And yet…I’m not.
The last time he brought up his dick and how he puts it to good use, I suspected he was trying to convince me what a big, bad fuckboy he was in order to push me away.
But I don’t think that’s what’s happening.
He’s not trying to convinceme—he’s trying to convincehimself.But I can’t for the life of me figure out why.
Wyatt eases the blanket off us, and I try to mask my frustration as he slides off the chair. “I should get some sleep,” he says, and then he leaves me on the dock to watch the sunrise alone.
Chapter 20
WYATT
I’M FUCKED.
Fucked.
And ironically, I didn’t even get fucked.
Blake and I stayed up all night talking like a pair of teenagers, watching the stars fade into sunrise. Not a single item of clothing came off.
I stumble into the blue room and face-plant on my bed, burying a silent scream in my pillow.
I knew it was a bad idea sometime around one in the morning, but I ignored the alarm bells in my head. By three a.m., my defenses were starting to slip, because it felt so damn nice, lying there and talking to her. Once four and then five a.m. rolled around, my brain stopped screaming for me to leave and just accepted my fate.
There’s something about Blake Logan that I can’t escape. Maybe it’s the way she looks at me like I’m someone worth knowing. It’s an addictive feeling.
But it wasn’t just the talking that did me in. It was the way herhead felt against my shoulder. The smell of her hair. The sound of her laughter in the dark and the way her hand slipped so easily into mine.
She bared her soul to me last night, and I bared mine right back. I don’t do that. I don’t just open up with anyone and let them peek inside. My sister is probably the only person who has that power, but she’s my twin. It’s inevitable.
Yet with Blake, opening up felt as natural as breathing.
And that scares the hell out of me.
I’m not supposed to want her this badly. But God, I do. I wanted to kiss her so badly I could taste her, and it took every ounce of my willpower not to. But it’s all I think about when she’s near me. Tangling my fingers in her hair and bringing her face to mine. Kissing her. Touching her. Fuck, I want to touch her. I want to slip my hands underneath her shirt and play with her tits. Slide my hand inside her panties and play with her clit, then drop to my knees and suck on it until she’s moaning my name.
I roll over, trying to shake off my rising anxiety as my brain cycles through the litany of familiar warnings that crop up whenever the attraction feels too real.
She’s younger.
She’s the daughter of my father’s best friend.
She’s close with my sister.
She’s my muse.
In other words, she’s not someone whose heart I can break and then never see again. But both my brain and body don’t seem to care about any of those things. Because she’s notjustthose things.
She’s so much more.
I groan into the pillow. I need to keep my distance going forward. No more staying up all night on the dock with her.
And absolutely no more soul baring.
Like a coward, I avoid her most of the day. I take the bowrider out alone. I sit with Betty and my notebook and scribble the torrent of thoughts gushing out of me. I can’t remember the last time I was so inspired.
Of all the muses the universe could’ve sent me, why her?
