Part 14 (1/2)

I wound my ankles around his, tilting my hips up to his as an ever-tightening coil of pressure built inside of me.

”Don't stop,” I whispered.

”Have to,” he panted. ”Fire.”

”I'm on fire,” I murmured dreamily.

”No, fire,” he said, still thrusting, but now nodding toward the fireplace. While the haphazard manner in which Monroe had thrown my sweats.h.i.+rt was d.a.m.ned s.e.xy, it was also precariously close to the fireplace. My sleeve was burning, threatening to set the entire house up.

”Don't you stop!” I told him as my body thrummed.

Monroe tried to manage tamping out the flaming sleeve all the while moving over me. He could not do both.

”Just burn the thing!” I cried, tossing the hoodie into the fireplace as I fell over the edge into the dark spasms that shook my body. I screamed with each wave that ran through me, clutching at Monroe's shoulders. I fell back on the floor, my skin beading with sweat, as Monroe collapsed on top of me.

Even with the smell of burning sweats.h.i.+rt filling the room, I was floating, blissful. I had almost nodded off when Monroe rolled and pulled me onto his chest. ”No sleep just yet.”

I'd expected it to be awkward. I mean, once you demand that a man burn an article of clothing in a mid-o.r.g.a.s.mic frenzy, it's hard to go back to small talk. But later, when we were stretched out on Monroe's bed, chugging ice water like we'd just run a marathon, it was completely comfortable. I might as well have been fully clothed and watching a baseball game on the couch with him. Monroe propped my head onto his outstretched arm and blew a hard, pleased breath out as he smiled at the ceiling.

”If you don't show me those earlier, dirtier love scenes you wrote, I may weep openly. Obviously, you have some very interesting things going on in that head of yours.”

”And the good news is that the bullet wound has only slightly affected your technique,” I told him.

”Slightly?”

I shrugged. ”It's nothing to be ashamed about.”

”You want to see it, don't you?”

”No!” I cried before finally admitting, ”Yes.”

”It's okay, I don't mind,” he said, looking smug as he rolled over onto his stomach. ”It's not the first time this baby has bagged me a curious lady.”

”Nice.” I grunted, slapping his b.u.t.t.

”Hey! Easy! I'm a wounded man,” he exclaimed.

”Oh, you were a wounded man,” I said, sitting up so I could get a better look at him. I'd expected an actual bullet hole, but what I saw was a long straight-line scar across one b.u.t.tock. ”Well, that's just sort of anticlimactic.”

”I'm sorry to disappoint you,” he said crossly.

I looked over his shoulder and saw the clock. It was almost 1:00 a.m. ”Wow, it's late. I should get home.”

Monroe's brows winged up to his hairline. ”Really? You're not going to stay?”

Uh-oh. Had I broken some sort of friendly s.e.x etiquette rule? It didn't make any sense for me to stay. I didn't have a toothbrush or contact solution there. I had both at my own cabin which was less than a hundred yards away. Plus, it took me so long to get to sleep these days, I didn't want Monroe to feel obligated to stay awake to entertain me ... or realize what an insomniac mess I was.

”Is that okay?” I asked, wincing as I sat up. Athletic s.e.x made you sore in new places.

He shrugged as I slipped back into my jeans. Thanks to the regular running and the thousands of calories we'd burned over the last couple of hours, they were fitting easily again. ”Sure, I - I just never had a woman just get up and leave before. I think I feel sort of cheap.” He pulled the sheets up to his chest in a mock display of tearful vulnerability.

”Well, to make up for your emotional trauma, why don't you come over tomorrow and I'll make you waffles.”

He gave me a suspicious look. ”Wait, so I get to have s.e.x with a beautiful woman... and waffles... and I get to sleep on my side of the bed?”

I nodded.

”You may be my favorite person ever,” he told me.

”I aim high.”

”So you're really fine with this?”

”Why wouldn't I be?”

”Because most women would want to stay over. In fact, most women would be hurt that I hadn't already asked them to stay over.”

I pulled my s.h.i.+rt over my head, leaned over the bed, and kissed him. ”Look, I've gotten used to sleeping by myself, right in the middle of the mattress with all the pillows piled into a little nest around me You'd cramp my style.”

Of course, it took me three or four hours to fall asleep that way. But he didn't need to know that.

”You,” he said, kissing me and tugging me back into bed, ”I really like you.”

I grinned down at him, reluctantly pulling away as I slipped into my s.h.i.+rt. ”You should.”

20 * b.i.t.c.h-slapped by My Muse.

Color me crazy, but I think I might have stumbled into a mature s.e.xual relations.h.i.+p.

I didn't feel weird around Monroe. I felt great. Energized, relaxed, confident. I even danced around the cabin in my underwear. And even better, Monroe did not seem weird. It felt perfectly fine to get up in the dark cabin, slip back into my clothes, give him a peck on the lips, and go home at the end of the night.

He usually found me sitting on my porch in the mornings, working on a ma.n.u.script I was thinking of calling Divided Property. We talked about what we were planning on writing that morning. And then he kissed me on the top of the head and told me to behave myself. I would say that was unfair, but my last writing project did end up being re-enacted on YouTube, so draw your own conclusions.

We were still friends. Friends with benefits. Yay.

I didn't need him. I didn't depend on him for money or social standing. I just liked having him around. Monroe didn't care who my daddy was, or who I was married to, or how I could help him. He just liked me and he really enjoyed having s.e.x with me, which considering how my last relations.h.i.+p went, was rea.s.suring.

And when we did have s.e.x... Wow. That's all I'm saying. No, that's not all I'm saying. When I was married, s.e.x was just something we did on Wednesdays and Sat.u.r.days. It wasn't something I looked forward to, and afterward I didn't feel much better. I finally understood that my s.e.x problems were not the result of me being frigid or inadequate or not knowing what the h.e.l.l I was doing. And maybe it wasn't even Mike's fault. I was going to go ahead and blame Mike anyway, but it was much more likely that the two of us were just s.e.xually incompatible. We didn't listen to each other. Neither of us knew what the other wanted. We were like two magnets with negative charges, whenever we tried to get together - well, the bottom line was repulsion.

Monroe didn't care whether I'd showered. He didn't care what time it was or whether he had something else he should be doing. He made me laugh before, during, and after. And it felt good. It made me feel good.

Nothing was expected. If we ate dinner together, great. If we didn't, okay. If we hung out together, but didn't have s.e.x, it wasn't the end of the world. There was no pouting, no hurt looks.

One afternoon I was curled up on the sofa, reading Drunk Tank Duets. It was the kind of bl.u.s.tery afternoon you wanted to wallow in, to drink hot cocoa and wear fuzzy socks and do nothing but nap. I'd turned off anything that would make noise because I wanted to hear the patter of the rain on the roof.

There was a knock on my screen door. Monroe was standing outside, rain dripping from his hair and a smile stretched across his face. The afternoons were his usual writing time, so it was strange to see him out this early.