Wait With Me (Wait With Me, #1)(34)

He nuzzles his whiskered jaw between my breasts, and I laugh and shove at him until he puts me down. With a blissful, sexy, indescribable smile, he tucks my hair behind my ears and kisses me so sweetly, I think I just experienced a type of orgasm I didn’t even know existed.

Can you orgasm from happiness? I kinda think so.





I wake to the sound of bacon frying and sit up like a shot, completely forgetting where I am for a second. I blink rapidly, and Mercedes’s bedroom comes into full view. I look over to see her side of the bed is empty, and I exhale as everything comes flooding back into my mind.

I had sex with Mercedes last night.

I had really fucking great sex with Mercedes last night…during the middle of a party.

I hunch over and rub at my eyes, trying to recall how bad I was last night. I came in hot, that’s for sure. But seeing her draped over Dean’s shoulder made it clear to me that he wants more from her—even if Mercedes doesn’t see it yet.

I shouldn’t have come. I knew I shouldn’t have come. Sam was the one who forced me, making me feel guilty for not celebrating this achievement with her after all we’d been through together at Tire Depot. But somehow, I knew if I drove out here, I wouldn’t be leaving. Now, here I am—butt-ass naked in her white, fluffy, really fucking comfortable bed.

This is going to be bad.

I stand and slide into my jeans, my mind clouding with my past and my present, creating this swirling fog of doubt. It’s been a year since Jocelyn and I broke up, and I’m over her completely. Honestly, the bitch can live happily ever after with her old, rich geezer, but I’m still not over the stress of being in a relationship. Of caring for someone so much that you would literally do anything to protect them. That’s why I’m only doing casual right now. I can’t give myself to anyone again. Not yet.

And something about Mercedes screams way too good for casual.

I step into the kitchen, and Mercedes is at the stove in a pair of tight yoga shorts and my black T-shirt I had just been looking for. Just watching her with the morning sun slicing in through the window over the sink, I know damn well, this girl ain’t casual.

I clear my throat. “Shirt thief,” I tease and shuffle over to stand behind her. I put my hands on her cute little hips, and her entire body tenses. “What’s wrong?”

She giggles nervously. “Are you in a pancakes mood? Or a chew your arm off mood? Because I haven’t started the pancakes yet so now is the time to tell me if there’s carnage in my bedroom.”

I press a kiss to her temple with a laugh. “I could eat.” I could eat you is what I’m really thinking. I move over to the barstool at the island to get a better view of her. How is it possible for her to look this cute in the morning? Her cheeks are flushed, and her red hair is tied up in a big ball on top of her head. And she doesn’t look half bad in my giant shirt.

“How’d you sleep?” she asks as she begins whisking some pancake batter in a large glass bowl.

“Like a rock,” I admit.

She bites her lip.

I smirk curiously. “Something I said?”

She nods. “You’d think I’d be more mature about it since I write about this stuff all the time, but I’m not. You had the biggest morning wood I had ever seen in my life when I got up earlier.”

My brows lift. “Well, why didn’t you wake me up so we could do something about it?”

Mercedes smiles a shy smile that is so cute, my dick jumps. My sex writer, fucking shy? Christ, she just keeps getting better.

“You were sleeping so hard,” she explains. “And I figured three orgasms were enough for twelve hours.”

I tip my head back and laugh. “I don’t think you should ever put a cap on orgasms.”

Her eyes find mine, and with one heated look, sexual tension begins to sizzle between us like bacon in a frying pan. She licks her lips. “Are you just going to sit there and make sex eyes at me, or are you going to help me make breakfast?”

I stand up and stretch. “I might need my shirt. It’d be a shame if I burned these with bacon grease.”

I drag my fingers along the ridges of my abs, and Mercedes stares so hard, she starts spilling the pancake batter on the hot burner.

“Pancakes,” I say, looking down at the mess.

“What?” she husks, still staring at my body.

“Mercedes, the pancakes!” I shout as smoke begins billowing up from the spot on the stove. I move quickly around the counter to grab the bowl out of her hand.

“Shit!” she exclaims, snapping out of her daze. She sets the bowl down, turns off the burner, and grabs a rag to clean up the mess. Her sheepish eyes peek up at me through her dark lashes. “Maybe giving you back your shirt isn’t a bad idea.”

Once Mercedes retrieves a shirt from her room, I slip mine on and finish helping her with the food. It’s a very domestic, Saturday morning couple thing to do, and by the time we sit down to eat at her kitchen counter, my thoughts can no longer be ignored.

Drizzling syrup over my short stack, I decide to just come out with it. “I feel like I need to tell you that I did not come here last night to do…that.” I point upstairs and into her room because those are the two places we’ve covered so far.

She frowns nervously. “Okaaay.”