Use Me (Caldwell Brothers)

I allow my mind to memorize every millimeter so I can detail this out later.

I feel my palms begin to sweat, causing the cup of iced coffee to begin to slip in my grasp.

His tattoos... so many of them. All dark, all seem to be a warning to anyone who wants to get too close. The Italian flag around his forearm seems nearly life-sized, wrapped around his arm the way a flag would wrap around a pole in the wind.

I watch his face as he and the other man spar. When the man swings at him, his eyebrow cocks like he’s amused. For some reason, it makes me smile.

When they are done, I realize I have been staring from the doorway. My face flushes, and I look around to see if anyone noticed. Thankfully, it seems that no one has.

When I look back up at him, I see that he sees me. The way he looks at me makes me wonder if he knows I have been watching him.

God, maybe this can really happen. Maybe I can use him as my muse.

As he stalks toward me, I rethink that thought, my sex clenching like it’s thinking the same thing.

I cast my eyes down to see his dick swaying as he walks. My sex and I are both terrified. How the hell would he fit?

When I look back up, he stops two feet in front of me, both eyebrows raised.

“Can I help you?” he practically growls.

He’s annoyed, and it annoys me.

My brain tells my hand to hold out the coffee I brought for him, but instead of stopping in time, it crashes against his abs and spills down his front.

“Damn, oh, damn,” I say as I begin wiping the cold coffee off his heated skin.

He releases a noise, a growl, and then a hiss. It’s a sound so incredibly sexual and animalistic that my universe feels skewed.

I stop moving my hand and look up at him, seeing he now looks pissed, which is scary and sexy at the same time.

Get your shit together, I tell myself.

I force out the words, “It was rude that you didn’t let me pay for your coffee yesterday.”

He doesn’t say anything, not one word. He just stares at my mouth, making me very uncomfortable.

“So, I brought you coffee.”

He tilts his head slightly to the side and looks at me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to piece together.

“I’m not crazy. I’m paying it forward; returning an act of kindness.” I pause when I realize I’m rambling.

“Not necessary.”

“It is,” I counter.

“So, what? Because I declined, you decide to follow me to work and throw some coffee at me?” He reaches down and pushes my hand off his body.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was still...” I stop when I hear a man laugh.

Before I have a chance to see who it is or say anything, he grips my elbow and leads me out the door. Once outside, he releases me.

“You need to walk away and not come back here.”

“Excuse me?” I’m confused, embarrassed, shocked.

“I’m running a business, and I don’t need some woman following me around.”

“I’m a writer,” I say in a rush.

His eyes narrow. “There is no story here.”

“I don’t need a story. I need a muse.” As soon as the words leave my lips, I realize how much of a loon I sound. “I’m not crazy.”

Damn Melanie and damn the book world that I have to move my talents into unchartered territory. I did the research on romance novels and what the romance reader desires. I can do this. Like writing non-fiction, I can do this.

This man is a work of art. He has molded his body into perfection. How can I make him understand that I’m not a lunatic? I’m a woman on a mission to get my job done and do it right.

“Is that an affirmation? You keep saying it, but you’re displaying the opposite behavior.”

My head is spinning. I need to rectify this situation.

“I am simply asking for a man like you to share a few nights with me.”

“Look, lady—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, I’m not a lady; I’m a writer.” I almost try to explain that I am a woman, too, but I need to shut up before I make things worse.

He looks utterly confused, and I am minutes from dying of embarrassment and a phone call away from changing my name and moving to the other side of the world.

“I write. I don’t speak,” I say, expecting him to understand that, as an author, it is more likely I make sense in text form than verbal communication.

“Do you have someone I can call to come and get you?”

“What!” I yell at him, knowing damn well he thinks I am totally nuts.

“A husband, a mother—”

“You have got to be kidding me,” comes out of my mouth.