Chapter 17
LYRIC
My eyes flutter open. There’s barely any light in this room, and it takes me a moment to realize where I am. Fuck. I fell asleep! WE. Fell. Asleep.
I rock forward, away from Waylon and toward the edge of the bed, but his arm is still around my waist, and the moment there’s resistance, his grip tightens and pulls me back to him. Given, I can still hear a gentle grumbling snore coming from him, so it wasn’t enough to wake him.
Maybe I should wake him up. But he was so drunk when he went to sleep.
I want to let him rest. He very clearly needed it.
Hell, he fucking put me on the kitchen island and lapped at me like a dog hitting a water bowl on a hot day.
And that’s all he had the energy for. Or perhaps that’s all he had left before he was officially fully drunk.
This is not the way things were supposed to go.
He was supposed to come home, I was going to tell him we can’t hook up anymore, and then I was going to retreat to my room and take my frustrations out on my tentacle.
Instead, my sorry ass caved the moment he touched me.
Ugh, I’m such a hussy. I mean, I did get an orgasm, and that was part of the original plan. But not like this.
Further proof that when it comes to Waylon, I have zero control.
His stupid beautiful face and the way he calls me “darlin’” with that sexy voice and his expert level hands…
I’m a sucker for him. Just him. And that’s dangerous.
His hold over me is one of the top reasons I can’t sleep with him anymore.
This is going to end in disaster unless I cut it short and don’t let it continue to unravel to what would ultimately end with me being heartbroken on a level much worse than the first time around. Fool me once and all that.
I slowly twist around so that I’m facing him.
Somehow, I was able to do that without objection from an unconscious Waylon.
This is one of those rare times I can study him up close without raising suspicions from onlookers.
And when he’s awake, I have to be careful not to give him the impression that I’m swooning.
Because I do swoon pretty hard. Like right now.
My eyes trace the tiny laugh lines that have started to appear at the corners of his eyes.
This makes sense for a man who’s forever smiling and laughing.
Hell, he never even seems like he’s in a bad mood.
His mustache could use a trim. It looks like it’s starting to cover the edge of his top lip more than normal.
Just a trim, though. If he ever shaved this magnificent thing off—or his beard, for that matter—I’d probably die.
His perfect mouth sits relaxed and slightly open. Despite trying to resist, I reach up and trace the pad of my index finger over his lips. He flinches a little, chews his lip, then begins his breathy snore again.
Waylon’s hair is swept down over his forehead in an unnatural way, which must be how he wakes up with that weird flippy cowlick each morning.
It’s like he rubbed his face into a pillow and smooshed it flat.
This strange flaw is a reminder that he is, in fact, human, but it does nothing to dull that sunshine presence of his.
I tilt my head toward him and brush a kiss over his cheek.
The flutter of his eyelashes tickle against mine, and my breath hitches in my chest. Yeah, this definitely has to end.
I’ll tell him in the morning after he’s sobered up and I don’t have to risk him not remembering it.
Hell, he probably won’t recall any of this.
Asking me to lie down with him, the compliments, the cuddles.
He was way too drunk. Which surprises me because he’s not a drinker.
But I can confirm it’s different when you’re out with friends.
I do my best to turn back around to my original position.
His hand glides over my center as I spin, finding its grip once again when I’m settled.
This may be my last opportunity to sleep next to him, so I lean back and snuggle in.
There’s no sense in wasting the chance, so I pull the blanket up over my arms, tuck my hands under my chin, and soak it all in as my eyes flutter shut.
Tomorrow will be the reckoning.
I wake up in an empty bed. The spot where Waylon once was is now occupied by Tater, whose long little body is nestled right up against mine. What the hell?
The distinct sound of two pans colliding in the kitchen echoes through the walls. I’ve never seen or heard Waylon cook aside from the grilling he did. He must’ve been pretty hungry when he woke up.
I stretch out my limbs and Tater catches on, deciding he, too, needed to get the stiffness out of his wiggly body.
I’m still wearing the skirt and top from last night but to go to my room and change before facing him seems dumb.
I want to shower before I get dressed for the day.
So what would I even put on? Pajamas? A robe?
No, this will have to do. Trying my best to unrumple it as I go, I slide off the bed and head out.
In the kitchen, Waylon is standing over the stove with his back to me, but he hears my approach.
“Good mornin’, darlin’,” he says, spatula in one hand, the other holding the pan in place on the burner.
“Um, good morning.” The words come out with a touch of confusion, I’m sure. This entire ordeal has my head swimming.
“Have a seat. Can I get you some coffee? It’s a fresh pot and I’ve already had two cups to help exorcise the alcohol demon from my guts.”
“Sure, thanks.”
Waylon slides a mug across the island as I take a seat on one of the stools. He places the creamer next to it and eyes me with suspicion.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, I just…” The words trail off into nothing as I try to gather my thoughts. “I just don’t think we should hook up anymore.” There. I blurt it out so I don’t lose my nerve.
Waylon’s eyebrows shoot up on his forehead as he nods a little.
“Oh. Alright,” he says, turning back to the pan on the stove. “Do you want some eggs? I made you some. But maybe that was presumptuous.”
“Eggs?” I stare at his back. “I mean, I guess. But did you hear me?”
“Yeah, I heard you, darlin’,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. Pausing.
It’s not like I expected resistance or even an exit interview, but this is a little rude, right?
“Look, we never said how or when this would end, but I’m thinking the moment one of us wants it to end, then that’s it, right?” he says. “It’s not like I’m going to try to talk you out of it.”
He grabs two plates from the cabinet and flips some eggs onto one of them, then the other.
He slides the plate with the slightly smaller portion toward me.
One might think that’s rude, but Waylon eats so much more than I do.
For a guy who eats so much and never really goes to the gym, he’s in awfully good shape. Too good, really.
“Right, yes.” He makes a good point. What’s he supposed to do, beg me to change my mind? “I just don’t want things to get too complicated. And we had some fun, but I think the longer these things go on, the more risk there is for something to go wrong.”
“Yeah, I hear you. You’re totally right,” he says. “So, no more hooking up. Just roommates from now on. And… friends?”
“Of course friends,” I say, nodding enthusiastically.
I’m honestly glad he added that at the end because I definitely didn’t want to lose most of the dynamic we’ve built since I moved in.
I just want to cut out the sex part. I mean, I don’t want to, but I need to for the sake of my sanity. “I’m glad you understand.”
He nods but says nothing. Perhaps that’s for the best. Then he just begins eating his eggs like nothing at all is the matter.
I guess he wouldn’t act like something is wrong.
I remind myself that him not arguing is actually a sign of respect versus thinking it means he doesn’t care.
I mean, maybe he doesn’t care all that much, but they’re not the same thing.
I learned a long time ago that pressing on your boundaries and hoping you’ll cave on your decision is actually abusive behavior.
It’s not flattering, not a matter of them wanting you so much they can’t help themselves.
That line of thinking is juvenile and dangerous.
So in a real way, I’m relieved at the lack of resistance.
“So, I’m not sure if you’ve seen the group chat this morning, but everyone is pushing for us all to go out and swashbuckle tomorrow night,” he says.
“Swashbuckle?”
“Their word, not mine,” he says, holding up his hands in innocence. “More specifically, Banks used it and no one wanted to argue.”
I laugh, thinking how much sense that makes.
Banks is an interesting character. The guys give him a hard time and call him Pretty Boy, but I think there’s more underneath the surface that he never really shows anyone.
Of course, I hardly know him, so I could be wrong.
Though, it feels like I’ve known them all for a lot longer.
Darcy was right. These guys just suck you right in and make you feel at home.
Man, I hate it when she’s right. It’s been a long time since I’ve had any kind of solid reliable group.
It’s been just Darcy for a while. And Darcy was in the same boat, too, for that matter.
And I’m not saying she doesn’t love Ridge, because she definitely does.
But if she confessed to me that this close-knit dynamic they have was fifty percent of the reason, I wouldn’t even judge her.
“Yeah, that sounds good.” The funny thing is, I actually mean that. Which is weird for me.
“Great, I’ll tell them we’re in. Do you want to ride together or…?”
“Yeah, of course. Be silly not to. Which of us will be DD?”
“Me. Definitely me. I tied one off a little too hard last night. That will hold me over until the holidays for sure,” he says with a laugh.
“Fair enough.” I laugh too.
“We’ll leave here about eight thirty, if that works? I’ll take the top off the Jeep.”
“Works for me.” Gah, him and that Jeep. He looks so good driving it. I haven’t actually been in it yet. But now I’m thinking about how he’ll be gripping the wheel and flexing his forearm in my face. No, it’s fine. It’ll be fine. I’m strong enough.
“I got this new hat just before you moved in and haven’t worn it yet. I’ve been lookin’ for a reason,” he says, scratching his chin hairs with his fingertips.
“Stop scratching your face like that.”
“What?” he asks, furrowing his eyebrow.
“You’re already wearing those slutty glasses of yours. You can’t start touching your face, okay?” I huff, rubbing my temple.
“What the hell are you talking about?” A chuckle gurgles up from his stupid mouth.
“You know what I mean! Your face and stuff. Stop touching it.” I look all around the kitchen and not directly at him.
“My chin itches,” He shrugs his shoulders at me like what he’s really saying is “What the hell is wrong with you, woman?”
“I have to go to my room,” I say, lifting from my seat abruptly. “Lots to do. Gotta stop into work in the morning for a bit and, um, laundry and stuff.” I turn and exit the room as quickly as I can, slinking back down the hallway and closing my bedroom door behind me.
Phew, that was a close one.
Everything that man does turns me on. He scratched his fucking chin, and I was ready to be spread over that counter all over again. It’s ok, it’s ok. Breathe. Everything will be fine. I just have to wait for the fog of sexual tension to lift.
God, I hope it lifts soon.