It’s for the best.
I keep repeating Payne’s words to myself the whole day while he’s at work.
He didn’t say it to be a dick, and thankfully he isn’t treating me any differently than usual, but he also hasn’t walked in and told me he wants to bone me, so I think it’s time to acknowledge that is solidly off the table.
Now I need to convince all of me of that.
Because my dick disagrees in a big way and is determined to harden the fuck up every time Payne walks into a room. Because lucky me, suddenly my body is on normal people time, which means seeing him in the morning wearing those tight shorts and the polo for Ford’s Garage, and then again all afternoon while we eat dinner together and settle in front of the TV for the night.
I thought for sure Payne would come up with every excuse under the sun to avoid me, but so far, he’s doing the opposite. Like he enjoys my company, but that can’t be right.
He’s also taken my book like he said he would. That bare space on my shelf is haunting me, and I want to ask him what he thinks, but I also really, really don’t.
It’s one thing to have a bad review by some random person on the internet; it’s another to have the guy you’re pining for think your life’s work is trash.
I’m still making progress on the next book, but it’s frustratingly slow. I know I can be done by the deadline if my muse hits, but struggling with a few hundred words a day is painful.
So instead of working on what I should be working on, I open another file and smash out a few thousand words on betrayal and heartbreak without a second thought. It’s a waste of a few hours though, so I reluctantly close the window I’m working in and turn back to my book.
Maybe if I skip this part and write a scene I’m excited to write, that might help?
A sword fight, maybe?
My hero, Jaciel, is one of the best, and I include at least one sword fight with Tombra in each book. They’re usually my favorite scenes to write because the antagonism brings it alive. They might be fighting with the intent to kill the other person, but the way Tombra plays with Jaciel is a fun dynamic.
They’re also scenes that take forever to write because logistically it’s a balance between making sure it works and writing it in a way where it’s not bogged down with details but shows just enough.
I plan it out, research the steps, then jot out on paper the beats I want to hit. Now, to make sure they’ll work.
I’m nothing if not thorough. When I have a scene where there are a lot of steps, I like to walk through them. I grab the umbrella I have next to my desk specifically for this purpose—buying an actual sword seemed excessive—and walk through it.
Two steps forward, one back. Block. Swing. Lunge to the left. I’m caught up, seeing it play out in my head, when the front door opens and Payne walks in to find me kneeling on one knee, umbrella held above my head like goddamn Simba.
Oh, fuck my life.
Payne’s lips twitch as I shoot to my feet. “Am I interrupting?”
“No.”
He doesn’t look convinced and my heart sinks as I realize that first, I’m going to have to explain this to him, and second, I really need to pay better attention to the time. “Fine. I have a sword fight coming up, and I was working through it. There’s just this one part …” I glance back at the paper and raise my umbrella, trying to visualize how Jaciel will block and slice consecutively.
Then I realize the umbrella is in the air again, and Payne is still watching.
I drop my arms. “Nothing to see here.”
“I dunno. Seems fun to me.”
I sag. “Funny, you mean. Shit. This is one of those things, isn’t it? That normal people don’t do?”
Payne gets this crease between his eyebrows as his stare runs over me. I can tell he’s thinking. Maybe trying to come up with a way to tell me I’ll never be dating material.
“I have no idea what you mean.” He spares me a grin before heading for the hall.
I assume he’s giving me privacy to finish this, but I’m not so sure I want him walking about again and finding me in who knows what position. It’s lucky I hesitate too because he’s back a moment later.
Carrying a broom handle.
He points it at me. “You’re on, Bo-Bo.”
“Wait. What?”
“Let’s work through your scene.”
“You’re going to help me?”
“What are roommates for?”
Yep. Just like that, I’m in love.
My face is hot, but I’m smiling wide as I teach him the steps I’ve choreographed. The more we practice, the better we get, and it highlights the parts that work and the parts that don’t.
“What if instead of this”—Payne swings upward—“it’s more like—” He spins and slices upward.
It’s clear he’s an athletic guy because he makes even sword fighting with a broom handle look hot as hell.
“Yep, that works,” I say, jotting it down and trying to pretend like I wasn’t checking out the way his arms muscles flexed with the movements. “I think we need more terrain though. For some of the jumps.”
“I got you.” Payne tilts the couch back and moves the coffee table toward where I’m supposed to jump onto a bench. That should work.
“From the top?” he asks.
“This is so much easier with a second person.”
“Well, sword fighting usually requires two people.”
“Both types, in fact.”
It takes him a moment to get it, but when he does, his eyes fly to mine. Instead of awkwardness, I detect interest there. “I can’t say I’ve ever tried that kind of sword fighting.”
“You’re missing out.”
“You have?” He sounds a second away from laughing.
I point at my face. “Weird, remember? Let’s just say I tried it once and never again.”
“Why?”
“The guy I was with said it ruined the mood.” I shrug because it’s no big deal, even if I was embarrassed at the time.
“Well, he was a moron. I bet you’re an awesome sword fighter, euphemism or otherwise. You’ve written enough of them.”
And I’m not sure what catches me off guard most—the sex talk or him mentioning my book. “Ah. You’ve already, umm, read some?”
“No idea what you mean.” He winks. “I’m not reading anything. I definitely haven’t smashed through the first half of this awesome book when normally I can’t make it through a few pages.”
I simultaneously love every word out of his mouth and wish he’d stop talking immediately because I struggle with compliments. “Okay. Good. Definitely not reading.”
“Nope.” He raises his makeshift sword. “Think we can make it through the whole thing this time?”
“Let’s try.”
We both lift our swords, and then, I lunge. He blocks me, and I spin immediately, trying to get in a hit to the side, but Payne knocks me off-balance before I make contact. He kicks at my leg, I hit his side, and then we bring our swords together. Somehow, we make it through the steps without screwing up, and I’m about to drop my umbrella when Payne goes off book.
He whacks my ribs, my thigh, before I block him.
“What are you—”
“Think you can beat me?”
“You’re on.”
It’s nothing like our practice. Where that was rehearsed and careful, this is a complete mess. Payne gets in a hit to my jaw before I stab the umbrella at his abs, then his back. He grunts in pain, hand flying at my face as I try to wrestle the broom handle off him. Our makeshift weapons are flailing before we drop them, forgotten, and then it becomes a competition of who can get the other to the ground first.
“Damn.” He grunts. “You’re a lot stronger than you look.”
“Yep.” I get him into a headlock, shoving him toward the ground, but before he hits, Payne wraps an arm around my waist, heaves me over his shoulder, then staggers us toward the couch. He collapses into it, sends the couch flying back upright, and in my surprise—
“Fuck.” Payne releases me as he folds in half, clutching at his balls.
“Holy shit, I’m so sorry.”
“Yep.” His voice is strained. “I think you win.”
I can’t help it—I laugh, and when the pain settles, he joins in. We’re both breathing hard, him sprawled over the couch, me, sitting on the floor, and when we calm down enough and catch eyes, I’m back a few nights ago, on my knees, face buried in his groin.
The humor dies on his face, and I’m pretty sure he’s reminded of the same thing.
I can’t help licking my lips, desperately wanting to offer it up again.
There’s a moment where we both stare at each other, and I’m dying to know what he’s thinking. His stare drops to my lips, and then he clears his throat and looks away.
“Heard from Lee?” he asks, and the fun afternoon we’ve had evaporates.
“Ah, yeah.” I look away from him. “He messaged me earlier.”
“When’s the big date?”
“Friday night.” Exactly one week after I hooked up with Payne. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself it’s for the best, I can’t get excited over the date. I’d rather stay in. Watch a movie. Eat popcorn with Payne, then maybe swallow his dick again, who knows?
“Want me to stay at Marty’s that night? You know, in case …”
“No. No, no. This is your home. I won’t be … I won’t …” Yikes, I can’t finish that.
Realistically, any other time, I’d probably go home with Lee or bring him here; even if the date turned shit, I’m still fine with a hookup.
The problem is Payne was the last guy I was with, and I don’t want to let go of that just yet.
So no, I definitely can’t explain that.
I clear my throat. “I’m sure we can go back to his place if we …”
Payne waves his hand to cut me off, thankfully not needing me to finish that sentence either because it makes me feel gross. Fuck, these feelings.
I need to make a better effort at trying to move on, despite the tiny voice telling me I don’t want to.
It’s not healthy.
I’ll be so much happier in a relationship with someone who sees me the way I see Payne.
If only I’d kept my mouth closed, maybe we’d still be hooking up.
But that wouldn’t be fair on him. The first time wasn’t either, but it’s not like that was planned. It was spontaneous, and once it started, there was no way I was stopping to be like, “oh, PS, this means a lot to me, just want you to know. Now can I suck your cock, please?” because that would have brought it to a grinding halt.
I needed that one time.
I need more than once, if I’m honest, but I’m not letting that thought get ahead of me. I’ll respect Payne’s boundaries. Payne’s stupid, stupid boundaries because he’s disgustingly, stupidly sweet.
Out of nowhere, Payne reaches forward and covers one of my hands. “Hey, what happened? You got real anxious out of nowhere.”
“What … how did you …”
He laughs. “Your hands started going crazy.”
“Oh.” I let out a breath. “Yeah, the thought of dating does that.” Sure, let’s go with that excuse and not the one where I’m desperately trying to downplay my feelings.
His thumb rubs light circles over my wrist, and he surprises me by saying, “Why don’t we cook dinner together, and then I’ll let you use my tats?”
“You’d let me do that again?”
An adorable, bashful expression crosses his face, and he rubs at the back of his neck. “Maybe we do it here and you can use my arms. That’ll be fine, right?”
I’m nodding hard before he’s even finished talking. An excuse to touch him again? I should be saying no. Thanking him and protecting myself.
Instead, I wait for him to go and shower off the day’s work, then stash the pile of coloring books I ordered into one of my drawers.
Nothing to see here.
Other than an idiot in big, big trouble.
