The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  Crying out his name. Panting like a wild woman. Holding tight to this man.

  When at last I open my eyes, he’s grinning dopily at me. “You’re so beautiful when you let go.”

  I smile back at him. I have no clue what’s going on with us, but we’re both clearly riding a pleasure high right now.

  I inhale deeply and reach a hand to his erection, running my palm over it. “Do we have time? Can I?”

  He glances at the clock. “I need to get her in ten more minutes,” he says, and before he can say any more, my busy fingers work open his zipper, and my palm is on his hard-on, feeling him through his boxer briefs. He’s hot and big, and my mouth waters as I stroke the outline of his length.

  He shudders as I touch him through the fabric. I love how hard he is, but this isn’t enough. I need to feel him fully—my skin against his bare skin. I dip my fingers inside his briefs and wrap a hand around his erection, and we both groan loudly. I think I’m even louder touching him than I was when I came, because he’s thick and long, and he fucking loves being touched by me. The sounds he makes as I stroke him are so damn sexy—low, husky, masculine groans of pleasure.

  “Abby,” he moans, his eyes squeezing shut as he rocks into my hand.

  I smile wickedly even though he can’t see me. I’m so damn thrilled that he’s lost in me like I am in him. He pushes forward, and I work my hand up and down his hard length, savoring the smooth feel of him. “I want to taste you,” I say, and I don’t whisper it. I don’t murmur. I’m bold and confident, because that’s how I am with this man I want.

  His eyes snap open. They’re glossy, full of lust. And just as I’m sure he’s about to push his jeans to the floor so my mouth can get to know him better, he shakes his head and cups my cheeks. “I’m dying to taste you. I can’t stop thinking about it. Would you let me? Just a taste, and then . . .”

  I don’t know what comes after the then, but I can’t say no to that request. Not after the way he asked. Not after my panties grow even more damp from his words. Alone in my bed at night, my knees have fallen open as I’ve dreamed of his lips.

  “Yes.”

  Gently, he lifts me off the counter and sets me on my feet. Then he drops to his knees on the tile of his kitchen, pushes my cotton skirt to my waist, and pulls down my panties to my ankles. I step out of them. I should be cautious but endorphins have turned off my logical brain. I’m comprised solely of my carnal self.

  “So fucking beautiful,” he says, adoringly. He runs his hands up the bare flesh of my thighs, kissing my legs with such reverence that I want to cry out in pleasure from that alone. This man is too much. He’s amazing. He’s incredible. And he’s kissing me where I want him most.

  My world turns electric as his tongue slides across me. My knees buckle, and he grips my legs, holding me as I grab his head, threading my fingers through his thick hair.

  “Simon,” I gasp as he strokes me with his tongue.

  I’m lit up, white-hot from this heavenly pleasure as he licks and sucks and kisses. And he’s not quiet, either. He moans and murmurs as he consumes me, and those sounds from him send a new wave of pleasure up and down my body.

  “That’s more than a taste,” I tease as he presses his mouth hard to me.

  “You taste so good I can’t stop,” he murmurs then returns to my slick heat, lapping me up, licking my clit, and kissing me until my world is turned inside out with pleasure.

  I grapple at his hair, pull him closer, and rock into his face until I reach that crest once more, flying off as I climax again. I hold nothing back. I’m loud and wild, and I grip his head hard until I come down.

  Soon, he rises and wraps his arms around me. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

  “Let me do that to you,” I say, in a sexy purr.

  A groan escapes his lips. “Don’t think I’m not tempted. Immensely tempted. But I need to be downstairs in two minutes.”

  “I’m guessing that’s probably not enough time for me to blow your mind,” I say playfully.

  He smiles at me, a sweet, sexy grin.

  “It’s not fair that you didn’t get to come,” I say.

  He drops a kiss to my forehead. “It’s completely fair, since I was able to do that to you twice.” Then he sighs, and his tone is full of longing. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t have a clue.” But in one minute, he needs to pick up his daughter. I separate. That’s the reality, and that’s not something we can toy with. “You need to get Hayden, and I should go, too.”

  “We’ll talk later?”

  I nod, and then he leaves. I gather my things in a flurry, pulling on my panties and rushing out of my place of employment, flush from two epic orgasms, courtesy of my boss.

  Who I’m falling into some kind of madness with.

  16

  Simon

  I don’t have any more answers that night when I flop into bed on top of my covers. My daughter is sound asleep, and I grab a pen from the nightstand, twirling it between my thumb and forefinger, back and forth.

  I set it down, reach for my phone, and slide my index finger over the lock code. I draw a sharp breath, and toss it on the bed. I park my hands behind my head, trying to navigate this path with Abby, like I evaluate business deals. In this case, each step is fraught with potholes.

  Risking her job.

  Hurting Hayden.

  Losing someone Hayden adores.

  Becoming a cliché.

  A darkness slides through my veins as that word echoes in my head. Cliché.

  Like I called Miriam when she cheated with her coworker. Like I became by working too much. Even though I cut back on the relentless pace of deal-making, I can still negotiate and navigate with the best of them. I can turn a small wad of money into a pot of gold. I can sniff out opportunity, and I can smell trouble, too.

  But here, I can’t decide which path is riskier, because every second I spend with Abby makes me want more of her. Every laugh, every comment—every thing she says or does. The more I have of Abby, the more I want.

  I stretch my arm for the phone, giving in.

  Maybe if I were stronger I’d sort this out with Kristy or Tyler. I’d write up a list of pros and cons, like a business deal.

  But this isn’t fucking business. It’s my heart, and that damn persistent organ wants her. Other organs do, too. As I click on her name in my contacts, I rationalize that maybe I’m sorting this out with the one person I should be talking to. Because that’s what I learned tonight—this thing between us is real, and it’s combustible. It wasn’t a one-time incident. It has the potential to flare more brightly each time.

  I start with a simple hello.

  Simon: Hi

  Abby: Hi

  Simon: Tonight was . . . amazing.

  Abby: I think I’m still glowing.

  Simon: You are so beautiful. So sensual.

  Abby: You make me feel that way. I love it when you touch me.

  Well, hello there, dirty texting.

  I didn’t expect to head in this direction so quickly, but then, that seems to be what we do lately. As I stare at her words, I burn up all over. I’m hard as a rock. She’s so direct, so forward, and it reels me in.

  Simon: I can’t get enough of touching you. Of kissing you. Of tasting you. When I close my eyes, I swear you’re with me. I can smell you. It’s intoxicating.

  Abby: You should know it’s the same for me. Those twenty minutes in your kitchen are on repeat in my head. Like I DVR’d them and keep hitting replay.

  I crack up at her description.

  Simon: I want access to your DVR. I’d like to binge watch that show.

  Abby: What are you doing right now?

  Simon: Lying in bed, in my T-shirt and boxers, texting you. You?

  Abby: Lying in bed, in a tank top and panties, texting you.

  I groan at the image. My dick hardens even more, and I skim my hand lightly over my erection.

  S
imon: If I were there, I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you. But I think we’ve established I’m terrible at resisting you.

  Abby: I’m terrible at making you stop. Because it feels so good when you don’t stop. I’m shuddering as I remember what you did to me.

  I breathe out hard, recalling her sounds, her whimpers, and her noises.

  Simon: I’m thinking of it now, too. Loved every second of everything. I want to do it all again.

  Abby: I want it, too, but didn’t we say it was bad? (Well, good but bad!)

  Simon: I should know, but I lose all sense of reason when I’m near you.

  Abby: I felt like you were lost in me tonight when I touched you. And I loved that.

  Simon: God, I was. I’m wishing you were here.

  Abby: What would you do?

  Simon: Kiss you again. Take you to my bed. Undress you. Is that too much?

  Abby: I want that. I want all of that. It’s not too much. Right now, it feels like it’s not enough.

  Simon: You feel incredible in my arms. But you have to know there’s so much more to this for me. It’s so much deeper.

  Abby: I know . . . Trust me . . . I know . . . It’s the same for me.

  Simon: But that’s the hardest thing . . . I feel so much for you, and when I see you, I want to take you in my arms. I don’t know how to be in the same room with you and NOT want to touch you.

  Abby: That is indeed THE HARDEST THING. :)

  Simon: Ha! Walked right into that one.

  Abby: You sure did. But the issue remains. Should we try to stop? To prove we can or something? Like the feats of strength from George’s Festivus on Seinfeld? And if you don’t know that episode, I don’t know that we should even talk again. :)

  Simon: As if I don’t know about a Festivus for the rest of us.

  Abby: Good. Keep talking . . .

  Simon: But how do you know Festivus? The show ended when you were…wait, don’t even tell me how young you were when it ended.

  Abby: Please. I WAS EIGHT WHEN IT ENDED, WHICH MEANS YOU WERE SIXTEEN, AND THAT IS JUST FINE WITH ME! Also, I watched Seinfeld reruns in college.

  Simon: Confession—I still watch Seinfeld reruns. Anyway, resisting you sounds like an insane challenge. I’ve always enjoyed a good challenge, though.

  Abby: A good, hard challenge. Incidentally, thanks for being so selfish and batting my hand away from something good and hard I was enjoying.

  Now, I crack up, laughing even as I’m royally fucking turned on.

  Simon: Oh, Abby. If memory serves, you didn’t mind at all when I got down on my knees and made you come so fucking hard again on my lips.

  Abby: *combusts from the hotness of the memory*

  Simon: *wonders when I can do that to you again*

  Abby: Um, by the way, how is this conversation helping us prove our devotion to Festivus?

  Simon: Do you want to stop? To prove we can?

  Abby: It’s not that I want to. I just think we need to know we can work together and not rip off each other’s clothes every second.

  Simon: Occupational hazard and all.

  Abby: But one best avoided.

  Simon: Yes. If we can. By the way, you should check out the American Bald Eagle Association’s collection of pictures from the day. You’ll love them.

  I grin, confident she’ll be enthralled with the shots of the two bald eagles rearranging branches in the nest to build it up and prevent the little ones from falling out. Three minutes later, she replies.

  Abby: You’re right. I do love them. Madly.

  I know her. I know this woman.

  17

  Simon

  It’s sort of like withdrawal.

  The next day, I spend my morning with Hayden, taking her to story time at An Open Book, our favorite bookstore on the Upper West Side. Then for lunch, she decides to try garlic fries, even though I warn her that garlic is not her friend. But hey, we all have to learn in our own way.

  When we return home, I don’t even have to say I told you so. She launches a full-scale attack on her breath with her strawberry toothpaste.

  Abby arrives while Hayden’s in the bathroom. We say hello. Chastely. But I’m not ashamed to say my stomach flips when I see her. This woman—she’s so gorgeous, and she rocks a sundress. The one she wears today is light blue. A little peach summer sweater is on her shoulders.

  “How was Spanish class this morning? Was that new student still giving you a hard time?” I ask as she sets her purse on the coffee table.

  She tilts her head, surprised. “You knew I had a Spanish class?”

  I tug on my earlobe. “Yes. I’m a good listener. And you told me about the new guy who kept insisting Google Translate was all he needed.” I admit it. I’m trying blatantly to impress her.

  Judging from the appreciative rise of her eyebrows, I’ve succeeded. “Yes,” she says, rolling her eyes. “His employer sent him to the class, but he thought he didn’t need it. Until I told him about the festival of turnip greens.”

  I rub my hands together. “Tell me about turnip greens.”

  She scans the living room. “Where’s Hayden?”

  “Conducting a full decontamination on her teeth. She had garlic for lunch.”

  Abby crinkles her nose. “I detest garlic. I once tried to start a petition to have it removed.”

  “Removed from . . . the world?”

  “Yes. I was fourteen and quite idealistic. I kissed a boy after eating garlic pizza, and he told me my breath was gross. So I started an online petition.”

  That’s just too adorable. “Against the boy? Or against the vegetable?”

  She parks her hands on her hips. “The vegetable, of course.”

  “Did you get any signatures?”

  She nods vigorously. “My God, the anti-garlic contingent is powerful. There are tons of people around the world who think it’s nature’s curse. Along with zucchini.” She shudders. “There’s no reason for zucchini to exist. Or at least, the oversize version of it when someone grows it in a garden and it gets too big.”

  One corner of my lips quirks up. “You are a perfect woman. I, too, believe in the abolition of garlic and gigantic zucchini.”

  She smiles back at me. And yes, it’s just garlic and a too-big vegetable, but it’s also so much more. It’s an acknowledgement that we have these little things—and so many big things, too—in common.

  I make a rolling gesture to remind her to keep telling the story. “The turnip greens. That’s the veggie under discussion. Go on.”

  She peers down the hallway, then lowers her voice. “I told him the story of the culinary festival in a Galician town in northwest Spain. It was meant to celebrate the grelo, a leafy green vegetable, but in fact the small town was marketing it in a very different way thanks to Google Translate. Instead, the small town invited its residents and visitors alike to a . . .” Abby stops, collects herself, then blurts out, “A clitoris festival.”

  A deep belly laugh climbs through me, then I fix on a serious expression. “I can’t say I’d mind attending such an event. That is, if you invited me.”

  “Anyway, the festival holds tastings and awards for the best grelos,” she says, punctuating those last two words with naughty panache. “According to its marketing, the clitoris is one of the typical products of Galician cuisine, and a star of its local gastronomy.”

  I smirk. “I’ve always thought the clitoris should be the star of any show it’s in.”

  She swats my arm. “See? You would probably find Google Translate acceptable.”

  I shake my head. “Never. Not when I could have a teacher like you. By the way, did the student understand the value of a teacher thanks to the clitoris lesson?”

  Abby laughs. “I do believe he’s been converted.”

  The clitoris conversation halts when Hayden rushes out of her room, racing through the hall. She stops short at my feet, lifts her chin, and breathes out hard.

  “So much better,” I tell her,
then I leave my two favorite people in the world behind as I head to the office.

  When I return home in the evening, we say goodbye.

  Chastely.

  But I whisper in her ear, “I’d kiss you even if you tasted like garlic.”

  She trembles, then she leaves.

  Abby

  Later that night, the email notification flashes on my phone. As I sink down onto my couch, I grab my cell, and my heart skips a beat when I see the note is from Simon.

  I thought you might like to know I started an online petition tonight. It’s to recall all forms of zucchini, with a special provision to ban the use of zucchini as a present. I’ve titled it: “Zucchini is not a gift. It’s a punishment.” Let’s hope these efforts can halt the nefarious habit of neighbors with gardens from trying to unload their oversize, tasteless vegetables under the guise of gifts. Also, zucchini bread? It too is outlawed in this provision.

  By the way, you looked stunning today in that blue dress. I’m confident, though, that as good as it looks on you, it would look ten thousand times better taken off you by me.

  Crossing my legs at the ankles, I laugh at the same time he turns me on. I’ve started to tap out a reply when another envelope icon appears.