17. Mea Culpa
Selene
I'm ripped from my sleep by the crack of thunder and the violent, almost deafening sound of rain slamming against the windowpanes.
I blink my eyes open in the dark. And mentally thank the storm.
Thank God it woke me up. Yeah... because, apparently, I don't know how to sleep. Or rather, my stupid, incoherent, desperately horny subconscious doesn't know how to act when Ron Willers is around.
My breathing is short, ragged, and the air under the duvet is thick with a feverish heat. It takes me a second to process my position, and when I do, a rush of pure panic freezes my blood—a stark contrast to the fire blazing between my thighs.
No cuddling?
I AM clinging to him. My face is buried in the crook of his neck, my nose pressed right into the warm, musky scent of his skin. One of my arms is thrown across his broad chest, my fingers tangled in the fabric of his t-shirt.
But the worst part, the absolute disaster, is the rest of my body.
No accidental grinding?
My leg is hooked over his waist. Before I woke up, I was moving in my sleep.
I was grinding my pelvis against his thigh, desperately, pathetically seeking any kind of friction to soothe the throbbing, wet ache tormenting my lower belly.
Through the thin silk of my shorts, I could feel the heat of his body, and my own body was begging for more.
I was practically humping his leg like a cat in heat.
Jesus Christ.
I jerk back. I scramble over to my side of the mattress, completely disgusted with myself.
Why can't I resist him?
He is sleeping soundly. His breathing is deep, slow, and steady. His chest rises and falls in a hypnotic rhythm. Apparently, I'm the only one who can't keep it together. Oh, the bitter irony... considering I was the one who listed the unbreakable rules.
I keep looking at him, completely unable to look away.
His features are relaxed. His dark hair falls messily across his forehead. He's got a shadow of rough stubble along his jawline, but his face is so peaceful, so vulnerable.
He's sleeping so... sweetly.
Fuck. I bite my lip, feeling a dangerous pang right in the center of my chest.
I can't let myself just sit here and look at him like this. It's... too much.
I slip out of bed.
Ollie lazily lifts his head. His soft ears perk forward. He stares at me for a second with his big, dark eyes in the gloom, but when he sees I'm just heading to the other side of the room, he lets out a silent yawn, rests his snout back on his front paws, and returns to dreamland.
I make my way over to the window and sit on the window seat, pulling my knees to my chest.
It's pouring outside. The tree branches twist like ghosts.
A harsh, raspy, eerie caw slices through the sound of the rain. A raven, hidden who knows where in the dark.
A second later, lightning splits the sky. The flash lights up the bedroom like daytime for a fraction of a second.
I rest my forehead against the cold glass. The chill soothes my skin, but the heat in my lower belly refuses to fade. I can still smell Ron on me, can still feel the solid weight of his body under my leg.
I'm not going to be able to sleep.
I might as well open my laptop and get some writing done. Hoping the shadows of my novel will be enough to swallow the blinding light of that cowboy.
My phantom cowboy is fiercely making out with my heroine while pinning her against a barn door with an obscene, delicious erection.
The scene is thick with danger; the imminent risk of being caught by someone and sparking an unprecedented scandal is sky-high... and yet he doesn't care. She doesn't care. They just want to consume each other.
I take a shaky breath, completely sucked into the scene I'm creating, when I feel a shadow looming behind me.
Annoyingly, I don't even need to turn around to know who it is. My stomach tying itself in knots speaks for me.
My senses go haywire. The air is instantly saturated with the heat radiating off his body and that heavy, sleep-warm scent.
"What are you doing?"
His voice is a low, raspy, sleep-thickened murmur. It hits me straight at the base of my spine.
I jump, my fingers slipping across the keys and mashing random letters, and with a sharp clack, I slam my Mac screen down forty-five degrees, terrified he might read the absolute smut that he, unfortunately, inspired.
Ron is rubbing one eye with the back of his hand, his hair gloriously messy. He is the exact picture of sin and temptation.
"I... um..." I stammer, hating how my voice shakes. I clear my throat and try to scrape some composure together. "Is the typing bothering you? Or the screen light? I can move to the bathroom if you want."
He drops his hand from his face and looks at me. He leans one shoulder against the wooden frame of the window nook, crossing his arms over his chest.
"No," he answers, shaking his head slightly. "I was just asking what you were doing. Are you a night owl, Selene?"
I dodge his gaze, dropping my eyes back to the half-closed screen.
"I didn't get enough work done today," I state, stiffening my spine. "I have a lot to do."
Silence stretches between us, filled only by the hammering rhythm of the rain against the glass. I can feel him watching me. I can feel Ron's hot, heavy gaze slide down my profile, trailing down the silk strap that slipped off my shoulder.
"Can I help you with any of it?"
The question is genuine, innocent, but my brain shatters anyway.
If he only knew what I actually need help with...
"No," I cut him off, short and categorical.
He doesn't get mad. He doesn't take offense. He just lets out a small, silent sigh. He shifts slightly, and for a second, his thigh brushes against mine.
"Can I suggest, then, that I think you should get some rest?" he murmurs softly.
I clench my jaw, digging my nails into my palms so I don't give in to the urge to lean against him.
"I think I know perfectly well when it's time to rest, Willers," I snap, my voice a little too bitter to mask my fluster. "And I can't afford to right now."
Instead of taking my rejection as a cue to leave, throw in the towel, and go back to sleep, Ron does the exact opposite.
He sits down on the other end of the small cushioned window seat. As he settles down, he moves a leg, and his thigh brushes my feet, which are tucked up on the pillows.
An electric jolt shoots from the tips of my toes, races up my calves, and radiates straight to the center of my chest. It's a shock that steals my breath. I force myself with every ounce of willpower I possess not to jerk my feet away.
"Why can't you afford to?" he whispers. "Having trouble writing?"
I huff, looking away to stare at a drop of water sliding down the glass. "Does the advice to get some rest not apply to you?"
"This is my question," he declares, a note of amusement in his voice. "The dare of the day, remember? We have a deal. You can't not answer."
He crosses his arms over his chest. The movement pulls the fabric of his thin gray t-shirt tight, and my sanity packs its bags.
Dammit.
"I... um... I'm looking for inspiration," I answer reluctantly, almost mumbling.
I don't like talking about myself. Hasn't anyone noticed? Actually, to be fair, I'm not much of a talker regardless.
Ron, on the other hand, obviously holds the exact opposite view. He looks at me like I have his complete, undivided attention.
This level of interest makes me feel terrifyingly uncomfortable. But at the same time, a tiny, desperate part of my brain is flattered by it.
Don't flatter yourself. You aren't special.
I'm sure he does this with everyone.
"You know..." he murmurs, his tone low and reassuring, "it's normal sometimes not to know what to write right away. You've written a ton of books over the last few years, Selene. A crazy pace. You should learn to be a little easier on yourself."
"Are you a writer?" I attack him, my voice coming out way more hostile than I intended.
I know, I don't have the greatest personality in the world. I'm prickly and really easy to irritate. And my irritability skyrockets, especially around a new-cowboy who is taking up way too much space in my head. I don't know what to do with these thoughts about him. I don't want them.
"No, but... I work closely with people who are. Remember?!" he fires back without missing a beat. He keeps staring at me, his blue eyes shining in the dim light, like he sees something hidden beneath my skin that I can't even see myself. It's a terribly annoying talent.
"You know... I've watched my friend Grant get completely blocked with his writing. And his block didn't stem at all from a supposed lack of creativity, or because he was suddenly worthless as a writer.
Even though I'm sure you stubborn writers tell yourselves that way more often than you'd care to admit."
"Uh-huh," I reply, annoyed by the accuracy of his deduction, drumming my fingers on the aluminum shell of my Mac. "Let's hear it, Mr. Know-It-All, what caused his big block?"
"A rough patch," he answers, his voice suddenly going serious, hard.
"You know exactly how it works. A relationship that ended badly. A person who makes you doubt yourself. More often than not, a toxic relationship that throws shit at you until you're convinced you're the one who's wrong."
He pauses. Then, never taking his eyes off mine, he continues.
"I just want to know who the fucking asshole is that managed to do that to you."
My heart accelerates brutally. Ba-thump. Ba-thump.
I clear my throat, feeling it go dry. I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood just so I don't answer him, so I don't tell him to go to hell, so I don't scream at him to mind his own damn business and leave me to rot in my writer's block.
I bite my tongue because... the tragic, unspeakable truth is that, deep down, I like it. I fucking love being seen by him.
God, I'm pathetic.
He reaches out and rests his hand right on my bare knee.
The contact makes me stop breathing. And makes me feel even more pathetic. Instead of pushing him away, my only instinct is to get closer, to close those miserable inches separating us and nestle against his chest to get more of him.
It really is too dangerous to be around him.
"You know you're worth it, right, Selene?" he whispers. His hand gives my kneecap a gentle squeeze. "You know that no idiotic thing said or done by someone in your past can change who you are today and how much talent you have, right?"
He shoots me a small smile. But it's different from his usual cocky, bright smiles. It's an intimate smile. Much sweeter, less cheerful, laced with a silent devotion that digs into me, demolishing my wall of cynicism piece by piece.
I clear my throat again, pressing my lips tight. I am physically incapable of answering. If I opened my mouth right now, I might start crying, and I'd be ashamed of it until the end of my days.
"Of course you know," he murmurs, his voice a caress. "It's impossible that you don't. You'd be a real fool to think otherwise. And you... are no fool."
We sit in silence. The storm rages outside, but on our little window seat, time has stopped.
I look up and meet his gaze. His blue eyes are dark in the night, intense, stripped of any filters or barriers.
He looks at me like I'm the only thing in the world worth looking at.
And I let that gaze strip me bare, defenseless.
I swallow hard, breaking the spell out of pure survival.
"D-did you really read my books?" I ask. I hate the way my voice shakes. "This is my dare of the day, Willers. You can't lie."
He tilts his head, and his tender smile widens as if I just did the most adorable thing in the universe. Instead, I just asked him a very simple, stupid question.
"I would never lie to you," he says, enunciating the words clearly. "I don't like bullshitting. And yes, I've read and loved every single thing you've written, Queen of Darkness. I even know some of your best parts by heart." He gives a slow, theatrical wink. "Care for a recitation?"
Despite myself, without being able to stop it, I burst out laughing.
It's a huge, booming, unexpected laugh. I struggle to remember the last time I laughed like that.
"No, thanks..." I manage to say, shaking my head and wiping a hand across my glassy eyes. "I think I'm perfectly fine without that."
I look back at him.
Ron hasn't stopped smiling. He's sitting across from me, his hand still resting on my knee, watching me laugh with an incredibly happy, satisfied expression.
A little too satisfied for my mental well-being.