Free L. A. Witt - Rules 1 - Rules of Engagement by L.A. Witt Page B

sooner. Running my fingers down the side of his face, I said, “I’m done with her, but yeah, still on the rebound.”
    “I can only imagine,” he said.
“I guess I should have told you sooner, but—”
“Dustin, you don’t owe me any kind of explanation. Up until last
    night, this was just a one-night stand.”
My heart pounded. “And after last night?”
He grinned. “Now it’s a two-night stand.”
I laughed and lifted my head to kiss him. “I wouldn’t mind going for a three-night stand.”
    Moving a little closer, he kissed me and pressed his hips against mine, silently letting me know that we were very much on the same page. “Another night like last night and I might need medical attention.”
“We could play doctor.”
    He laughed as his hand slid under the covers, his fingertips drifting down my side. “Or we could just see how much we can fuck before neither of us can move.”
I started to come back with something witty, but he wrapped his fingers around my cock, and I forgot how to speak.
    G
UILT tugged at my gut as my cell phone beeped on the counter while I stretched before my morning run. I told myself I’d read the new message as soon as I was done with this stretch. Okay, after this stretch. Definitely after this one.
    I didn’t need to look to know that it was from Brandon. The knot in my stomach grew each time the phone beeped to remind me that his text was still unacknowledged. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to him. Quite the contrary—every time his name showed up on the screen, my heart jumped.
That was the problem, actually.
    I wanted to be with him so bad it hurt, but I’d never been this wrapped up in someone before. The fact that he was a man—the first man I’d ever even considered in a sexual fashion—only complicated matters. I wanted him. Badly. I just wasn’t sure if I wanted to want him like this.
    Our messages were getting fewer and farther between, which was mostly due to moments just like this, when I hemmed and hawed for ages about even reading his message. He’d suggested getting together a few times but had mostly let the subject drop a day or so ago after I gave a few non-committal replies and half-assed excuses.
I was an idiot. Of course I wanted to be with him, so why the fuck was I putting him off?
     
With a sigh of resignation, I gave in and flipped my phone open, trying to decide if I was more nervous or excited to hear from him.
    His message was a benign response to an equally benign message I’d sent the night before. The conversation had dwindled to the point where it was obvious we were only sending messages to keep the interaction going, even if we really had nothing to say. There was plenty to say, of course. We just weren’t talking about any of that. The messages were exchanged to keep the connection, small talk that had long since run its course but continued anyway, as if we each waited for the other to say, “Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty subjects.”
    I was fairly certain that he was waiting for me to break the ice, that he was following my lead. Every response was an opportunity either to move forward or let this dwindle into silence. Your shot , each message said between the lines.
With neither the balls to move it forward nor the stomach to just let it disappear, I again sent back something non-committal and bland.
    I considered carrying my phone with me on my run but thought better of it and left it on the counter. If it beeped with a response, which it likely would, I’d probably trip over my own feet.
    Jogging around the lake beside my apartment as I did every other morning, I let my mind wander to Brandon. There wasn’t much point in resisting; ever since I had met him, my mind’s default state was Brandon. Anytime I didn’t have to focus on something—and sometimes even when I did—he was on my mind.
This client probably needs to work on her core a bit more, so I’ll put her on this program. I wonder what