Page 29 of Just the Tipsy
“I can get it,” I say, hopping off the bed and making sure my belt isn’t halfway undone and my hard-on isn’t too conspicuous.
It’s someone delivering a package that requires a signature. Great timing. I scribble something vaguely resembling my name and thank him even though my balls feel like they’re going to fall off. My phone buzzes in my pocket too with a message from work, too — they need extra hands for a few emergency drop-ins.
“It was a package,” I say when I go back into the kitchen, where Bianca has settled. “And I have to head into work for an emergency, actually.”
That simmering heat between us turns cools now that the bubble around us has been popped. Her clothes are on, plus an extra layer of a sweatshirt, almost like nothing happened.
“Oh, thanks. I forgot this was coming today.” She puts the box down in front of her.
“Um, yeah.” I clear my throat. “So, the Jepsen fest. I’ll pick you up?”
“Yeah, that sounds good.” She tucks one of her curls behind her ear. “And maybe we can start going down my list. Our lists.”
Fuck, I wish I didn’t have to leave. But I need to. And maybe the wait will make it even better.
“I’d like that,” I say.
EIGHT
BIANCA
I can’t getthe memory of Waylon’s head between my thighs out of my head the entire night. The thickness of his fingers inside of me, his skilled tongue. The roughness of his voice was what got me the most. It was him, but it was a whole new side of him that I really, really liked.
The next morning, I glance at my toys in my drawer before pushing it closed. I need to get dressed for the Jepsen Festival, not get off to Waylon’s deep voice telling me he loves how wet I’ve gotten.
I turn on the shower, keeping it pretty cold. It doesn’t really work.
I’m getting the hang of dressing Jepsen casual, at least of what I already have. I choose a denim mini-skirt and a red scoop-necked tank top tucked in. It’s still unreasonably hot, so I go with some comfortable wedge sandals. Pinning my hair up is another must.
I check myself out in the full-length mirror I put up near the door. A rush of insecurity comes up from where I’ve tried to banish it. All those years of people picking my looks and body apart aren’t something that can go away in a few seconds. At least I’m out now so I can start handling all that baggage.
My doorbell rings, making Sadie let out a surprised bark. I scoop her up and answer it — it’s Waylon. He looks good in just shorts and a t-shirt, and both are cut just right to show off his muscular frame. His eyes quickly skim up and down my body, lingering on my legs and cleavage for a second before popping up to my face.
I expect it to be awkward after the way things abruptly ended the other day, but it isn’t. A little undercurrent of heat is still there, along with the usual friendliness.
“You look great,” Waylon says.
“You didn’t have to come to the door,” I say, trying to ignore the heat in my cheeks. I’m so not used to guys doing polite stuff like this — opening my door, coming to get me instead of just shooting off a text for me to come outside. The whole gentlemanly thing could be so corny, but he’s just so damn genuine that I can’t be put off by it.
Sadie squirms in my arms, trying to get to Waylon, so I hand her to him while I lock the door.
He just shrugs, petting Sadie between her ears. “Just habit. You ready?”
“Yep.”
He gets to the car first and opens the door for me like he did before, putting Sadie in my lap.
Once he’s on the driver’s side, he pulls out of the driveway and heads toward town. I adjust the fans on the dash to point more toward Sadie, who closes her eyes. Her fur blows around, like she’s in a music video.
“Has it been okay in your house with the AC?” he asks, glancing over at Sadie with a slight smile.
“Yeah, I’ve had the fans going hard. She loves sitting in front of them.” I gently rub her forehead, which I’ve discovered she loves.
“That’s cute.” He turns onto another road, traffic picking up. “If it gets too hot, just let me know and y’all can come to my place to cool off.”
“I might take you up on that.” It’s a different kind of hot here than in LA — humid and heavy.
We sit in comfortable silence, and I try not to look at his hands. But I can’t help it. Why are his hands just gripping the steering wheel enough to make me hot under the collar?
