Chapter 4

4

MELBOURNE

T he heat was already clawing through the window when I woke up, a gentle but insistent reminder that Waylon's guest room faced east. I stretched out under the sheets, relishing the stretch and pull of muscles, my yawn a silent echo in the quiet room.

Five days, I'd been here, and I'd gotten more work done than in the last month. Things were so much easier here. Waylon was not only kind and sweet—and super, super hot—but also a motivator, someone who inspired me to get my shit together. And he took care of me in ways I couldn't even begin to count.

I liked him. I'd hoped he'd take me up on my offer to teach him about sex, but so far, he hadn't. Sadly. But the ball was in his court. If friendship was all he offered, I would accept it. He was an easy person to talk to, mature for his age. I'd told him more about myself than I'd shared with anyone.

Pushing off the sheets, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, my feet sinking into the plush rug. I threw on some shorts and a T-shirt, then padded down the hallway, drawn to the kitchen by rhythmic thumping and the scent of something delicious wafting through the air.

And came to a sudden stop.

Oh my, what a sight.

Waylon, in all his muscled glory and dressed in only a pair of workout shorts, was doing push-ups on the kitchen floor. His feet faced me, so he couldn't see me, and I unashamedly gawked. Sweat glistened on his skin, muscles rolled and rippled as he counted off reps under his breath, and that ass…

Jesus, he was a thirst trap. I'd never wanted anyone this fiercely.

The smell came from the oven, where something bubbled behind the window. Some breakfast casserole, probably. The man moved like a machine, his movements clean and sharp, each push-up purposeful and measured.

I palmed my hardening cock with the back of my hand. Down, boy. It would be rude to repay Waylon's hospitality by flashing him my hard-on, even if he had caused it in a way. Subjugating a few French verbs usually did the trick, and that worked now as well.

"Morning," I said once I was certain I was decent, my voice gravelly from sleep.

Waylon paused mid-push-up. "Hi. Sleep well?"

I waved my hand at him. "Like a log, but don't let me interrupt your workout."

He smiled, then resumed his push-ups. I watched him move, his biceps flexing, that clean-shaven jaw set in concentration. The guy was the picture of discipline, and damn if that didn't crank up my admiration for him a notch—or ten.

"You're just gonna stand there and watch me?" he asked without pausing.

I grabbed a glass and poured myself some water, then leaned against the counter. "It's a magnificent view."

He faltered, almost hitting the floor with his upper body before catching himself. "The things you say…" he muttered.

"Should I stop?"

He took his time answering, continuing his push-ups. "No. I don't know how to respond, but I don't mind."

"‘Don't mind' is a pretty low bar. It's called flirting, and the idea is that you like it and flirt back."

He snorted. "I have zero flirting game."

"Well, then practice on me, and I'll give you feedback. I'm an expert at flirting by now."

"I bet. One hundred," Waylon mumbled, then rose to his feet. A thin sheen of sweat covered his chest, and I wanted to lick it off his body. So I had a thing for sweat. Sue me. Who could blame me when a man looked like that?

I bit my tongue, not wanting to embarrass him, but one look at me, and he sighed. "You might as well say it. Your face does most of the talking, anyway."

He took a big gulp from a water bottle.

"I was thinking I wanted to lick the sweat off your chest."

He coughed, spitting out the water everywhere. Cheeks pink, he grabbed a towel to dry himself off first and then the floor. "Sorry about that."

"What are you apologizing for? You didn't hit me."

"Yeah, but…" He straightened his shoulders. "I should've known it was something dirty."

I shrugged. "What can I say? I have a dirty mind. And you're an absolute delight to look at."

"Just trying to stay fit for the job," he muttered, almost shyly, which was a stark contrast to the confidence his body exuded.

"Fit? Darling, you're not giving yourself enough credit." My gaze roamed over him unabashedly. "The way you do those push-ups… It's downright sinful."

"Sinful, huh?" He cracked a half-smile, then took another sip. A little more confidence moved into his expression. "Never heard of a workout described quite like that."

"Then clearly, you haven't been working out in the right company."

Waylon chuckled, a rich sound that vibrated through the air between us, and leaned against the counter, facing me. "And what kind of company would that be?"

"Someone who appreciates the fine art of muscle and sweat." I set down my glass, feeling bold. "Someone who wouldn't mind showing you how much they appreciate it either."

His eyebrow quirked, and he crossed his arms, which did incredible things to his biceps. I was playing with fire, but isn't that what life was all about?

"Are you offering to spot me at the gym or something else?" Waylon asked, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement.

"Something else," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "Consider it a personal service. A morning…pick-me-up, if you will."

"Personal service, huh?" He took a slow sip from his water bottle, considering my words. "Sounds tempting, but I'm not sure what you're suggesting."

"Let me clarify then." Pushing off from the counter, I closed the distance between us, my pulse quickening. "How about I show you how sexy you are—with a blowjob?"

His hand froze halfway to his mouth, and when he lowered it, he was shaking. "A b-blowjob?"

I nodded. "Your cock, my mouth, and one spectacular orgasm for you. I'm quite good, I've been told."

"This isn't… I mean, you're my guest, and there's a line, right?"

I studied him for a moment, taking in the way his brow creased, betraying the internal battle he fought. Disciplined, organized Waylon, always so sure, now standing on the precipice of something thrillingly uncertain. "I see the line. And I see you, a grown man who can decide for himself where it gets drawn."

I stepped closer, diminishing the space between us once more, and placed my hand lightly on his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat pulsing through my hand. "There's no pressure here—only an offer. One that'll make us both feel good."

"How do you make it sound so easy?"

"Because it is." I trailed my index finger from his collarbone down to his belly button, then to the elastic waistband of his shorts. "It's sex. As long as it's between consenting adults, it shouldn't be complicated."

"I'm…"

"You're conflicted, I know. Your brain is protesting, but your body is yelling louder than a siren on a quiet night to take me up on my offer." I looked up at him through my lashes, slipping my finger into his shorts, where the tip of his hard cock was fighting to be freed. "But just say the word, and I'll back off."

For a moment, we stood there, the air charged with tension. Then, without warning, Waylon put his hand on mine and pushed it downward, forcing me to touch his cock. His other hand cupped my cheek, warm and slightly rough—the hand of a man who wasn't afraid of hard work. How very Waylon, sexy and comforting at the same time.

"Guess it wouldn't hurt to start the day off with a bang," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down my spine.

"Or a hum." I grinned as I dropped to my knees, the heat already building in anticipation of what was to come.

Waylon's breath hitched as I knelt before him, my gaze locked on his. The air between us was charged with a current so palpable it sent shivers down my spine. With each beat of my heart, I reveled in the power of this moment—the surrender and trust that hung delicately in the balance.

"Relax," I murmured, my voice a low thrum of reassurance as I reached for the waistband of his shorts. "Let me take care of you."

There was a tenderness to my touch, belying the hunger that twisted inside me. I peeled the fabric down his thighs, exposing him inch by tantalizing inch. And when he sprung free in all his glorious size, I gasped. "You've been holding out on me, Deputy. Yummy."

I pushed his shorts and underwear down, and he stepped out of them, his cock bobbing, almost slapping me in the face. My fingers trailed along the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, teasingly close, yet not quite where he needed them most. I leaned in, my breath hot against him, and heard his sharp intake of air as my lips hovered just a hairbreadth away from his cock. The anticipation was delicious, but I didn't torture him for long. My tongue flicked out, tasting him—a single, bold stroke that had his hands gripping the edge of the counter behind him.

"Jesus, Mel," Waylon managed, and there was something so thrilling about hearing my name torn from his lips like a prayer.

"Shh…" I flashed him a wicked grin. "Just watch me."

Encouraged, I wrapped my lips around him, taking him in slowly, savoring the weight of him on my tongue. My hand cupped his balls, massaging them in time with the bob of my head, drawing a symphony of moans and curses from deep within him.

I worked him with a practiced ease, building a relentless rhythm. Hopefully, I'd be able to take my time on another occasion, but for now, I just wanted to give him this no-strings-attached pleasure.

"Fuck…that's good," Waylon groaned, his hips seeking more of what my mouth offered. His fingers found purchase in my hair, not pushing but holding as if anchoring himself to reality.

I hummed in response, sending vibrations through his dick, and his blue eyes darkened, eyelids fluttering. The sight of him—so undone, so beautifully vulnerable—sent a jolt of desire straight to my core. I doubled my efforts, hollowing my cheeks and increasing the suction.

"Mel, I'm…" His words tapered into a guttural moan as I took him deeper, the head of his cock hitting the back of my throat. I held there, breathing through my nose, letting him feel the constriction, the warmth, the wetness.

"God…Melbourne!" It was more than a cry. It was a release, a giving in to the sensation that seemed to shake him to his foundation. His body tensed, legs stiffening as he rode the waves of pleasure I drew from him. I relished every quiver, every pulse, every sign that he was close to the edge.

But I eased off just before he tumbled over because I wanted this to last a little longer. I wanted him to remember this and to etch every second of this into my memory—the taste of him, the sounds he made, the way he looked right then, as if he'd never been touched like this before.

Come to think of it, maybe he hadn't. I was his first. Now, there was a thought.

"Please," he whispered, a plea laced with lust and a hint of desperation.

"Please, what?" I teased, even as I granted his silent wish, my lips closing around him once more, my pace relentless now.

"Mel…I'm gonna…" His voice cracked, and I sensed the impending surge, the sweet tension coiling tighter within him.

I took a much-needed breath. "Come for me, darling," I urged, and as soon as I took him in my mouth again, he shattered. He pulsed against my tongue, hot and unrestrained, his climax washing over him in powerful waves that I eagerly drank down. I savored the moment, his flavor, the sheer satisfaction of having brought this strong, composed man such ecstasy.

As the tremors subsided, I released him, planting a soft kiss on his still-throbbing and half-hard cock—oh, to be that young again and have such a short recovery time—before rising to meet his gaze. His eyes were a stormy sea of emotion, gratitude mingling with something deeper, something that made me a little uncomfortable. He did understand this was just sex, right?

But I didn't say anything. Maybe because I wasn't so sure myself what this was exactly.