Love Song(73)

“I’m sorry—did you just say you rammed me?”

“No, I remmed you. Like, I made you feel so good that you fell into a deep REM cycle.”

He trembles with laughter. “I got remmed all right. Remmed real hard by that sweet LMD.”

Now I’m the one howling. “Oh my God.”

“What? You’re denying you gave me some Logan Mouth Delight last night?”

“No.” I’m laughing so hard, I can’t stop hiccupping. “But that’s my dad’s drink. Now I can never have it again without thinking about blowing you.” I gulp in a breath, trying to compose myself.

Wyatt tugs me toward him again. When his forearm brushes my breasts, teasing a nipple, a shiver runs through me. Feeling that, he cups my breast, then gives the nipple a light flick, drawing a tiny moan from my lips.

“Do you like that?” he murmurs, and in the blink of an eye, the air in the bedroom goes from light to heated.

“Uh-huh.”

It’s impossible to form words when he’s toying with my nipple like that. He pinches it, and I moan again. He teases my breasts for a bit before lowering his hand to the waistband of my shorts. He curses when he realizes I’m not wearing underwear beneath them.

“No panties?”

“Nope.” I gasp when he slides his hand inside my shorts. “What are you doing?”

“Playing. Do you want me to stop?”

“No.” My voice sounds breathy to my ears.

His index finger brushes over my clit before he cups my pussy in his palm. Heat jolts through me. I rock my hips slightly, and though I can’t see his face, I can practically hear him smiling.

“You’re so wet this early in the morning,” he muses. “Are you into morning sex?”

“Are you offering?”

“No,” he says, even as he slips two fingers through my slit to tease my opening.

“Then what is this?” I challenge.

“Playing,” he repeats. “Lift up this leg, freckles.”

Disappointment clenches in my stomach when he abruptly moves his hand, but it’s only because I’m apparently not lifting my leg fast enough for him. With a deliberate pat, he grips my knee and slides it up, giving him better access to the spot that’s aching for him. Then his hand is back, stroking and teasing, dipping into the arousal pooling at my core.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters.

The pads of his fingers are coated with wetness, and he brings them to my clit, rubbing slow circles over the swollen bud. His touch is precise yet indolent, as if he has all the time in the world. His teeth graze my shoulder, sending pleasure dancing through me. I feel his erection against my ass, but he doesn’t release it from his boxers. Doesn’t try to kiss me. He just rubs my clit until I’m mindless with need, desperately grinding against his palm.

“I’m going to come if you keep doing that,” I whisper.

“And that’s a problem because…?” His voice is a husky tease.

I’m practically fucking his hand now. My muscles coil tight. Every inch of skin starts tingling, pleasure building in my core. I try to draw a breath, but it happens to be at the same time as he summons the orgasm from me. I choke in surprise, crying out as waves of bliss spread through my body, from my fingers to my toes and everywhere in between.

“Such a good girl,” he says in approval while I gasp for air.

The orgasm short-circuits my brain. I trap his hand between my thighs, my pussy spasming from each delicious, blissful pulse. Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I roll onto my back, heaving as I stare up at the ceiling. I feel him watching me, so I turn my face toward his.

“Is this awkward?” I ask him.

“No, but it should be,” he says gruffly.

I fully agree. I search his uneasy expression. “So why isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.”

He stretches out beside me, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting on his abdomen. He’s silent for so long, I wonder if he’s fallen asleep, but then his chest rises on a long inhale.

“I figured something out a while ago.” He exhales in a rush. “You’re my muse.”

My heart skips a beat. “I am?”

“Yeah. Since you got to Tahoe, I’ve been writing nonstop. And none of it is trash. I’m writing good shit, freckles.”

I smile at that. “So why do you sound so upset?”

“Cole told me I can’t bang my muse.”

“I mean, technically we didn’t bang,” I point out.

“True… And I do like a good technicality.” He sounds more upbeat now. “Maybe it won’t go away then. The inspiration.”

“Is this a real thing?” I wrinkle my forehead, a part of me wondering if he’s messing with me.

“Sort of. It’s an unspoken rule that you don’t sleep with your muse.”

“Then you’re in luck. I have it under good authority that Wyatt Graham doesn’t follow the rules.”

He laughs, but the humor dissolves fast. “Probably should, though,” he says. “About this at least. About us.”

I roll onto my side, studying his serious profile. “You want us to come up with rules?”

“Yeah, maybe. If we do this—”