says, “Are you stupid, dude? Figure this shit out.”
I feel like me and the silly animal have bonded over bacon and his daily swims, but it also feels like he’s trying to send me a message.
Back at my desk, I reach to open the top drawer and gaze at the other gifts from Honeybun. If someone had told me a few weeks ago I’d have a collection of my neighbor’s underwear in my desk, I would’ve said there’d be no way I’d be such a creep. Yet, here I am with a drawer full of bras, cotton panties, and thongs.
Yep. Full blown creeper.
Reaching in the drawer, I grab the white cotton panties Rose left from our last encounter. I hold them to my nose, inhaling her sweet essence, not wanting to forget the night or the taste of her. God, she tasted so good. Her wet arousal coating my tongue, making me want to drive my cock deep into that innocent pussy and making her mine. Damn all my doubts and good intentions.
I press on my gray jogger pants, attempting to relieve the pressure of my erection I got just from pressing my nose to her underwear, not even touching her. Fucking pitiful, and it’s my own fault. I should’ve never gone there with her.
If I wasn’t obsessed before, I am now.
Regretfully, I place the underwear back in the drawer with the others and firmly shut it. I have to focus on my writing.
I stare at the latest page of my manuscript. My main character, once a loner, is now grappling with feelings of love. It’s as if I’m writing about my own struggles.
But where to take this new relationship? Can I allow my character happiness when I shy away from it? My hand hovers over the keyboard, uncertainty clouding my vision. To let my protagonist fall completely could spell disaster. Or it could bring something to the story that I’d never tried before.
"Damn it, Rose. What have you done to me?"
Each word I type steps into territory that thrills and terrifies me. As the setting sun creeps through the blinds, I understand one thing now: without risk, there’s no reward.
Whether in fiction or real life, follow the story.
Maybe it’s time to allow myself and my character the happiness. It’s time to change the narrative. With this thought, I begin to write and plot for my future.