Big Daddy Wants Me

8: Kyle.

Country music seeps from the wall speakers, the volume turned way down, and without all the crowds laughing and sweating in here, the temperature’s dropping fast. It’s like that at night in the mountains—we go from a hot, sweaty day to a frosty night with barely any warning. My little artist has goosebumps forming on her arms, and as she sharpens her pencil she suppresses a shiver.

Floorboards rattle under my boots as I stride to Waverly’s stool from earlier in the corner. Her sweater is slung across the stool, both sleeves dangling toward the floor. It’s a soft wool knit, the color of morning mist, and it’s delicate in my hands.

I’m careful as I bring it back to the booth, cradling it like something precious.

“Here.” Waverly blushes pink when I offer it to her. “Don’t catch a chill.”

Her blonde hair gets all mussed up as she pulls the sweater on, fuzzing out of her ponytail. f**k, I want to pet that hair. Want to feel those silky strands slipping between my fingers; want to wrap her ponytail around my fist and tug.

“Thank you.” Waverly’s shy smile is a lance in my chest.

And Christ, I don’t want her to draw me right now. Don’t want to close up the bar either. All I want is to crash to my knees, sling Waverly’s legs over my shoulders, and bury my face in her p***y. Bet she’s sweet and sticky as honey down there.

“Maybe, um. Maybe you could stand there and… lean?”

Waverly points to a thick wooden pillar near the booth that stretches up to support the ceiling beams. The wood is gnarled and notched but solid as a rock, scratched with the graffiti of hundreds of drinkers over the years.

Callie Ray loves Jimmy P

I saw the wild man

Pete Frenkel’s got crabs

“Like this?” Hooking my thumbs in my pockets, I lean one shoulder against the pillar, letting my weight rest. Feels good after a long day of heaving kegs around then stiffening up in my office chair. Feels extra good to have Waverly’s baby blues running over me from head to toe, checking out every inch of me.

“Yes.” She wets her lips, then drags her sketchbook closer. Is that a hungry glint in her eyes? “Just like that.”

After all that shyness earlier, her pencil is sure as it swoops across the page, sketching out the swell of my shoulders, the line of buttons down my shirt, the belt slung across my hips. And whereas before she could barely meet my gaze close up, now Waverly’s frowning at me like I’m a specimen under her microscope.

Shameless. Proprietary. Like she owns me.

Christ, that’s an appealing thought. Makes my skin go hot and sensitive under my clothes.

The sketch comes together quickly. Waverly’s had a lot of practice, after all, and there’s no one else here tonight to break her focus; no rowdy drinkers to talk to her or accidentally jostle her arm. It’s just her and me and the moonlight spilling through the bar windows, as the speakers throb with melancholy tunes and her pencil scratches against paper.

Up, she looks at me.

Down, at her sketchbook.

Up, down, and every time her blue eyes find me, my heart headbutts my ribs.

“Do another one,” I scrape out as the sketch slows to a halt. “Keep going.”

Even though the tiredness of a long day is making my eyes itchy, I’m not ready for this to end just yet. And Waverly must feel the same way, because she nods eagerly and flicks to a new page.

“Maybe standing behind the bar?”

“Maybe sitting on that stool?”

“Maybe, if it’s not too cold, we could frame you in the open doorway?”

On and on it goes, sketch after sketch, as the moon climbs higher and the night ticks away, a headache throbbing in my temples. A headache I ignore, because who knows when a chance like this will come again? I’ll sleep when I’m in the ground.

This is my chance to see Waverly up close, free to stare at her openly as she nibbles on that bottom lip and sketches me again and again. My chance to hear her chat quietly about her old home, her Grandma, and the first art class that got her hooked. About the commissions she draws to make a living, and what she thinks of Starlight Ridge.

“I love it,” she says, determined not to meet my eye for that answer. Her ponytail slides over her shoulder as she shades in the hollow of my throat. “I know I should move on soon, but…”

“Why?” Can’t help but interrupt, my pulse spiking. “Why should you go? What’s making you?”

Waverly’s quiet for a long time, frowning at her sketchbook. Then: “Nothing, I guess.”

Her blue eyes find mine, then dart away.

My chest throbs.

For the last sketch, she has me sit opposite her in the booth, arms propped on the table. Close enough to feel her warmth and smell her pretty floral scent, and to hear every tiny rustle of paper.

When will Waverly show me those other secret drawings of me? Not tonight, that’s for sure, not with the way she’s so careful each time she finds a new blank page, tilting the sketchbook away from my prying eyes.

That secrecy sets my teeth on edge. Why keep hiding those sketches? Why act like I’d be anything less than thrilled? Doesn’t she get it by now?

I’m not exactly being subtle here.

“You’re good at this.” Waverly’s mouth twists into a wry smile, and she’s shading in the planes of my chest with such attention to detail, I’m rock hard beneath the table. Thank god I’m hidden by the booth.

It’s heady, that’s all. Her searching gaze, sweeping over every inch of my face and body; the appreciative way she hums sometimes, so quiet I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing it out loud. It’s like a drug.

“Good at what? Sitting around?”

“Keeping still.” Waverly pauses for a moment, shaking out her fingers. “You’re a patient man, Kyle.”

“In some ways,” I agree. In other ways, not so much. For instance: if I don’t release the tension building in my body soon, I’m gonna grind my back teeth to powder.

It’s worth it, though—the dull ache in my gut; the pounding in my temples. The way my muscles strain against my bones, all fired up and ready for action. It’s worth it to ignore all those signals and hold still, be the perfect gentleman all night, so I can sit here in this booth and soaking up the sight of Waverly chewing her pencil.

“You’ll get graphite on your tongue.” My boot nudges hers beneath the table.

Waverly blinks at me, then looks down at the tooth marks in her pencil. “Oh. Oops. Have I got any…?”

“A bit,” I say, reaching across the table. “Here.”

My thumb rubs gently just below her bottom lip, stroking the dark smudge of graphite. It’s not coming away, but I keep rubbing.

“Kyle,” Waverly whispers, staring at me, her lips moving above my thumb. Her pulse flutters beneath her jaw, tapping frantically at the soft skin there, and lord, what I’d give to feel that against my lips.

“It’s coming off,” I lie.

Then her tongue darts out and grazes my thumb, and we both go still.

A groan rumbles out of me, dredged from the very depths of my soul.

“Waverly.” I cup the side of her neck and she lets me. Her chest rises and falls beneath that mist-colored sweater, moving quicker and quicker with each breath. “f**k, Waverly.”

She launches to her feet, lurching out of the booth on wobbly legs. The pencil clatters to the floor.

There’s no time to stand up. Barely time to swing around to face her—then sweet Waverly launches herself at my chest.