Authors: Lauren Blakely
up and gone before I even wake up.
It's probably for the best.
Not that I don't want to see her.
More like all I want is to see her, but I don't know what we're supposed to say or do, or how we're supposed to act after last night.
Do I just bump into her on the way into the bathroom to brush my teeth and say “hey,” all nonchalant? Or do we wake up and pepper each other's cheeks with morning smooches?
I drag my ass out of bed, grateful I don't have to make those decisions this morning. After I shower, dress, and grab my phone, I head for the door.
On the doorknob hangs a black lace thong, like she promised she'd leave if she expected to be getting it on. But that was when we'd first laid out our roommate rules. When we didn't expect to be getting it on with each other. Truth be told, though, I can recall a dose of jealousy coursing through me during that conversation at the mere prospect of her with someone else.
Hell, maybe this thing between us started before I was even aware of it.
I grab the scrap of lacy fabric, twirl it on my finger, and then bring it to my nose. It smells fresh and clean, like her laundry detergent. I toy with the idea of stuffing it into my pocket, but I'm not a panty-stufferâor even a habitual panty-sniffer, for that matter.
Instead, I leave it on the coffee table, and I look for a sheet of paper to write her a note when I spot something else from her.
A small, see-through plastic bag from her bakery with a sunshine yellow ribbon wrapped around it. Inside are red candies. A little bakery card dangles from the ribbon. I flick it open and read.
things supposed to be awkward now between us? Or weird? Or tense? I hope not. But just in case . . . here's some Swedish Fish, and the hope for more.
y heart thumps
harder than it should from a gift of candy. But it's not just candy. It's the perfect morning-after acknowledgement. It's everything I wanted to say last night, but couldn't. It's her knowing how to fucking handle this.
And it's one more thing that makes me want her in every way.
I ride my bike to the hospital, whipping through the early-morning traffic like nothing can get me down. And nothing can. Because something is happening. Something wild, and crazy, and undoubtedly incredibly foolish.
But right now, it feels so fucking good, like sailing, like flying, like soaring.
Can't. Stop. Thinking. About. You.
Ditto. Ditto. Ditto.
: Love the panties.
Thought you might.
: Love the fish. I ate them all when I walked into work. Totally got jacked up on a sugar high before I had to put stitches in a chin. Some dude fell off his skateboard.
Ouch. But maybe you've uncovered some new natural high for a physician!
: Ha, maybe I have. Also, most of all, love the note. A lot. I'm curious, though. Did you just happen to have candy on hand?
Perhaps I did. Perhaps I had them on hand just for this occasion.
More later. Forceps calling my name. But that is awesome.
Good luck, Doctor McHottie. When you're done with whatever emergency has your name on it, here's this treat for you.
picture fills my screen
, and I stop in the hospital corridor, grab the wall, and try to snap my tongue back up from the floor. Because I am panting
hard as I gawk at the image of the tops of her breasts. She took a goddamn fucking selfie of her tits, and I'm royally turned on.
But here at work, I have to keep the drawers neat, so I turn off my phone. I'm all business for the two hours until break time.
Had to remove a marble from a nose, and it took all my brainpower not to think of the sad fact that I didn't get to see your breasts in the flesh last night. Your picture didn't help. Wait. Scratch that. Send more. SHOW THEM ALL TO ME.
I should let you know I'm a dirty bastard, and you have the world's most glorious breasts I've ever seen, only I haven't seen them yet. Therefore, I'm sad.
: Don't be sad. I have a solution to make you happy.
: Better. I'll flash you when you get home.
: Did you just hear the groan of excitement I made all the way from Mercy?
: It's still reverberating here in the Upper West Side.
Also, please do more than flash me.
Gotta go. Break's over. See ya.
Good luck. Let me know if you want me to bring you home anything.
the hood on an electric-blue beauty, gently closing it. His eyes are focused on the metal meeting metal the entire time, until it's whisper-quiet on the lot. Then he turns, wipes his hands on a red-checked rag, and nods hello.
“What will that sapphire baby set me back?” I tip my chin toward the sleek vehicle that shines so bright it's reflecting the skyscrapers nearby where Max's custom car shop is located in Midtown West.
He laughs at me and shakes his head. “More than you ever can afford,” he says, then tucks the rag into the back pocket of his jeans, streaked with grease.
He's shirtless, the fucking show-off. “Dude, put a shirt on.”
“You can't handle this much manliness, can you?”
He puffs out his chest, the intricate Celtic tats on his pec and the tribal bands on his arms on full display.
I roll my eyes. “Let's just say I see more bodies naked in a day than you can even imagine, and though most aren't vying for Centerfold of the Month, yours still ranks as the one I least want to see bare.”
In a flurry, Max wraps an arm around me and puts me in a headlock.
Fuck, I forgot how strong he is. His muscle-bound bicep ropes tighter around me, and he digs his knuckles into my head, reminding me how he's the master at noogies.
“Say you love me best,” Max commands, his voice deep. “My bare chest especially.”
I wince as his grip tightens. I refuse to give in. “Never,” I grunt.
“You sure?” His knuckles might, just might, be penetrating my skull now. He's sweaty, too. Crap. I have to give in.
Nope. I can't give in.
“I love you but not your chest,” I say between stilted breaths.
The punishment deepens. He squeezes harder. Airflow becomes a debatable item in my life. I have no choice. “And your stupid chest,” I mutter.
“My chest isn't stupid.”
His hold on me turns pincer-grip style, but his skin is sweaty from work, and with one quick twist I break free, then dart out from his grip. Thrusting both hands in the air, I strut across the asphalt. “And speed beats brawn,” I tease.
Max just shakes his head at me as he strides inside the garage and grabs a black T-shirt from his messy desk, strewn with papers and tools.
He tugs the shirt on and wipes his brow. He returns to the small lot. “And the answer isâthis baby is a cool five hundred K,” he says, running his hand lovingly along the exterior of the car.
I whistle. “Damn. What have you Frankensteined together here?”
“It's a souped-up Lambo, and get thisâ” His dark brown eyes gleam with excitement. “Got a call earlier today about custom outfitting a car for RBC network for a new show where the hero is like a modern-day Magnum, P.I.”
“Fuck yeah,” I say, clasping his hand in a congratulatory shake. “That's awesome.”
“It'll be a blast and it should do wonders for business,” he says and mimes an explosion with his hands. Max's business is already killing it, and he's got several celebrity clients as well as plenty of under-the-radar high-rollers. “But this kind of deal could be huge for publicity.”
“You are a rock star,” I say, no joking, no teasing this time. “You ready to ride?”
“Always,” he says, since we're scheduled for a training ride before I head home. Josie has her soccer league tonight, so I'm not sure when I'll see her.
He heads inside to grab his road bike, and while he's gone my phone beeps.
I grab it from my back pocket.
Game over. We crushed the competition.
Because you're fucking fierce on the field.
That might be true. :) Okay, catching the subway. Heading home. How was your day?
efore I tap out a reply
, I answer the question in my head. My day was fucking amazing. My day was fantastic. My day was the best ever. Because of last night.
But more so, because of where I want to be right now.
Where she is.
I drop the mic.
I know. I just fucking know.
She's the one I want to spend the rest of this day with. She's the one I want to talk to about my good days and my bad days. She's more than my roommate. She's more than one of my best friends. She's the one I want every day. I have no clue what happens after tonight, but I need tonight with her to start right the fuck now.
When Max rolls out on his bike, I point my thumb across town. “I gotta bail.”
“What?” he asks, like this doesn't compute.
“You were right.”
“I always am. But about what this time?”
“Just say I told you so. Just go ahead and say it.”
“I told you so?” he tosses out quizzically.
“You did. And I have to go see Josie. Wait. No. Correction. I
to go see Josie.”
Max snickers and shoots me the biggest I-told-you-so grin in the history of facial expressions.
I shrug. What can you do?
Then I go to the only place I want to be.
The diagnosis I was trying to piece together last night? All the symptoms point to one malady.
I've got it bad for this girl. I've got a textbook condition of a classic illness. I'm suffering from a motherfucking case of falling in love.
And I'm not ready to take a pill to cure it.
a scene ripped straight from a fantasy I never knew I had. But it's so incredibly enticing that the vision in front of me has shot straight up the ranks.
We're talking the Pantheon of dirty images, and it's not even filthy.
Josie's in the kitchen, wearing an apron and heels. Her hair is twisted in a bun with a chopstick stabbed through it. A home-cooked meal sits cooling on the rack on the stovetop. I've never had naughty housewife fantasies, but I think I might now.
The apartment smells like my favorite food ever, the one I missed most in Africaâpizza pie with cheese and mushrooms.
An '80s tune, “Tempted” by Squeeze, is playing. If I stop to think about it, the lyrics are wildly wrong. It's technically a song about straying. But I'm convinced this song became famous because all you hear in this tune is the longing, the want, the hunger for another person. That's the thing about song lyrics. You take the parts that speak to you.
Temptation talks loud and clear to me.
Temptation shakes her butt to the beat.
Lord help me.
When the door falls shut behind me with a loud snap, Josie startles and swivels around. She brings her hand to her chest. “Oh God, you scared me.”
“Sorry,” I say, dropping my keys on the table by the door.
She grabs her phone from the counter and lowers the volume. “Hey,” she says, setting the cell down as I enter the tiny kitchen. “I made you aâ”
I crush her mouth to mine before she can say “pizza.” A sexy
escapes her lips, and then she gives me all I want.
She loops her hands around my neck, her fingers traveling up to my hair, playing with the ends. Lust charges down my spine. I sweep my lips across hers, our mouths connecting as we find the rhythm that makes this kiss its own kind of sexy song. I can't break it down to the melody or the lyrics, the notes or the chords. All I know is, this kiss has all the makings of a number-one hit. It has that certain something. That indefinable quality that hooks you right in the heart, hits you hard in the chest and sends the heat levels to incendiary.
Backing her up a few inches to the counter, I slam my body against hers. A sharp, sexy gasp falls from her lips as I break the kiss.
“Hey you,” I whisper hungrily.
“Nice to see you, too,” she says, then pulls me back to her, our lips crashing together once more. My hands dive into her hair, and I rip the chopstick out, letting those soft brown strands spill over my fingers as the wooden stick clatters to the floor.
As I kiss her, my mind goes hazy, and I shove aside all thoughts of anything but lust and want and heat. Clasping her face in my hands, I kiss her even harder, even hungrier, until I can't take just kissing her. I have to have more of her.
When I break the kiss, she's panting. Her hair is a wild mess. Her lips are swollen and red, almost bruised. Her green eyes shine with desire. She's never looked hotter than she does right now. My eyes roam down her body. Her apron is light blue, with a cherry pattern on it. She wears a skirt under it, and the dark red material lands right above her knees.
Underneath the apron is some kind of strappy little white tank top. Brushing my hands along her arms, I watch her shiver.
“This apron . . .” I say, fingering the hem.
My hands dart up to her chest, then around her neck where it ties. But I don't undo the knot. “There's something I'm curious about.”
“What is it?”
As I fiddle playfully with the straps, I meet her eyes. “I can't stop wondering how you'd look in just this apron on top.”
Her lips curve up in a naughty grin, and she reaches behind her. The little ping of a clasp coming undone lands on my ears, and I groan. She's freeing her breasts from their confines. My body hums with anticipation. I lick my lips as I watch every move she makes. Now her hands slide up to her shoulders, and she performs something that looks a lot like circus acrobatics to me, but it's one of those things girls can do blindfolded. She tugs one slim bra strap down her right arm and off. The other slides down her left arm. Then she slips her hands under her apron again and tells me to close my eyes. Dutifully, I oblige.
Fifteen seconds later, she says, “Open them.”
When I do, the white tank is pooled on the floor, and she holds up a lacy white bra, letting it dangle from her index finger. The apron top still covers her. “Is this what you wanted?”
“That is exactly what I wanted.”
I take the bra, toss it into the other room, and grab her hips. I lift her up on the counter and drink in the view.
Skirt, heels, and apron. Her breasts are barely covered, and for a man obsessed with breasts, you'd think I'd be fondling them right now. But I'm also not twelve. I want to savor the view. I want to admire my girl. I want to experience every fucking glorious second of this night, imprint it all on my brain, feed every memory cell I have.
I reach around her neck and tug at the apron tie. Her breath catches, and she trembles. A shudder runs through her body.
It gives me pause. “You okay?” I ask, because I can't not. “Are you cold?”
“No, I'm good. Just very, very good,” she says, tipping up her chin. Her eyes meet mine, and in a flash I see so much vulnerability, so much longing in them, it nearly knocks me to my knees. It almost makes me want to spill my whole heart to her, to tell her what I realized at Max's garage. But if there's a recipe for killing a friendship, that's it, right there. When you add love to the mixâwhen you openly declare itâyou might as well say good-bye to the friendship. We can be friends and we can have benefits, but anything more is playing with fire. I know this, and she surely does, too.
Tonight, we're lovers.
That's what I zone in on as I undo the apron tie.
The knot loosens. The straps slide. The fabric ties fall down her chest.
Dear God, she's gorgeous. Her breasts are as magnificent as I imagined. Soft, creamy, gorgeous globes with rosy nipples, tipped up. I bend to her chest, draw one delicious peak into my mouth, and suck.
“Oh God,” she moans, and her hands grab the back of my head, clutching me tight.
Just when I think a moment can't be more perfect, it proves me wrong.
This is beyond compare.
I cup the other breast in my left hand, squeezing, then pinching her nipple as I suck. A throaty groan meets my ears, then an anguished “please,”
chased by a breathy “God, that's so good.”
Yes, it's so good. It's so fucking good. It's absolutely fucking amazingly exquisite to have my face buried between Josie's tits. I could spend the next day, or week, or month here. In fact, when Mercy comes looking for me because I missed my next several shifts, they'll find me squirreled away in the land of absolute bliss.
I make no apologies for my obsession. I don't consider this a guilty pleasure, either, because I don't feel a shred of guilt about something that drives both of us crazy. Judging from the way her fingers are locked around my skull, Josie loves the attention I'm lavishing on her chest as much as I love giving it. Her breath comes fast, and her hips wriggle on the counter as I lick and suck and kiss her breasts. She moans and sighs and murmurs.
At some point, maybe in the next century, I wrestle myself away and meet her gaze. I don't let go of these beauties, though. I fondle them as I look at her, all flushed and sexy.
“Jesus Christ, Josie,” I say, just in awe of
. Everything. How she looks at me. How her lips fall open. How her eyes are guileless. The way she inches closer to me.
“I'm in love withâ” I catch myself before I screw things up with her. “Your tits. They're fucking perfect. I hope you don't mind my adoration of them.” I flash her a lopsided grin.
She laughs. “I don't mind it at all, and I'll give you free rein with them if you do something for me.”
She brings her hand to my chin, pulls me close, and then dusts kisses along my jawline that drive me insane. My dick is knocking on the door of my jeans, begging to be free.
She finds my ear and whispers, “I'm dying for you to go down on me, but I want you to fuck me more.”
I groan. “That's so fucking sexy what you just said.”
“Is that a yes?”
I adopt a frown. “Why can't I have both?”
She runs her finger over my bottom lip. “You can. But right now,” she says, wriggling closer, “I need you inside me.”
And that's it.
The woman has asked, and the woman shall receive. I push up her skirt to her waist, shaking my head. “I should be devouring your pussy right now. You distracted me with your perfect tits, so I had no time to go down on you. And then, what do you do to me? You ask me to fuck you. Which is basically the hottest thing in the entire universe.”
She laughs. “I like asking for what I want. It turns me on.”
I slide my hands under her skirt. “I like it, too, knowing what you want. And I love when you ask. Though, I can also tell . . .”
My eyes roam to her legs, to that decadent land at the apex of her thighs. She's soaked. Her panties are so wet, it's nearly criminal. And I'm a cocky bastard because pride surges in me. I did thisâI got her
turned on. I love that she's so aroused from the way we kiss and touch and grope that she's soaked through. I drag a finger across the wet panel, and she shudders against me.
As I slide off her panties, she grabs the hem of my T-shirt and yanks it over my head. Then her hands are on my jeans, tugging at the button.
“I want you,” she says, firmly. “I want you now.”
“Trust me, baby. You're going to have me. And I'm going to make it so fucking good for you. But first we need this.” I dip my hand to my back pocket, grab my wallet, and take out a condom. “Hope you don't think I'm a cheapskate, but I got it at work.”
She laughs. “One of the perks of working at a hospital.” She wraps her arms around my neck and tugs me close. Her eyes are intense. “Say you got it today.”
“I absolutely fucking did,” I whisper. “Because all day long I've been thinking about how much I want to fuck you.”
“Me, too. So much.” Her hands go lower and she pushes my jeans over my ass, freeing my dick.
“Put it on me, baby. I know you want to.”
“Oh God, I do,” she says, panting hard. “I want to touch you so badly.”
I'm not sure how I knew she'd be game to wrap me up, but I just did. I'm learning her quickly. Figuring her out. I open the condom wrapper and hand it to her.
As she takes it out, I grab my cock in my hand and rub.
It's like an injection of lust straight into Josie. “Oh God,” she moans, her pitch rising as she stares at me. “Stop. You're making me crazy.”
“Then it's working.” Because crazy is how I want her. Insane with lust. And I don't stop. I fist my hand around my dick, and stroke down to the head, squeezing. Her breath catches, and she groans. Her mouth falls open.
She watches me with wild abandon. Already, I'm thinking of all the things I want to do with her, all the ways I want to fuck her. All the pleasure I want to give her.
She bites the corner of her lip as she removes the condom, then she wraps a hand around my dick and joins in. That desperation in her eyes is replaced by excitement, by some kind of thrill as she holds my cock and I let go.
“Watch me,” she says.
And I do, staring at her pretty hands as she slides the protection over my cock, pinching the tip of the latex, making sure it's perfect. And now I'm the one on fire.
Or maybe we both are.
I grab her hips, pull her to the edge of the counter, and rub the tip against her sweet, slippery pussy.
She moans my name. It sounds like a dirty, filthy word from her lips. She says it like it has five syllables, and she wants to be fucked by every single one.
I push in.
“Holy fuck,” I groan, because she feels so good.
“I know,” she murmurs, and I fucking love that we're on the same page.
Her wetness welcomes me, and it is paradise inside Josie. She's snug, hot, and wet, and she clenches tightly around me as I fill her. Her hands slide up my chest and she grips my shoulders. I brace one hand on the counter, the other on her hip as I nestle deep inside her.
I thrust and she cries out.
I groan as I move inside her, taking my time at first, then I fuck her on the kitchen counter. Because I can't wait. Sure, I can wait to go down on her. Yes, I can wait to carry her to the bedroom. I can even wait for dinner. But I can't wait for the breathtaking, phenomenal feeling of sliding in and out of this woman. This gorgeous, wonderful, sensual, bold woman. This sexual creature who wants me the same damn way I want her. Her hands curl tightly over my shoulders, and she grinds against me.
For a while, we're nothing but murmurs and sighs, moans and groans, and the slap of flesh against flesh. We become a carnal thing, a man and a woman hungry with desire, each consuming the other.
Then she grabs my face, grips me tight, and parts her lips. “Take me there,” she says, her voice smoky and sexy, and pure vulnerability, too, as if she's spoken her greatest, deepest wish.
I push in deeper, reaching the edge of her, then I stop and stare into her eyes. I see everything that's seemingly struck me out of the blue, but now I'm sure has been there all along if I'd stopped to notice.
She's the woman for me.
She's the one I want.
I'm fucking my friend.
I'm screwing my roommate.
And more than that, I'm also making love to the woman I'm falling in love with.