The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  I look up at what I can see of his face, the cut of his jaw, the shape of his full lips, the brightness of his eyes, wondering who I let into my body.

  But then a thrill races through me because I don’t know the answer. I bring my mouth to his, brushing our lips together. As he thrusts inside me, he whispers against my face, “I don’t think it’ll take me long either. You feel too good.”

  I bring my mouth to his ear. “Fuck me harder. Fuck me so hard I forget where I am.”

  His groan sounds like it’s ripped from his throat as he hikes my thigh higher. He grabs my other leg, lifts me, and wraps both around his back. “Hold on tight,” he says, keeping me pinned like that, holding me up as he takes me.

  I can’t move like this, and I’m sure the wall is bruising my back where it digs into the wall. I’m equally sure I don’t care as he fills me, pounds me, and delivers me to a place I haven’t been in the longest time.

  A deep pull of desire tugs in the center of my belly. It pulses again, then another time.

  “So close,” I cry out.

  “Yes,” he grunts. He unleashes wild thrusts on me, groaning, “Want to watch you come.”

  My eyes are closed, but I swear I can feel him staring at me as a wave of pleasure sweeps over, pulls me under, and overwhelms me.

  Is he as turned on as I am? Is he falling apart watching me shatter? I hope so, oh God, I hope so. Because I’m breaking, and it’s intense. I part my lips, I cry out, and then my world spins away as pleasure spills over me, crashing across my skin.

  I feel it everywhere. I don’t know if I’m quiet or loud. I don’t know if anyone can hear me, or if no one can.

  But I can’t stop saying I’m coming, oh God, I’m coming over and over, because it feels like an endless orgasm. Like never-ending bliss.

  With his hands digging into my hips, he slams into me, filling me deep as he trembles all over. When I open my eyes, I catch the tail-end of his orgasm. His face is contorted, his lips twisted and his jaw tight. After one final deep thrust, he tenses, grunts a primal moan of pleasure. Then, he relaxes.

  I let my legs fall, my feet touching the floor. I’m wobbly at first. My bones need to shift from a liquid state to a solid one again. He pulls out, grabbing a tissue from the desk, and quickly disposing of the condom in a nearby trash can.

  When he returns to me, there’s one more kiss coming my way.

  A soft, sweet, after-the-fire kind of kiss.

  A kiss that tells me this was rough and hot, but tender too.

  A kiss that says he’d like another, and so would I.

  “What’s your number?” he asks, and I grin, like a happy commoner, because the duke wants to see me again.

  I start to tell him, then stop to ask if he wants to enter it in his cell.

  Shaking his head, he dusts his lips to my neck. “I have an amazing memory.”

  I shiver from the kiss, then rattle off all but the last three digits for him, when my phone chirps.

  And chirps.

  And chirps.

  Then it hits me.

  Bob Galloway.

  Fear stabs at me—the worry that I’ll miss a big chance.

  I blink, drop to my knees, grab my clutch, and rip it open, hunting for my mobile phone. It’s him.

  I slide my thumb over the screen. “I have to take this call,” I whisper to my non-ninja duke.

  I grab a bill from the halo on the desk, a five hundred. Waving it, I thrust it at him, mouthing, The last three digits of my number. I need to be alone for this call. I want to talk to a potential editor without looking at the man who fucked me, so I run for the door, clear my throat, and say, “Hello, Mr. Galloway,” once I reach the hallway.

  By the time I’m outside, I realize I left my panties behind.

  7

  Flynn

  A swath of white shimmers on the floor.

  Must be one of the ribbons from her wings. Maybe it fell off, or it was ripped off, or it was manhandled during what was an absolutely unexpected but thoroughly fantastic screw against the wall. And hey, how awesome is it to meet someone who likes hot up-against-the-wall sex as much as I do? It is awesome by a factor of ten to the twenty-seventh power.

  Figuring I ought to straighten this library before I leave, I bend to pick up the stray ribbon so I can toss it in the trash can.

  As I touch it, a wicked grin spreads on my face. It’s not a piece of her wings. It’s her panties, and I tuck them into my pocket, laughing quietly. This is better than finding a glass slipper. Maybe she’s my dirty Cinderella. But then I’m no prince, unless Prince Charming ravaged the heroine in a library.

  Hell, maybe that’s why the guy is so damn popular. Maybe that’s why men have to live up to Prince Charming—because he was secretly a dirty bastard.

  I stand, patting my pocket where I’ve safely stowed the panties, as well as her number, since it’s now stored in my phone.

  I head to the door when out of the corner of my eye I spot something else she forgot to grab in her mad dash. On the desk is her homemade halo with its headband, wire, and all the dollar bills wrapped around it.

  I run a finger over the band, wondering if she needs this. Maybe this is her favorite headband and she’ll be glad to have that back along with the panties. Guess this gives me a double excuse to see her again.

  I grab it and run a hand through my hair, hoping I don’t entirely look like I just had the best sex of my life.

  Wait. Where the hell did that thought come from? Not the best sex part. Clearly, I’m well aware of how I’d rate that encounter on the How’m I Doing scale—at the pinnacle.

  But the idea that I don’t want anyone to know. That’s an interesting thought, and I ruminate for a moment, roll it around in my brain until I realize where it started.

  From something I saw in her expression.

  Some flash of vulnerability in her eyes, even behind the mask.

  I don’t know who she is, and I want to protect her. To keep her secrets. Maybe even to keep her a secret.

  I straighten my shirt, tuck the halo under my arm, and head out of the library. I check my phone. It’s eleven thirty. Listening briefly to the thumping music from the ballroom, I decide my team is having a blast still, and there’s no need to return to the party. I saw everyone from Haven, chatted with my employees all night long, and endured all their mockery over my that’s-so-lame costume. Like a good leader, I bore the brunt of the outfit ridicule and gave them a chance to have some fun before we roll up our sleeves and dive into the heavy lifting of market rollout this week.

  Plus, if I head home now, that means I can curl up with the newest quantum physics book I downloaded and practice my Japanese, since I have business meetings in Tokyo next month. Last time I flew across the Pacific, I was able to handle the majority of my meetings in the native language of my business partners. This time, my goal is to handle all of them.

  Why?

  Because. That’s why.

  As I stroll down the hall, I yank my mask over my head, since I don’t need to wear it anymore, and when I turn the corner, I nearly bump into a frog.

  When I first met Kermit at a conference last year, he asked me to introduce him to my VCs. Laughing, I told him I hadn’t been venture funded in five years. I was past venture funding. My brother and I had already sold our firm, and some of the money from that went to fund Haven. I’m one of the fortunate ones who are self-funded now.

  Kermit didn’t care for my answer. “But you know everyone, and everyone takes your calls. And this isn’t even for me. It’s for the tech my network runs on. It’s going to blow up.”

  He was a bold little bastard. Persistent. Dogged. Determined. I suppose that’s part of why he played a big role in securing his network’s money in the end. Tenacity—he has it in spades.

  Now in the hall, he lifts his chin. “Flynn. How’s it hanging?”

  “Hey, Kermit. It’s hanging well. How’s your night?”

  “It’s been interesting.
” His muddy brown eyes narrow, and he roams them over me, like he’s cataloging every detail. Briefly, I flash back to something Jennica told me about his podcast network—the guy is ferocious. He wants to smash down barriers, get everything out in the open, and let consumers decide on tech. In short—“tread carefully because he does what he wants. He’s rogue,” Jennica had warned.

  “Did you enjoy the event?” I ask, keeping it innocuous.

  He scratches his jaw, considering the question. “I did. Met a ton of people who want to work with me. You know what that’s like, right, man?”

  I clear my throat. “Sounds like a good problem to have.”

  “The best problem,” he says, puffing out his chest, then he takes a beat, narrowing his eyes. “When are you going to sit down for an interview with me?”

  “You know how to reach Jennica. She’s in charge of all that.”

  “You could say yes to me right now.”

  Persistent, indeed. “Jennica’s the one though. She’ll have my head if I go around her. It all goes through her.”

  “But you could say yes, right?”

  Damn, she was right about him. I clasp my hands together. “Been hearing great things about your company, Kermit. That’s always a good thing.”

  Deflection, may you please work?

  His eyes narrow. “Flynn . . .”

  “Kermit.”

  He sighs, holds up his hands, then shoots me a smile. “Fine. You win. I’ll call Jennica.”

  “Good plan.”

  I take a step to leave at the same time he does.

  “You go first,” I say. “So we don’t do one of those awkward dances.”

  Kermit laughs. “Definitely let’s avoid awkward dances.”

  As he steps around me, his eyes stray down then widen. He raises them, staring at me as he runs a hand over his beard, smirking. “Did you have fun with your angel investor?”

  I jerk my head. “Excuse me?”

  His eyes linger on the halo, and red flushes over my face. Damn, I wish I had a better poker face. But I can bluff. “I think it fell off, and I’m trying to find her to return it.”

  “Ah,” he says with a nod. “Good luck with the department of lost and found.”

  Yes, I’d very much like to find her again.

  8

  Sabrina

  I end the call with Mr. Galloway, standing under a gorgeous tree bursting with emerald-green leaves. I turn to the right. I’m next to a glittering stoop in front of a red brick brownstone. I glance at the street, picturesque with no traffic.

  I laugh happily. So damn happily.

  This is a perfect New York night.

  There might as well be a soundtrack. Cue it, because I’m ready.

  I’m ready to lift my face to the sky and give all of New York City a kiss to say thank you. If you’d asked me eight months ago if a night like this would come my way, I’d have scoffed a big fat no.

  Eight months ago, Ray called me.

  “Hey, babe,” he’d said. “I’m ready. Are you?”

  “Of course,” I’d told him, barely able to contain a grin. In two days, we’d be tying the knot. I’d met Ray two years before, via a matchmaking site. We’d seemed like a good fit, bonding over a shared love of Goldfish crackers, the Knicks, and our belief that New York City was the greatest place on earth.

  As workaholics, we’d both implicitly understood that sometimes we were tethered to our laptops and our phones. But we’d made plenty of time to see each other too, and Ray had fancied himself something of a gourmet chef, whipping up tasty meals for us and hosting dinner parties for our friends. He’d worked in the export business, coached basketball at the community center, and played poker every Thursday with his buddies. He would come home flush with cash—because he was a lucky bastard, he’d said. Then he would take those same friends out the next night or over the weekend. Mr. Generous, they’d called him.

  There had been no red flags.

  Except maybe the poker. But that’s still the great unknown.

  Even in retrospect, even with my twenty-twenty hindsight, I’m not sure I’d have seen it coming. The change was inside him. It was veiled. It was deeply secret.

  We were rolling along, ready to say I do. The church was booked, the venue secured, and my brother was going to walk me down the aisle.

  Until Ray called from the office.

  “Hey, babe. I’m ready.”

  “Me too.”

  But he was ready for something else.

  “Ready for a change,” he added. “See, I love you, but . . .”

  My heart skittered up my chest, my skin chilling as the hair on my arms stood on end. No good sentence ever began with I love you, but . . .

  His I love you, but was that he was moving to Macau in China. He’d landed a job there and would be moving out, putting the apartment up for sublet, and going away.

  That was that.

  There was no invitation to come along.

  There was no explanation.

  It was a clean break, and I was sliced from his life.

  Neatly, without any blood spilled.

  He did as promised. He left immediately.

  Like any modern woman, I turned to my girlfriends, to my Singer sewing machine (which I used to make voodoo dolls of Ray, between crying and drowning my frustration in mojitos supplied by Courtney), and to the great World Wide Web for answers. As if I could find a hidden letter from him online. Like he might have pinned a postcard to Google explaining his departure.

  But that’s the crazy thing about the internet.

  We turn to it for answers. We think the answers exist. The internet has trained us to ask it anything. The search bar is filled with questions that we want the machine to tell us—why am I here, is my wife cheating on me, is he the one?

  I tried every permutation of why did my fiancé move to Macau two days before our wedding, and shockingly, Google gave no answers.

  All I could figure was he’d been lured by gambling. As soon as I dug into the search for any shred of comfort, I was reminded that Macau is the new gambling capital of the world. It’s rife with casinos and high rollers. Maybe he decided to roll the dice. To ante up bigger bets. For weeks, I clung to the possibility, but I found no closure online or in real life.

  No matter where I turned to understand why I’d suddenly become the owner of an unused wedding dress and the seller of a modest diamond ring, I came up with a goose egg for an answer.

  I moved out of the apartment I’d shared with him and into my cousin Daisy’s place, returned the gifts that had arrived in advance of the wedding, and buried myself in work until I lost my job.

  Now, months later, I stare at a phone call, a dumb smile still splashed on my face, and think maybe I am on the other side at last.

  As I head for the train, a nearly foreign sensation bounces around inside my chest.

  Something I haven’t felt in a long time but do now, thanks to that phone call.

  Hope.

  A little later, that hope turns into the next course the universe is serving to me on its silver platter, when a text message arrives.

  9

  Flynn

  Duke: I have your halo and your panties.

  Angel: You’re taking excellent care of them, I trust.

  Duke: Yes, I’m quite the keeper of angel accoutrements and lingerie.

  Angel: Lucky you. All I wound up with is your start-up button.

  Duke: You have my button?

  Angel: I wanted something to remember you by. That’s not weird at all to be reminded of someone because of a button, is it? It did start you up, after all.

  Laughing, I slip my hand into my pocket, confirming the button is where I left it earlier. It’s also right next to her panties. I place them both on the table as I sink onto my couch by the floor-to-ceiling windows that afford a stunning view of Gramercy Park and beyond. Lights from high-rise buildings flicker in the dark sky, and I wonder where in this city she is. If she’s
looking at the same view. If she lives in Manhattan, even.

  Duke: Not weird at all. I hope the button brings fun memories. Also, did you slip your hand in my pocket while I was fucking you against the wall?

  Angel: Is it an issue that my hands were in your pants while your cock was inside me?

  Her directness makes me chuckle as I set my bare feet on the glass table in front of me, next to a signed copy of Astrophysics for People in a Hurry.

  Duke: Not when you phrase it like that.

  Angel: Also . . . kidding. Completely kidding. I have nothing to remember you by. Except, well, I’m not likely to forget the hottest ever sex in my entire life.

  Pride surges through me as I read her text again. This is a message worth saving. Maybe soon I’ll know the name that goes with Angel, but for tonight, I’m fine keeping up our masked identities. Some part of me is damn curious who she is in my world. It’d be ironic if she worked at my biggest competitor, so I’ll hope she’s truly an angel investor.

  Duke: Glad the orgasms were so memorable you don’t need the button.

  Angel: Everything was memorable: the dancing, the sex, the talking . . .

  Duke: Personally, the talking is what made the sex fantastic. Well, it was part of it. A big part of it.

  Angel: I have to agree, and I have to agree that other big parts played their role ably, as well.

  Duke: Now I’ll have to revise my earlier assessment to clever, handy, and good with wordplay. But then, I kind of knew that.

  Angel: And does that make you even more powerless to resist my charms?