Chapter 5

5

WAYLON

I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, letting the warm spray rinse the shampoo from my hair as my thoughts drifted back to that blowjob. It had been three days, and I still couldn't stop thinking about it. Even now, my skin still tingled. My cock was still half-hard. And my mind still spun.

Melbourne had given me a blowjob. On a Wednesday morning, in my kitchen, while the breakfast casserole was in the oven—I'd only saved it just in time from getting burned.

Did people do this? Was this normal? I had no clue. My father had died so young that I couldn't remember what he and my mom had been like together—not that I wanted to think of my mom giving blowjobs. Ew. Major ew. But what did couples do together?

Then again, Melbourne and I were not a couple. This was sex. Casual sex. Incredibly hot, casual sex. But still sex, nothing more. I had to forget about any idea of Melbourne wanting something more. Even if he'd been here over a week now, and I was dreading the day he left. Doreen had let him know the parts would come in on Monday, so in four days or so, he would be gone. My heart ached at the thought.

But did that mean I should take him up on his offer? He'd probably only said it out of a combination of pity, wanting to be nice and offer me a chance to get some experience, and desire. I did believe his attraction to me was genuine, but I was also convinced it was purely physical. If I looked at myself objectively, I could see why he liked my body. But that had nothing to do with me, with who I was as a person.

Maybe that was where I struggled. To me, the concept of sex had been about more than the physical. Foolishly, no doubt, but I'd attached romantic connections to it. Feelings. The probably na?ve idea that the best sex came from two people in love.

Melbourne had proven me wrong. That had been the single most intense orgasm I'd ever had in my life, and it had been purely physical, at least on his end. I wasn't saying I was in love with Melbourne—that would be ridiculous after such a short period—but I was drawn to him for more than physical reasons.

I loved talking to him. He had a curious mind and knew a little bit about a lot of things—the curse of a writer, he told me. His mind was wonderfully creative and chaotic, and mess inevitably followed in his trail, but I didn't mind. I liked seeing his socks in the hallway or his forgotten coffee on the counter, the butter he forgot to put back in the fridge, and the trail of cookie crumbs to his table. All reminders that I wasn't alone, that I was sharing my life with someone, however temporary.

So yeah, for me, it was about more than physical attraction. But was it so bad if all he wanted was sex? If I allowed myself to get some experience so that when I met my future husband, I knew what I was doing?

I turned off the shower and grabbed my towel. Melbourne was right that we were both consenting adults, so why should it be a problem? The man was grown—forty-three, full of life experiences that could fill a book—yet here I was, questioning his offer as if it were something illicit or forbidden.

Yes, he was staying with me, but that didn't make it a power imbalance. My guess was that he had quite a bit more money at his disposal than I did, so no, I wasn't taking advantage of him. Or he of me.

I needed…more. More than the routine of my job and the safe confines of this town. More than the theoretical understanding of what it meant to be with a man. I craved the touch, the taste, the heat—the vibrant, messy reality.

"More experience," I whispered, as if voicing the words might make them tangible, might solidify the nebulous desire coiling in my gut.

The mirror was fogged, and I used my towel to clear a spot. My reflection stared back at me, blue eyes clouded with uncertainty, but I felt a shift, a tectonic realignment within the fault lines of my being. If Melbourne was willing to be my guide, to share his wild, untamed world with me, then who was I to turn away from the lesson?

By the time I'd dressed and stepped back into the living room, Melbourne was behind his laptop, his fingers dancing over the keys. I wasn't about to interrupt his writing flow, so it could wait.

Since it was Saturday and thus my day off, I'd better get my ass in gear and get some household chores done. While Melbourne clattered away at his keyboard, I changed the sheets on my bed, ran a load of laundry, unloaded the dishwasher, made a menu and a shopping list for the week to come, and mopped the kitchen floor. Once that was done, I did a quick grocery run.

In between, I refilled Melbourne's water, which he didn't even notice, and put fresh snacks within hand reach every hour and a half. An apple, some almonds, some homemade granola. He ate without even looking or saying anything. His concentration was amazing.

Four hours later, when I'd parked my butt in my favorite chair in front of the window that looked out over the front yard and was reading a book, he looked up. "Waylon?"

It almost sounded like a child looking for his parent. Why I found that endearing, I had no clue. "I'm here."

He got up, looking dazed, then walked over to me. His eyes were clouded, and alarmed, I put my book down. "Is everything okay?"

"Can I have a hug?"

He looked like he'd just gotten horrible news. I rose and wrapped my arms around him. "What happened?"

"She died."

"Who died?"

"Detective Lewis."

Detective Lewis? Why did that name sound familiar? Then it hit me. He was talking about his books, about Detective Valerie Lewis, one of his recurring characters. "You killed her off?"

He leaned back, looking at me with accusatory eyes. "I didn't kill her. The Kiss-Me Killer did."

Oh. My. God. He was crying over a fictional character. I wasn't sure whether to laugh, cry, or hug him even harder, so I did the last, holding him closer. "I'm sorry. I really liked her."

He sniffled. "I loved her. I can't believe he got to her."

But…if he was the writer, wasn't that his choice? What was I missing here? He held on for a while, then let go, wiping his eyes. "I know I look and sound ridiculous, crying over a fictional character. But I'd really grown attached to her."

"I'm more baffled that you don't seem to be in control of your own story."

"You'd think the author would be able to prevent that, right? I couldn't. The Kiss-Me Killer was too smart and outsmarted her. Or me, depending on how you look at it."

"Right." Okay, this was probably something I'd never understand. Maybe it was a creative thing?

He looked sheepish. "Doesn't make sense to you, huh?"

"No, but that doesn't mean it's wrong or weird. I don't have your brain."

"Be glad you don't. It's not fun up there."

I sat back down. "Why not?"

He lowered himself to the floor, right at my feet, leaning against my legs. For some reason, I put my hand on his head and gently scratched his scalp. My mom used to do that to me, and it was such a sweet, intimate feeling. He immediately leaned into my touch. "I have ADHD. I wasn't diagnosed until two years ago. I'm on meds, and they do help, but I still struggle with executive functioning, like completing household tasks. I want to do them and love when things are neat and clean, but I can't seem to keep them that way."

Things were starting to make sense. I'd chalked it up to his creative, chaotic nature, but it had a deeper underlying cause. "That sounds like a challenge."

"It is." He closed his eyes and made a purring sound, almost like a cat. I smiled as I continued to scratch his head. "I can be so jealous of someone like you. You're so much younger than me, yet you have your shit together. Your house looks pristine, you excel at your job, and you're just so fucking competent at everything."

"Except sex." The words rolled right out of my mouth.

Melbourne opened one eye to look at me. "That's not verified. At least, not by me. I'd have to do more testing for that."

"Would you be willing to?" My timing was awful, right on the heels of our more serious conversation, but now that I'd made the decision, it was burning inside me, waiting to be released.

Melbourne opened his other eye as well and tilted his head. "You wanna have sex with me?"

A deep breath. "Yes. If you're still interested."

"If I'm still…" He flashed a grin, all devil-may-care charm. "Darling, you have no idea how interested I am."

"Doesn't need to be now. I know you're feeling sad and all."

"I'm feeling much better, suddenly."

How did he do it? How was he so good at rolling with the punches? "I don't want to interrupt your writing."

"Now you're just making excuses." He rose to his feet and then sat on my lap, straddling me. "I'm here, Deputy, fully at your disposal."

I swallowed, my mouth as dry as a desert. "You want me to take charge?"

"Yep." His eyes twinkled with mischief. "It's your rodeo, cowboy. I'm just here to enjoy the ride."

His words, full of innuendo, sent a shiver down my spine. Did he mean I'd be riding him? Or he, me? Did it matter? Maybe in the sense that being a confident gay man meant being able to discuss sex responsibly. If I couldn't even ask those kinds of questions, I had no right to engage in more.

"Which role do you prefer? In bed, I mean." Had I worded that correctly? At least I'd managed to say something, even if it hadn't been perfect.

"I'm vers, darling, so whichever you prefer is fine by me."

And he'd put the ball back in my court. Smart. But maybe he had a deeper reason. Maybe by letting me lead, he was ensuring I truly wanted this, and I couldn't blame him for that.

Carefully, I reached out, my fingertips tracing the lines of ink on his forearm. Melbourne's skin was warm under my touch, and I watched, fascinated, as goosebumps rose along his flesh. He wasn't as muscled as me, but for someone who, by his own admission, hated working out, he was in good shape, especially considering his age.

With a fluid move, Melbourne whipped his T-shirt over his head. "There. Easier access."

Encouraged, I let my hand travel upward, mapping the contours of his arm before venturing across the expanse of his chest. I had no chest hair, but he did, neatly trimmed and incredibly sexy with the silver hairs mixed in with the dark.

His breathing hitched as my fingers brushed over a nipple, and the sound was sweeter than any music. This was real, tangible—no longer an abstract concept but flesh and desire beneath my hands.

"Good?" I asked, needing his affirmation.

"Very." His eyelids fluttered closed for a moment.

My heart swelled with newfound confidence. "May I kiss you?" I whispered, craving the taste of him.

"God, yes," Melbourne replied. The hunger in his voice matched the growing need coiling low in my belly.

Our lips met in a hesitant brush—a whisper of contact that promised so much more. Then, as if pulled by some magnetic force, we collided again, this time with urgency. He took the lead now, and my mouth opened under his as he boldly entered. I reveled in the sensation, the give and take, the ebb and flow of tongues and breath and heat.

I'd never kissed like this, had never been kissed like this. This was not a fumbling teenage kiss, the tentative exploration of two people without experience. This was a wildfire spreading rapidly, an invasion of the best kind, an erotic war I was willing to lose if he was the prize.

The sound of a car driving by shocked me back to reality. Anyone walking by could see us because we were right in front of the window. And hell if I was gonna give my neighbors a show. So I held on to Melbourne and rose from the couch.

He shrieked as he clung to me, wrapping his legs around my waist. "What are you doing?"

"Taking you to bed."