A smile blooms on his lips. It’s small and crooked, but I can sense what’s behind it.
“You sure, darlin’? I don’t want to put you out.” He leans forward, tucking his hands into his pockets.
“My bed is big enough for both of us.” I shrug, playing it cool.
“Alright then,” he says, clicking his heels together. “Lead the way.”
We enter the door to my bedroom, and he closes it behind him. The distinct click of the lock follows, and I grin with my back to him.
“I’ll just be a second. Going to change.” As I slip into the walk-in closet, I’m intentional when I leave it open about three inches. Just enough that he can get a peek if he wants. God knows I want him to want to.
I make quick work of slipping out of my fancy clothes and think better of my regular pajamas. A ratty old T-shirt that I got at the Goodwill with a possum wearing a party hat doesn’t exactly strike me as sexy. Then again… I shrug and throw it on anyway. It’s long, the bottom hem reaching my mid-thigh. That’s good enough.
When I step out, Waylon has removed his boots and tucked them toe-first under the bed. He’s sitting on the edge of my mattress, still wearing his jeans and a crisp black T-shirt. I note that his shirt is now untucked.
“I’m not saying this to freak you out or anything, but I really want to kiss you.” I can’t believe I just said that. “But like, if you don’t want to kiss me, that’s fine. But you can take your jeans off to be comfortable. Unless you don’t have any underwear on. But I might have a pair of shorts you can fit in.” If he didn’t know that I ramble when I’m nervous, he’s quickly finding out.
“You want to kiss me, huh?” he asks, leaning back onto his elbows.
The sudden stretching of his torso reveals the thinnest sliver of skin at the top of his jeans. My mouth waters at the sight of the little happy trail below his navel. There’s nothing I like more than a little chest hair that trickles all the way down.
“Yes.”
His eyes narrow at me, the left side of his mouth hooking upward. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a woman be so forward with me, darlin’.”
“Is that a bad thing, cowboy?”
Waylon doesn’t answer. But he does stand up, take two steps, and plant himself right in front of me. I have to tilt my head all the way back to look him in the eyes.
“Hell no,” he finally says.
He licks his lips, wet mouth glistening as he stares straight into my soul. Or at least that’s how it feels. He trails his fingers up my arm and neck before sliding his hand around the nape of my neck.
My breath has turned erratic, and his scent is filling my senses. Leather and cedar. It’s just so fucking rugged. Manly. I’ve never been with a man like Waylon. He’s not Nashville stock, that much I can sense.
I lean up and press my lips against his, unable to wait a moment longer. His mouth is warm and tastes like the bourbon he was drinking earlier. Something in my chest flutters, and I could swear I’m getting a secondhand buzz.
He breaks the kiss just when I felt like it was about to deepen, and presses his forehead to mine as he inhales. Fuck me, I want to do that again.
“Where are you from?” Because if I’m not kissing him, I want to know why he smells so damn good.
“Wyoming,” he says with a gulp. “My family has a farm there.”
“Really? What kind of farm?”
“We have cattle. For beef.” He stands up straight, backing away half a step.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t smell like you’re from here.” I realize after I say it out loud that it sounds ridiculous. “I mean, I don’t know, but I can just tell you’re not from here.”
“Yeah, I moved here when I was twenty. That was thirteen years ago,” he says.
“While we’re on the subject, I’m twenty-eight. Most people don’t know I’m a little older than Darcy.”
An hour later, we’re still talking. He did take off his jeans and get under the blanket beside me. We found comfortable positions facing each other and asked about a million questions each.
“You haven’t mentioned anything about my wall decor,” I say with a laugh. “Most people have questions right away.”
