Wait With Me (Wait With Me, #1)

by Amy Daws

But love is a wild creature. You can’t contain it or control it. You can’t break it and tell it no. It’s a charging animal that you must accept as your destiny.

For now, I’m incognito, and Mercedes Lee Loveletter is writing a book that’s going to blow her horny readers away. Wait…I punned. Oh man, that’s good. I’m writing that down.

“Book boyfriend,” she repeats. “The leading male in a romance novel that readers claim ownership of because he doesn’t likely exist in the real world. Basically, the ideal man.”

He smiles again, and I get those butterflies in my stomach that I painstakingly try to describe in different ways with every book I write. Stomach flips. Stomach somersaults. Fireworks in my belly. Wait, that last one is terrible, it sounds like diarrhea.

He stands up to his full height, and I can’t help but notice the bulge in his jeans because it’s literally eye level with me. Not like a boner bulge, the kind of bulge that a man who’s well-endowed walks around with on an everyday basis. With those big hands and giant feet, it’s no wonder.

“What’s wrong?” I ask and try not to laugh as I brush away a wet tear path on her cheek. She looks so fucking cute, I think I might be in love.

“I’m sorry, I get emotional when I’m hungry. You know how some

people get hangry? Hungry and angry? I get emongry. Emotional and hungry. It’s a thing. I got them to enter it in Urban Dictionary.”

“You are a walking, fucking tease, you know that?”

“I just stuffed my face with a breadstick like I haven't eaten carbs in years.”

Well, for the next week at Tire Depot, I’m the creeper, Squints, and Miles is Wendy frickin’ Peffercorn.

At one point, he stopped what he was doing, unzipped his charcoal coveralls and pulled them off his shoulders to cool down. He was wearing another one of those hot, tight athletic tanks. Nike brand. Black. But I could tell it was soaked through with sweat. His arms were glistening in the light as he wiped his brow on his grease-covered forearm. He grabbed a bottle of water, took several long drinks, his thick neck contracting with each swallow, and proceeded to pour the remaining contents down his face. You just can’t make this shit up!

Sex appeal wasn’t created in a gym with weights and treadmills. No, it was born in powerful, grungy garages where men, real fucking men worked with their hands. Where they got so dirty, they had to use a special manly soap to clean themselves up. You can’t find that shit at Bath & Body. Pure fucking testosterone.

I suddenly realize we’re not alone and quickly force myself to stop petting the hot mechanic.

One time, I had to bite my fist to stop myself from laughing out loud when she dreamily closed her

eyes, licked her lips seductively, and air-kissed the room. She totally writes dirty books.

“Can I tell you a secret, Miles?”

“My writing makes me horny.”

“I’m serious. I have a sex toy that works really well and really fast, but I miss the heat of a man, ya know?”

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.

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

“I like you, Mercedes. But I’m not in the position to like someone right now.”

I have to laugh at that. What a line for a book! And what a twist—the sex writer who can’t get laid. How perfectly ironic. “Got it. Well, sorry to put you in such a difficult situation.”

let my book boyfriend walk away, keeping him safe right where he belongs, in fiction.

“But I’m not your property, Miles!” “In my mind, you are,” he replies, his jaw tight, his lips pinched. “And I really need you not to do things to make me jealous.” “Why?” I nearly sob. “Because if you make me jealous, then I won’t be able to stay friends with you.” “Why?” Good God, man, just fucking take me! “Because it’ll make me want to fuck you, so you don’t ever want to look at another guy again.” Heavy breaths. Thunderous heartbeats. Noisy party downstairs…the real downstairs. That wasn’t a euphemism for my pants, though, now that I mention it, I think I heard his dick grow. Like literally, I think I hear his jeans stretching between

You had the biggest morning wood I had ever seen in my life when I got up earlier.”