Wait With Me (Wait With Me, #1)(22)

I can’t wipe the satisfied smile off my face as I stare into the phone. “You read the books too, I thought, right?”

“Oh God, yes. Mom’s the one who got me hooked. It’s totally weird when she pushes her blog shit in everyone’s faces. Like God, Mom, try not to be so desperate.”

“Agreed,” I reply and look up at Mercedes. My smile falls when her wide eyes are glossy in the dim lighting. Is she upset?

“So who is this girl? I want to read her,” Meg asks.

A tear slips down Mercedes’s face, so I know I need to get off the phone pronto. “I’ll find out, but I gotta go, Meg. Don’t fuck that dude tonight or I’ll kill him.”

“You don’t even know who it is.”

“It’s probably one of my friends.”

A sharp intake of air breaks through the phone line. “How could you possibly—”

I hang up, my mind completely wrapped up in the tears running down Mercedes’s cheeks. “What happened? What did I say? Was it something my sister said? I wasn’t trying to offend. I swear I’m not judging you. I was just—”

I can’t talk anymore.

I can’t defend myself.

I can’t say another damn word.

Because her lips are on mine, and they taste like fucking cherries.





You know that moment in a love story when two enemies are arguing and fighting and screaming and thrashing and so fucking mad at each other that they can’t see straight?

Then suddenly, there’s this bolt of lightning, and they crash together like two fucking cars colliding head-on at a hundred miles an hour?

That’s me right now as I press my lips to Miles perfect mouth.

I don’t even know that much about him, but I have to kiss him. It’s a knee-jerk, instinctual thing that tells me this guy is worth kissing. I have to shut him up and kiss the person that has been talking nonstop to his sister for the past five minutes.

With one simple phone call, this hot mechanic has squashed every thread of doubt I have been lying to myself about not having. I joke about writing at a tire shop. I call myself a porn writer and let’s face it, I kind of am.

But deep down, I know I’m more. I’m a creator of stories. Stories that have a plot and an arc and a journey. Yes, they experiment in BDSM. Yes, they do anal. And yes, you will probably get horny when you read them, but they still mean something to me. I’m still proud of them when I type The End. And I love the fact that I have readers who get to escape their regular lives for a while and pretend that they’re someone else.

I give them book boyfriends like Miles.

But he is not fictional. He is real, and he went to great lengths to prove how many fucks he doesn’t care that I write smut for a living.

And fucking hell, this giant of a man feels so good under my hands. I had to yank him down by his neck to bring our lips together. God, he’s tall and firm. So firm. Every muscle in his body is tight and hot beneath my touch. I can’t help but run my hands appreciatively over his triceps as our lips dance together in the best kiss I’ve had in years.

Years!

Dryston was a terrible kisser. His name totally matched his romantic abilities. Let’s just say it’d be a cold day in hell before I ever used the name Dryston in a book.

He never used tongue and never moved his head. He kept it at one angle and just opened and closed his mouth over and fucking over like a guppy fighting for his life on the shore.

Miles, on the other hand, kisses like a shark.

I may have started it, but damn, this guy has taken the lead. He moves his hands all over my body—squeezing, groping, and fondling as he wishes. He even turns his head from side to side, like a shark nipping at his dinner, savoring every scrumptious bite. It’s pure frickin’ magic. When his head tilts to the left, he gives me tongue. When he tilts right, he caresses my lips. And just when I think I’ve figured out his pattern, he changes it up. Biting my lower lip, he pulls it into his mouth. His big hands squeeze my ass and pull me flush against his hard groin, leaving me with no doubt about the effect this kiss is having on him.

Jesus Christ.

And the fact that I’m wearing this short, stretchy skirt makes the barrier between us basically nonexistent. If I was writing a book about this kiss, now would be the point where the bad boy steals his hands up the girl’s skirt, rips off her panties, and marvels at how wet she is for him. He’d pick her up, press her against the wall, and slam his bare, hard cock into her tight, soaked cunt.

Or something like that.

I’m making out with a hot guy, I can’t be a great writer right now!

“Mercedes,” he husks, pulling away from my lips, panting. “What are we doing?”

I drag in huge gulps of air, not realizing how much I needed oxygen while swallowing down the stab of guilt that he still doesn’t know my real name. But I don’t want him to know me as Kate. I am Mercedes at this moment. I’m not the girl still living with her ex because she can’t get him to move his shit out. I’m Mercedes, sex goddess in fiction and in life!

“I don’t know,” I reply, touching my fingers to his hot lips. God, they are sexy. “I just kissed you, I guess.”

“Yes, you did,” he replies, and a muscle in his jaw ticks like he’s in pain. He presses his forehead to mine and pulls his groin away from me. “And as hot as that was, we have to stop.”