My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(44)

He closes his eyes, but not before I see pain flash through them. A deep sigh comes next, almost forlorn as it falls from his lips. Shaking his head, he opens his eyes. “It’s not your fault. It’s all mine,” he says quietly. But full of emotion this time.

I don’t feel much lighter though, or exonerated. I still feel shaky, and sad, and so far away from him. But I feel some of this new longing for him too. This want. All these opposite feelings are stirring inside me, jockeying for position. “Why is it yours?” I press.

“Hazel,” he says, and it’s a warning, like he’s borderline begging for me to stop asking. “Can’t you just accept it’s not your fault? It’s entirely mine. And it had nothing to do with your writing.”

“But how can I just accept that?” I ask, frustrated he won’t let me in. I take a step back from him to get some space.

“Because I think you’re a great writer and you know it,” he says, pressing his back against the door like he’s gluing himself to it.

“How? How am I supposed to know that?”

He scrubs a hand across his scruffy jaw. “Because I’ve read all your books. Including your last one. Because I fucking love your work, including the fight that Lacey and Nate got into. Including the plans for them to hate-bang,” he says, spitting out that confession.

Holy shit. He liked our book. But I’m not any closer to an answer. “So why did you leave? Was it me? Did you just not like me?”

He scoffs, then takes off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It was so not you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Oh my god,” he says, utterly exasperated. “You’re so fucking relentless.”

I sneer. “So you’re mad at me again? For wanting to know what went wrong in one of the most important relationships in my life?”

“No, I’m not fucking mad.”

“You sound mad,” I counter.

He shoves his glasses back on his face. “Hazel Valentine, can you just get a clue?”

I hold my hands up, letting him know I don’t have one, but I’m also not backing away. “How about giving me one?”

“Fine,” he spits out. “You want to know why I walked away?”

“Uh, yeah.”

He inhales sharply, on a growl. “Last night.”

That makes no sense. I furrow my brow. “What does that mean?”

“Last night. That kiss. That’s your clue,” he says, but then he mutters, “Fuck it.”

He steps closer. That forest rain scent tickles my nose. He showered before dinner and his aftershave is wreaking havoc with my plans to wade through the friendship mud.

“Because I’m so infuriatingly attracted to you and I have been for years,” he bites out. “And being around you was impossible, especially with…”

He doesn’t have to say the last part. I know what he’s referring to. Who he’s referring to.

But I’m also floored by the admission. I set my hand on my chest. “You’re attracted to me?”

He rolls his eyes. “I kissed you last night, baby.”

Baby. I’m not sweetheart any longer. “But I thought that was an experimental kiss. Like we were testing a scene?” I ask, but my skin’s prickling with newfound awareness. My body’s waking up again. I wasn’t testing anything but my own limits. My own interest in him.

“Maybe you were. But I wasn’t,” he says, and it’s an admission. Of desire. Of lust. Of wicked attraction.

I heat up. “Same,” I whisper. “It’s the same for me.”

His face turns stony in disbelief, then his lips part and he looks awestruck but wary too. “Yeah?”

Nodding, I breathe out hard, my skin tingling. “I’m kind of turned on right now,” I say, shocked I voiced it, but glad, too, to make room for this true desire.

His eyes flicker with heat. “Kind of?” he asks, cocky and challenging.

That tone makes me hot.

“More than kind of,” I admit. “A lot turned on.”

After he takes off his glasses, Axel closes the distance, stops talking, and starts touching.





22





MY SO-CALLED SEX LIFE


Hazel

Theoretically, I’ve had a lot of sex. Every position, every kind, everyplace.

On paper.

And on paper, it’s been great.

In real life though, sex has been good enough, mostly fun, and usually enjoyable. But I often have to write my own ending in my head to get over the cliff.

Right now already feels different than anything I’ve experienced.

Or written.

Axel’s hands on my face are better than the feelings I get when writing one of my books.

There’s nothing accidental, nothing experimental. This is a full-throttle kiss. He’s not playing any games, and I’m so damn grateful. I want to be kiss-fucked, and he must know it.

He crushes my lips like he wants me naked, and soon. Really soon.

But there’s a restraint in him too, coiled, like he’s ready to pounce when I give him the word. Like he’s waiting for me to unlock the next level of this kiss. I arch my hips against him, grinding against his erection.