WAYLON (Ruthless MC 1)

Waylon looks to the side, then back at me, his expression a weird combination of smug, wry, and all-knowing. “You’re still afraid of me, angel. Afraid of what the devil can teach you. Afraid of what you’re about to learn.”

Yes. Yes, I am. I’m not particularly religious. But yes, I am afraid. Of him and what happens next if I follow the first rule.

“It’s alright.” His voice is a soft, determined croon. The same tone I use in the ER when scared patients try to refuse the surgery that will save their lives. “Just come here, sit on my lap again. We’ll take this second lesson slow for as long as you need.”

I’m not ready for the tug below my waist, the one that urges me to go to him, to do exactly as he says. To do the opposite of dating and marrying a nice doctor and moving to the suburbs.

“I know you want this lesson,” he says from underneath a hooded gaze. “There’s no sense denying it.”

Yes, yes, I did. But…. “I shouldn’t.”

“Why not? You want this. I want this. What’s the problem?”

I avert my eyes to the painting, trying to gather my thoughts. I don’t realize I’m giving him an answer until he says, “That’s what you want. That house. The guy who can give you that dream.”

I shift from foot to foot, uncomfortable and embarrassed. I don’t talk about my dreams. To anyone. Ever. But I meet his eyes as best I can and nod.

He swings his eyes to the picture, then back to me. “If that’s what you want—what you really want, you need to come here and do as I tell you. You ain’t getting that house or that dream guy until you learn how to fuck.”

His words are crude. So crude. But his logic cracks through the rest of my defenses.

Yesterday was insane—a violation of so many rules and ethics. I can’t imagine not being dragged in front of a review board if anyone ever found out.

But it had worked.

And he’s right. You don’t get a doctor husband and a big yellow house by accidentally hurting a guy whenever he tries to touch you.

Waylon got up and walked around without any issues. Back at St. Joe’s, that would be enough of a trigger for any decent nurse to start the discharge paperwork.

But he’s offering to stay, to teach me. I might never get this chance again.

I yank off my scrubs and underwear again—but this time way quicker and more efficiently. I cannot, cannot give myself time to think if I’m going to do this.

I rush into his lap, only slowing to make sure I don’t graze the bandage underneath his tee when I settle my knee on either side of his legs.

But instead of smiling or kissing me like he did last night, he locks an arm around my waist. “Now explain what the fuck that was downstairs.”

CHAPTER 13

“Now explain what the fuck that was downstairs.”

I jolt at the raw anger in Waylon’s voice. Then repeat what I told him earlier. “I’m allowed to talk with another guy.”

“You think so?” he asks as if my autonomy is a cute little thought experiment I made up for his amusement.

“I know so,” I insist. “You and me…you’re only teaching me to do stuff. We’re not exclusive.”

He stares at me, those blue dry ice eyes burning into my skin hot and insane. I squirm, then blurt out, “You have no right to be jealous. There’s no reason to be anyway. We were just talking.”

“Just talking about getting back together,” Waylon edits. “Dr. Douche was trying to convince you to unpause.”

I jerk back inside his arm. “How did you know that?”

Waylon bares his teeth in a way that doesn’t remotely resemble a smile. “It’s like your wolf books. Men can smell another claim. He probably took one sniff of you and knew another guy had swooped in….”

He pauses, but only to scan my face, before concluding, “Yeah, he figured out he fucked up, but it’s too late now. You belong to me.”

You belong to me. A thrill races through me at his claiming before I can stop it.

God, I hate being a fucked up former foster kid. No matter how much self-improvement work I put in, that desperate need to be wanted…to belong to anyone always creeps up on me when I least expect it.

But I tamp down that delusional response and dredge up some good sense to counter with, “I don’t belong to you, and I’m not here to play games with you. You said you would teach me if I came to you.”

“You think this is a game?” he asks, his eyes glittering. “You think I’m a game?”

Before I can answer, he slips two fingers inside of me.

No warning, but instead of slapping him, I moan.