32. Josie
THIRTY-TWO
JOSIE
“So tell me about writing today,” Tyson insists about halfway through our dinner.
I glance over at him, honestly surprised he’s waited this long to bring it up.
I’m not sure if I’m relieved by the question…
or nervous. Knowing he’d eventually ask, my plan was to take advantage of the moment, using it as an opportunity to ask if he’d like to inspire me even more than he already has.
“It went well,” I say, setting my fork down slowly.
The meal he made was incredible. I grew up with private chefs and a kitchen staff at the house, and still, he prepared a meal that more than impressed me.
It was delicious. I think it’s even more impressive because I know he grew up with the same.
He still could more than afford a private chef, and yet, he’s been the one to cook the two dinners we’ve had together.
I find that incredibly attractive. It feels more personal and romantic that he took the time and effort to do all of this.
“Tell me more,” Tyson presses, mirroring me as he sets his utensil down. His attention shifts fully to me, like nothing else in the room matters.
I shift slightly on the stool, suddenly conscious of how close he is, all too aware of how easy it’d be to lean forward and close the small distance between us.
Do I just tell him about my conversation with Scarlett?
Do I not ask him anything at all?
Maybe we don’t have to have the conversation after all.
He’s already inspiring me just by being…
him. Do I really need to divulge how lackluster my sex life has been in the past?
Do I have to tell him I’m coming to terms with the fact that I think I lost the spark for writing good love stories because of the lack of passion that was in my own life?
My gaze drifts over Tyson again, this time lingering on his features even longer.
I can’t help but wonder how we’ve revolved around the same social circle our entire lives, and I still don’t remember ever meeting him.
He is over ten years older than me, so that’s a lot of the reason we weren’t around each other much.
But we’re also both similar because the Manhattan scene isn’t for us.
I guess it makes sense that we never really crossed paths, but there’s something about him that feels familiar in a way I can’t explain.
Like I’ve known him longer than I have. Like, somehow, we’ve been circling each other without ever meeting until this summer.
“If I tell you something personal, do you promise not to look at me any differently?” I ask, my voice quiet and unsure.
Tyson tilts his head slightly, two small creases forming between his brows. “I don’t think there’s anything you could say that would make me look at you differently.”
There’s no hesitation in his voice. And for some reason, I believe him. A soft laugh slips out of me, more from nerves than anything else.
“Well, Scarlett pointed something out to me today that really got me thinking.”
He lifts his wine glass, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “And what was that?”
“Up until now, my taste in men has been horrible.”
He chokes slightly on his drink, setting the glass back down on the counter with a quiet clink. “We’ve talked about this,” he begins, recovering quickly. “Mouse and his judge of character.” He winks, and I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
“Yeah, well, her pointing it out got me thinking more about it.” I pause, tracing the rim of my own wine glass with my finger. “I realized that every man I’ve been with before was boring, because I thought I liked boring.”
Tyson goes still.
His lips press together as he stares at me. He leans forward slightly as his pointer finger runs over his top lip, his attention completely locked on me.
The shift makes my pulse spike.
I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t, so I keep going. “I don’t really want to unpack all the reasons I thought I liked boring,” I continue, my voice softer now. “But I will admit, my sex life has always been kind of—” I hesitate for a moment as heat rushes to my face. “—boring too.”
Another choking sound escapes him, except this one’s a little quieter. It’s like he wasn’t expecting me to go there. “Okay,” he says slowly.
I can feel my heart pounding against my chest, but I don’t stop. If I do, I’ll lose the courage to say what I need to say, and I don’t want that to happen.
“I don’t want boring anymore.” My voice steadies as I meet his gaze. “From the moment I met you, nothing has ever felt boring. Not one second of it.”
His expression changes into something darker, more focused.
“Even kissing you made me feel things,” I begin to admit, my voice dropping, “that were new.”
For a second, neither of us says a thing. Neither of us moves.
Then, suddenly…his hand grips the underside of my stool, and he yanks me toward him.
I let out a soft gasp as the distance between us completely disappears. My knees brush his thighs as he shifts. His stance opens, the position making it so I fit between his muscular thighs like I belong there.
The air between us changes instantly. It’s charged, making my entire body feel like it’s on fire with anticipation.
“You have no idea how much I like hearing that,” he rasps. His eyes drop to my lips, lingering there just long enough to make my breath hitch and my heart feel like it’s going to leap out of my throat.
My tongue darts out, barely grazing my bottom lip before I can stop myself.
“I didn’t realize how much my writing was tied to my personal life,” I begin, my voice quieter now.
“But I’ve never been this excited to tell a love story.
I’ve never felt this confident in the connection between two characters…
the way I am now.” I hold his gaze as my pulse continues to race because of the intensity in the way he looks at me. “That’s because of you.”
Something soft flickers in his blue gaze, almost hidden behind his intense expression. He lifts his hand, brushing a loose strand of hair from my face. His fingers linger against my skin a second longer than necessary, and I welcome the touch. I wish he’d touch me more.
“It’s not because of me,” he murmurs. “It’s you. It’s because of you.”
I roll my eyes, even as warmth spreads through my chest at his words. He returns to touching me again, and I can’t help but lean into it as his thumb traces lightly over my cheekbone. Something about the gentle feeling grounds me.
“You’ve not been shy about bragging about being my inspiration,” I point out.
A low rumble of a laugh leaves his chest. The sound is becoming familiar—it’s deep and warm—sending shivers down my spine.
“I guess I’ll take the credit for inspiring you,” he admits, his gaze still locked on mine. “But you’re the one bringing life to these characters. To their story. Make sure to give yourself credit for that, Josie.”
My eyes drift over his face, taking him in. He looks at me like I’m something worth paying attention to. Like I matter. In a way no man has ever looked at me before.
And it hits me at once.
Although it’s new, I don’t know if I can call this thing between us just attraction anymore.
It’s quickly becoming something deeper. Something that’s starting to take hold of me before I can even understand it.
It’s both exhilarating and terrifying. I don’t know what to do about it.
If he can make me feel things like this so early on, what happens to my heart if I decide to spend all summer with him?
I try not to think about it. I don’t need to think about the emotional side of things right now. I don’t need to think about feelings getting involved—at least, not yet.
Right now, I want to focus on the physical side of things with him.
Like how the air between us feels electrified.
It’s quiet as we stare at each other, the silence feeling heavy, but in a good way. Like what we said is still lingering between us as we both soak in what I said, my honesty pulling us closer.
My gaze drops to his mouth. I don’t even try to hide it.
“Ty…” I start, my voice softer than I expected it to be.
His eyes find mine instantly. He watches me closely, like he’s been waiting for me to say something. “Yes?”
I swallow, my fingers curling slightly around the hem of my dress.
“I meant what I said earlier.” I continue to hold his gaze, even though my heart is racing. “About wanting more with you.”
Something in his expression deepens. Not in a bad way, but like he’s focusing or replaying what I’ve said. Like I have all of his attention.
“More?” he repeats, his voice lower and raspy.
I nod as I try to catch my breath from the anticipation coursing through my veins.
“I don’t want things to feel boring anymore.
And I don’t want to write about something I’ve never really felt.
” My voice dips as I get more honest with him than I’ve ever been, no matter how terrifying it is to do it.
“I want to understand it. Like, really understand it.”
I swear, thanks to the moonlight and the soft lighting of his kitchen, I can see his blue irises darken.
“And you think I can help with that?” he asks, his voice shaking slightly as if he’s trying to keep his words composed, but it’s hard to do so.
“I know you can,” I begin, my voice barely above a whisper now. “You already have.”
If he didn’t have a record playing in the background, I’m certain that you’d be able to hear the sound of my racing heart.
The words hang between us. For a second, neither one of us moves.
Then his hand lifts, the movement slow and deliberate. His fingers dance along my jaw as he slides his hand to the back of my neck.
“Careful,” he rasps, his thumb grazing just below my ear. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
I wet my lips again before letting out a small, nervous breath. Still, I don’t pull away.
“I think I do,” I respond. “I don’t want boring anymore. I know things are new and casual, but I want whatever this is between us.”
That’s all it takes.
He leans in slowly this time—giving me time to stop him if I want to.
I don’t.
Stopping him is the last thing I want.
Our lips meet softly at first. The kiss isn’t rushed or desperate. It’s slower, deeper, and feels far more intentional. Like he’s wanting to show me something instead of just taking, which is the way the kiss felt this morning.
My hand slides up his chest, fisting the fabric of his shirt as I lean into him. His mouth moves against mine with deliberate patience that makes my chest—and the place between my thighs—ache. It’s like he’s drawing it out on purpose. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
I can’t help but let out a soft moan when his thumb presses slightly to the back of my head, tilting it just enough to deepen the kiss.
Heat spreads through me. It’s all-consuming.
It’s like every single inch of me is aware of him.
I’m aware of the way his thighs cage me in.
His legs press against mine, keeping me in place, even though that isn’t necessary.
I wouldn’t move away from him. If anything, I want to get closer.
I want to crawl into his lap and find even more ways to connect our bodies.
Where his fingertips dig into my skin is like a brand.
I feel him everywhere—even in the places he isn’t even touching.
I pull back just enough to breathe and get words out. My lips are still barely brushing against his. “Show me,” I beg, my voice shaky but certain. “Show me what I’ve been missing.”
He presses his forehead against mine, his breathing completely uneven. “Josie.” He exhales, like my name cost him something to get out. Despite the desperate way he says my name, his grip tightens slightly.
He sighs, his restraint slipping as he pulls my lips to his once again.
This kiss is deeper, more hurried. It’s as if he’s at war with himself, wondering if he should take his time or devour me.
He kisses me with a possessiveness I’ve never felt before. His mouth against mine is a claim. I’ll never forget the way he kisses me.
I get lost in him. In the feeling of the desire coursing through me unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
And I try to memorize every single thing he’s making me feel so I can remember it later when writing. Because how I feel right now—this obsessive desire, like I can’t quite get enough of him—is the beginning of everything I’ve been trying to write.