My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(62)

“Told you. That’s a fucking iron dick, right there.”

I squeeze it, assessing the goods. “I’d say granite.”

He thrusts both arms in the air. “Granite, iron, steel. You name it, my dick can imitate it.”

After he toes off his shoes, he glances down at his clothes. “Dammit. I didn’t bring my jammies.”

“Aww,” I say, frowning. “Whatever will you do?”

“No idea.” He whips off his shirt, shimmies off his jeans. Wearing only boxer briefs, he scoops me up and carries me the few feet to the bed.

He sets me down on it, then takes off his glasses and gets under the covers with me. I settle back on the mattress too, and the pillow feels awfully comfortable.

So does this duvet.

I sigh contentedly and then yawn contentedly too. It’s nice being in bed like this, the faint sounds of the Parisian streets floating through the half-open window, the moonlight streaking across the duvet, the fading notes of his forest scent tickling my nose.

It makes me want to…just kiss him.

But he’ll probably want to have sex. Guys always do. They never want to just kiss. If you kiss them, they always think sex is coming.

Not that I’d object. I really like sex with him. But I also like kissing him. I’m also so tired.

And…oh…that feels nice too.

He’s stroking my hair. Gently. Taking his time. Running his fingers over the strands. I snuggle a little closer to him. Maybe it’s his tender touch or maybe it’s this new trust we’re building, but I’m curious about something, and I hope he’ll answer. “Why don’t the characters ever just make out in books? Is it because men don’t like to make out?”

“They don’t?” he asks, like that’s a ridiculous question.

“Seems that way to me. And, sometimes I just want to kiss for a long, long time. Even if it doesn’t lead to sex, but men…I don’t know…” I say, trailing off.

He presses a kiss to my hair. “You really pick the wrong men.”

It’s not an accusation. It’s just the truth from someone who knows my terrible track record. “I do,” I say simply.

“But I’ve picked the wrong women too.” He doesn’t emphasize picked, but I hear the past tense in his statement.

I hear what’s unsaid—maybe he’s changing.

“What if we picked right?” I ask, musing like it’s whether I want to order fries or salad when picking right is the essence of my work. “I don’t even know what that would look like. It’s hard to pick right.”

He nods against me. “Daddy issues. We have them,” he says into the dark.

A pang of longing knots in my chest. What am I longing for, though? For a new choice? Perhaps that. “I know. But we can make better choices for our characters.”

It’s easier to talk about imaginary people. We can test our theories on them, like the one I’ve been noodling on for the last two days.

I flip around so I can fully face my writing partner. There’s something I want to tell him. Something that may surprise him. It surprised me. I feel incredibly vulnerable, like I’m cracking open a piece of my mind that no one has ever had access to. “I think Lacey should be with Noah.”

Axel’s eyebrows lift, but it doesn’t take long for him to say, “Yeah?”

He sounds…delighted.

“I do.”

“You think Jackie’s right?” he asks, like he needs to double check my answer.

But I’m sure. I’ve been sure all day long.

“I think maybe the one for her has been in front of her all along,” I say. This feels right for our heroine.

“We’ll need to rewrite a lot of the story.” It’s not a warning. It’s not a no. He sounds open to this new direction for our characters.

“We’ll probably need to,” I concur.

“Sounds hard, but it’ll be worth it.”

I feel bubbly. I’m so glad he agrees. “It’ll be weird writing with you again.”

He rolls his eyes. “You and your weird.”

“Hey,” I say playfully. “I did say sex with you was good weird.”

“So this is good weird too?”

I set a hand on his chest, playing with his smattering of chest hair. “Writing with you is a good weird, Axel. I’m excited to work with you again.”

He’s quiet at first, then he sighs, almost resigned. Finally, he says, more upbeat, “Me too.”

I want to ask why he sounded resigned, but I don’t want to ruin us again. “I want this to work,” I say, seriously.

“So do I,” he says in the same tone, letting me know he’s on the same page I am. Then, he strokes my cheek, studies me like he wants to say something important. “Can I show you something?”

My skin tingles even before I know what he’ll say. “Yes.”

He runs the backs of his fingers along my jaw, making me tremble. “I can’t speak for other men, but this guy can just make out.”

My heart catches, then thumps faster. “Show me.”

And he does.

We kiss forever, and it’s druggy and delicious. It doesn’t lead to sex. It leads to a wonderful night in his arms.