by London James
But then another part of me, deep in my gut, feels a much milder version of the same burn I’m feeling over the guy who ghosted me—rejected, angry, and confused. Time has softened the impact of how Ashton treated me, which is the sole reason I’m not running.
I straighten up. I’m a grown-ass woman. I can deal with the first guy who fucked with my heart. It’s been a long time. I’m basically over it.
“Hi.” I’m not sure what to do. Shake his hand? Weirdly formal. Hug? Awkward.
He takes the lead and gives me a side hug, holding onto his rum punch in his other hand. He smells so good—classy, musky, and expensive. Definitely expensive. He looks the part, too. Like Ben, he’s kept it basic in jeans, a navy blue t-shirt, and sneakers, but the quality of the pieces is evident.
If eighteen-year-old Briony knew that twenty-year-old Ash would age like fine wine, she probably would have cried even harder than she did back then. He’s going gray at the temples, early, but it looks sexy against his dark brown hair. The setting sun catches the details of his green eyes, from the brown ring around his pupils to the bits of blue here and there.
“We’re good, right?” Ben asks, glancing between the two of us anxiously.
“Yeah. It’s been a long time. All that stuff is water under the bridge. You don’t have to go berserk on him again,” I reply, snorting.
Silver lining if there ever was one: If Ash hadn’t led me on the way he did, I doubt I would be as close to Ben as I am today. When he learned that, after months of long-distance online flirting, Ash had come home from college at winter break with another girl, Ben became my protector. He brought me brownies as I cried on the couch, poorly made from a box mix that he’d picked up from the grocery store. He still can’t bake worth a damn, but brownies always remind me of him.
Ben reamed Ash out so badly that they didn’t talk to each other for a year, despite Ash’s profuse apologies to both me and him. The logic in Ash’s apologies hurt like hell, but it made sense coming from a cocky, good-looking young guy—our weeks and weeks of texting and flirting weren’t anything serious. He was just playing the field and was sorry that he hadn’t made it clearer. That still wasn’t enough to make Ben not furious.
They mended their friendship eventually, with an unspoken rule that Ash and I were not to cross paths. Until now. I know that Ash continues to go through women like socks, but Ben assures me that he’s now a lot more upfront with his intentions when it comes to girls. Past Me had been about to create some version of the Bat-signal to let girls around the world know that he’d dick around with your heart if you let him.
So there’s all that, at least.
“And I’m good if Briony’s good.” Ash smiles. Or as close to full-on smiling as he gets. He still has the brooding-and-serious thing down pat. I hate myself for still finding it sexy.
“Cool. I’m glad you guys could make it.” Ben’s posture relaxes, and he turns back to the party. “I gotta go do my host thing—talk to you guys soon.”
Ben walks off, shooting me a nervous look over his shoulder, leaving Ash and me leaning on the railing of the rooftop alone. Ash studies me again, in no rush to say anything. If you looked at each feature on his face individually, it would be a hard guess that he was handsome—a wide mouth, a strong brow, a nose that Ben accidentally broke in a game of pickup basketball—but all together, it just works. Between his looks and his aura of quiet confidence, I find myself squirming a little to calm down the heat blooming between my thighs.
“How have you been?” I blurt, not able to stand the silence.
“Not bad,” he shrugs. “How about you?”
“Psh, you’re not bad? Understatement,” I grin. The tipsiness from the rum punch finally decides to show up at that precise moment.
“Hm?”
Might as well keep going. “You’re thirty-three and worth billions of dollars from a tech company you built from the ground up. And you’re a former Navy SEAL, one of the most elite military squads ever, doing actual good in the world through aforementioned tech company. That seems better than ‘not bad.’”
“I suppose you’re right. I’m successful,” he says as if this were obvious. Cocky ass. “How about you? Ben says you’re starting your own business?”
Is Ben the town gossip or something? Why does Ash know this? “Well, trying to. I’m still working in marketing, but the business is my side project.”
“What’s the company do?”
“It’s an online floral decoration site. It streamlines the process of putting together flower arrangements and breaks things down into simple steps for the clients. A lot of people don’t really know much about flowers, so it gives helpful tips for what plants will do the best for their particular event.”
Sure, the company isn’t off the ground yet, but it’s basically my child. The idea for BloomBrightly literally started on the back of a napkin at a bar—my best friend Zara was complaining about helping her sister plan her wedding’s flower arrangements, and I stepped in to help since I knew what I was talking about when it came to flowers. From there, it spun into the little startup that it is today.
“Impressive. You always loved flowers.” Ash sounds genuine, and my pride almost explodes out of my body. Ash doesn’t say things just to be nice—or at least he didn’t when we were younger—so it means a lot. He is a damn good businessman.
“Yeah. Luckily that was the only hobby I really carried from my high school days,” I say, laughing.
Looking back, I’m mortified at my high school self. Who isn’t, to some extent? I was the stereotypical ‘pleasure to have in class’ kind of girl, who never thought about sneaking out at night and had an unhealthy and unabashed attachment to hot actors — because actual boys were intimidating—. Like, writing-fanfiction-about-them levels. I found some of the files in my cloud folder not long ago and nearly died from cringing so hard. My only consolation is that I wasn’t afraid to be enthusiastic about the things I liked back then—so many people let others’ opinions shape what they love.
“Yeah, you’re definitely different,” he says, his eyes skimming over my body in a way that makes heat flare in my core.
“You seem to be the same, so far.” I finish my glass of punch, shooting him what I hope is a slightly dirty look. His gaze pleases me too much for the look to actually have its intended effect.
“Besides all that stuff you just mentioned,” he smirks, but there’s a hint of playfulness behind it. The familiarity of it strikes me—memories of him and Ben playing video games in high school, Ben yelling obscenities and Ash making dry, snarky jokes.
“Ok, you got me there,” I admit.
“What makes you say I’m the same?”
“Just your whole…” I wave my hand in front of his chest, trying to ignore his masculine broadness and how his t-shirt stretches across his body perfectly. “Your whole… broody, intense, and quiet thing.”
“Broody, intense, and quiet thing?” He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.
I feel my face going red, so I suck an ice chip into my mouth to hide it. “You just have the same quietness and seriousness. That’s what I was getting at.”
“That’s fair. Now that I think about it, you still have the same…” He imitates my hand motion with a dead serious face, which makes me smile. “… girl-who-you’d-trust-to-house-sit-for-you vibe.”
“Is that a diss or… ?”
“Not a diss. You still look like you’d water plants and pet someone’s cats enough while they’re away. You wouldn’t even eat the gelato in the freezer or have someone over. Bet you’d even clean the toilets just to be nice.”
“Okay, that’s kind of a diss. You and Ben are the ones who insisted that I was a wet blanket back in high school even though I’m totally not,” I reply, defensively crossing one arm across my ribs, slightly pushing up my breasts. His eyes dart to my cleavage, then back up to my face. “You’re just assuming I’m no fun because you made me not have fun.”
; Whenever my parents or Ash’s parents went out of town, Ben would throw insane parties—ones that he somehow managed to contain inside the house, so they didn’t get caught. Ben thought the debauchery would be too much for me, so he always bribed me to stay locked in my room and not tell our parents. So, I did and stayed up doing my homework or playing video games in exchange for money, snacks, or future favors. It was a pretty sweet deal for sixteen-year-old Briony, especially the future favors. I got so many rides to school that way.
“We were just trying to protect you,” he shrugs. “Would you have wanted to watch a bunch of seniors doing keg stands and shots out of some random college chick’s cleavage?”
“You guys did that in high school?” I gasp softly. Jeez, am I going to clutch my pearls like a little old lady next?
“See? Point made.” He drains his punch, aiming his gaze on me again. Just the intensity of his stare makes me melt. And yet, his body language is relaxed, almost leaning toward me a bit. If I were with any other guy, I’d think he was flirting with me. But this is Ash. I mentally transport myself back to high school—am I misreading him again?
“I’m fun now,” I insist.
“Which is exactly what someone who’s not fun would say,” he shoots back. He’s lucky I’m feeling too buzzed to get annoyed. And that he’s so damn hot.
“You’re right. I should show rather than tell.” I smile, surprised at the simmering heat in his eyes when I do. “Want more punch?”
“Is that your fun juice?” He puts his hand on my lower back and guides me toward the punch. His touch feels natural like nothing has ever happened between us at all. I should brush him off, but I’m finding myself under his spell.
“It’s everyone’s fun juice tonight.” I refill both of our glasses. I know I shouldn’t have more, but I’m not that tipsy. At this very moment, at least. And it’s genuinely delicious punch.
Once we get our punch, he steers me over to the edge of the roof again so we can see a panorama of fireworks sprouting up here and there. We stand in comfortable silence for a bit, the sounds of the party feeling far away.
“Are you still living in Brooklyn?” Ash asks. He’s standing just close enough to me to give me the tingles. I’m not sure if he’s doing it intentionally or not, but I find myself leaning into it.
“How do you know all this stuff about my life?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Ben talks about you. I listen. Sometimes I ask questions.”
“You ask questions? About me?” I shouldn’t be so pleased, but I am.
“Why does that surprise you?” He looks down at me again, his face unreadable. I guess he’d had a few more drinks before I arrived because he looks slightly tipsy. Not out of control, of course, but I can tell he is definitely feeling it from the way he’s slowly becoming chattier. He wisely puts his cup down on the railing.
“A little. I’m just your best friend’s little sister who you have a weird history with. And you’re doing bigger and better things.” I study him for a second before he looks at me, making me feel self-conscious. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I did like you a lot, Briony. Back then.” He runs his thumb around the edge of his glass. “I was just a dumb twenty-year-old with his head up his ass who had never really seen what a proper relationship looked like. I’m still not a fan of them, honestly.”
His jaw tightens ever so slightly. I know that his father has been married four times, most ending with bitter divorces. The pain it clearly causes him tugs at my heart, too. In all of my brooding, I hadn’t thought about how deeply that sort of thing would affect his actions. His past doesn’t excuse the behavior, but at least he wasn’t just an asshole back then for no reason.
God, how can he go from kind of a dick to someone I want to comfort in a matter of moments?
“So what I’m getting at is,” he continues, “I ask about you because you’re an interesting person. Kind of like the girl version of Ben, who’s a cool guy. You’re him crossed with Mary Poppins, or one of those Disney princesses who can make flowers grow and squirrels dance.”
There’s that little touch of asshole I expect from him.
“How do you know I still have that goody-two-shoes tendency? I’m thirty-one now. I might have a little bad-girl streak.” I find myself mirroring his posture, one arm against the railing. I place one hand on my waist, though, since it looks very small in this dress. My body’s saying flirt. My brain is, too.
We’re both adults now, and we can flirt if we want to. It’s not like Ben is going to rush over and roundhouse kick Ash off the roof for daring to look at me. And besides, I know what his deal is with women—no relationships, only sex—and he knows that I know that too. If I want to get laid, I have every right to go for it. Plus, Ash is a hell of a lot nicer now than he was back then. Or maybe I’m misremembering…
“I don’t know for sure. Prove it to me,” he says.
“Is that a dare?”
“If you want it to be.” The look he gives me shatters any hesitation I have.
I look around. The party is in an upswing since the sun has gone down, and there are so many people mingling and looking at the sky for stray fireworks that there’s no way Ben would bump into us sneaking away. He’s talking to another one of his old friends, fidgeting with his keys in his pocket and shifting his weight from foot to foot. I gesture toward the garden, and Ash follows. There are people mingling around outside of it, but no one is inside since the view isn’t as good. It’s a tiny oasis, with thick vines crawling up the posts of the overhang and spreading between each pillar, almost creating a tiny room. There’s a block of tall plants in the middle, with benches around it in a square.
“So, you’re going to show me that site on the dark web? While we smoke a joint?” Ash asks once we’ve settled on a bench swing in the far corner.
“W-what?” I stammer, my face going red immediately. Oh Jesus, I can’t believe I misread him wildly. I don’t even know what the dark web really looks like, or even how to get onto it, though I’m curious about it. Did Ben tell him about the documentaries on it that we watched last Christmas? And what joint? I haven’t smoked weed since college, and I wasn’t even regular with it then.
He grins, full-on, and chuckles. He looks so full of life when he smiles. “I’m just fucking with you, Briony. I figured smoking weed would be the most bad-girl thing you could possibly do. And I pulled the dark web thing from out of my ass.”
Before I can tell him off for that very un-funny prank, he reaches a hand into my hair, tilting my head back. The feel of his fingers softly running through my hair sends a sudden spark through me. My mouth opens ever so slightly, anticipating his lips on mine. My heart pounds, still high from his little prank. He scans my face, openly lustful, keeping me in suspense.
“I still don’t do relationships,” he finally murmurs, brushing his lips on my jaw. “Just hookups. Are you okay with that?”
“Yes,” I say breathily.
From the firm grip on my hair, I expect his mouth to come crashing down on mine, but instead, his kiss is gentle. He gently teases my top, then bottom lip, before sliding his tongue against mine. I run my hands along his broad shoulders and let him guide my head where he wants it, giving up control. He grips my waist firmly, his fingers probably leaving light marks in my flesh for me to find later.
Every time his lips touch mine, or my throat, or the hollow of my collarbone, fire licks my skin, leaving me breathless and arching into him for more. Oh hell, he could do anything he wants with me, and I would eventually give in. My desperation for more of his touch is growing and growing, until I can hardly take it. I moan in frustration, taking his hand and placing it on my breast. He smiles against my lips. Or smirks. I choose to believe smiles.
“What, do you want me to feel you up, Briony?” he asks, the deep rumble of his voice giving me goosebumps. “Right here, where anyone could walk in on us?”
He cups my breast like he’s testing its weight,
thumbing my already-hardened nipple. The friction between the fabric of my bralette, my dress, and his finger combined with his mouth on my throat has me involuntarily rolling my hips toward him, trying to straddle his lap. He holds me where I’m sitting but pulls one of my thighs onto his lap so I’m sitting with my legs open, leaning on one hip. He skims a big, broad hand up my thigh over my dress to squeeze my ass.
“Goddamn,” he grunts, nipping my collarbone. “I thought your breasts were fantastic, but this ass is giving them a run for their money.”
“I knew you were looking,” I whisper.
“I couldn’t help myself. I have a pulse. And you’ve always been beautiful, Briony.” He tosses that last sentence off like it’s nothing, but something inside me is shocked. He thinks that about me?
The moment is quickly overtaken by more waves of pleasure as he kisses down to my cleavage, giving me another bite followed by a lick when he reaches a fleshy part. “Even if I wasn’t into women, I’d at least appreciate how good they look on an aesthetic level.”
My snort turns into a whimper when he skims a hand up my bare thigh under my dress. Thank god I wore this dress. The bottom is so voluminous that it looks like his hand is on top of my skirt, but behind some other fabric. The skin of his palms is surprisingly rough, probably from lifting weights, which only makes my already-oversensitive nipples practically throb. The contrast between my softness and his hardness makes me feel petite and feminine. Except I’m wearing the most utilitarian, sexless panties ever—beige and seamless. That doesn’t matter to him, though, because he slips them to the side and runs a finger through my slit.
I can’t hold down the gasp I let out. We’re outside at a party. Anyone can walk over here. And yet, the thrill of it all, of doing something so outside of my comfort zone, makes me buck my hips toward him.
“So wet.” His finger dips just inside my entrance, just far enough to brush my sensitive spot, then brings his hand to his mouth. He sucks the wetness off his fingers before returning them under my dress. “Wish I could get more of a taste. We could make something up if someone sees me with my hand up your dress, but someone walking in with my face buried deep in your pussy… that would be harder to explain.”
