The Hot One

by Lauren Blakely

  Tightness builds in my belly in seconds. The tension escalates. It grips me as the need to come radiates in my whole body. I grind against his hand, dipping down, riding his fingers as he kisses me like a madman.

  I groan into his mouth, then it turns into the start of a scream.

  “Oh God,” I say, breaking the kiss. “I’m going to—”

  “Quiet,” he instructs, then he slams his mouth to mine again. He steals my kiss, his greedy mouth swallowing the sound of my orgasm. A climax detonates in my body and rattles through me, spreading to every corner.

  I shake everywhere. My knees, my chest, my hips.

  My feet barely touch the ground as I come on his hand. Kissing and coming, coming and kissing.

  And it’s mind blowing.

  When I start to float down, he pulls out his fingers, brings them to his mouth, and sucks me off.

  I’m dizzy and drugged and so turned on.

  He gently spins me around, and shoots me a cocky, lopsided grin. “Have I mentioned how good it is to see you again, angel?”

  I sigh happily. “It is good to see you, Tyler.”

  He presses his forehead to mine, and that small gesture melts me for him. Butterflies rule my body as he gently kisses my face. “And it’s equally good to make you come again. Don’t forget there’s a whole lot more of that in store for you.” He takes a few steps back and says, “Let me know where to pick you up for the party.”

  He turns on his heel and leaves.

  My legs are jelly as I walk upstairs to get ready for work.

  But I wouldn’t change a thing.

  Except my panties. I change those.

  15

  Delaney

  * * *

  Later that day, I set a hand on my belly, to quiet the burst of nerves. Little morsels of guilt slip and slide over my skin.

  But it’s just an email. It’s not even the email from the private detective. But even so—why do I feel like I’ve done something wrong?

  I squeeze my eyes shut, as I grip the bureau in my bedroom, white-knuckling the wood.

  Shake it off.

  I open my eyes, flop down on my bed, and grab my phone. I re-read Trevor’s note that he sent while I was working today.

  * * *

  Hey Delaney,

  * * *

  Hope this doesn’t sound weird, but I saw a six-pack of plastic rings on the ground and thought of you. And, truth be told, the straw I found on my sidewalk the other day reminded me of you, too. Come to think of it, so did the crumpled-up newspaper skittering around outside my office building.

  But, I’ll have you know, I cleaned them up and disposed of them properly.

  In any case, I had a great time with you the other night, and I swear I’m not just saying that because we share a pet peeve. I’ll be taking off tomorrow for my trip, and I’ll do my best to make sure the contestants don’t shed a tear from my critiques. By the way, do you have a favorite cuisine? Let me know, and I can book a reservation for dinner when I return.

  Hope you have a great Girls’ Night Out tonight. No doubt it’ll be a blast.

  Talk soon,

  Trevor

  * * *

  I toss the phone to the middle of the bed, grab a pillow, slam it on top of my face, and curse into the downy feathers.

  But my pillow tirade solves nothing.

  So I sit up, drag my hands through my hair, and try to figure out what the hell to do.

  Trevor is such a catch.

  He’s so normal.

  And fun.

  And witty.

  And similar enough to me.

  And thoughtful.

  He’s exactly the type of guy I wanted to date during my last spin of the dating merry-go-round more than a year ago. Why the hell didn’t I meet a guy like Trevor then? Instead, my wanna-get-a-coffee adventures with the opposite sex consisted of a guy who texted me obsessively pre- and post-date, never once using a complete word in his texts, another who confessed to being a big fan of tickling (the date didn’t last long enough for me to learn if he was a tickler or ticklee), and finally a buff, muscular banker who spent our date sharing the details of his workout routine and the bond market. I’m not sure which was more dull, the amount of weight he bench pressed or the amount of money he’d invested.

  But no Trevors.

  Not a single one.

  And now here’s this perfectly normal guy walking into my life without a dick pic, a fetish, or a narcissistic bone to be seen.

  I should be writing back to him with a goofy smile on my face. I should be parked cross-legged on my bed, grinning happily as I tap out an equally witty and sweet reply. I should share his email with Penny and Nicole, oohing and ahhing over each word.

  Instead, my stomach churns.

  I don’t want to feel this way.

  I try to center myself with a few deep breaths. I imagine my massage room, and I pretend I hear the gentle patter of falling rain. I let it wash away the strange sense that I’ve done something wrong.

  I haven’t. Have I?

  That thing this morning in the mailroom has nothing to do with this email, and vice versa.

  I head to the mirror on the back of my closet door and check out my outfit for tonight’s Girls’ Night Out—jeans, a slouchy emerald green top that slopes off one shoulder, and a pair of silvery pumps that Penny picked up for me when she and Gabriel traveled to Paris last month. “Quarante-et-un,” Penny declared with excitement, using the French word for my shoe size as she presented them to me. “They have gobs of size 41 shoes in Paris, and I couldn’t resist these.”

  As I appraise the shiny shoes in the mirror, I imagine Tyler’s reaction to them. The way his eyes would linger on the heels, the throaty growl that would rumble up his chest, how he’d push me against the wall, cage me in, and whisper hot, dirty words in my ear about what he wanted to do to me while I wear nothing but these shoes.

  My hand drifts over my belly, then down, down. My eyes float closed as a blast of heat floods my body. A pulse beats between my legs as I imagine what happens next. All my late-night fantasies suddenly feel thrillingly real.

  Like they can happen. Like they will happen. My fingers travel lower over my clothes. A gasp rushes across my lips, and shockingly, I find I’m aroused just from that fleeting vision.

  I’m so ridiculously aroused I’m about to touch myself again.

  Get it together.

  I open my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, as if I can ward off the fantasies. This thing with my ex is just physical, right? It’s butterflies and tingles. It’s sizzle and spark. It’s a man who has my number. My interest in him is like my lust for a pair of shoes.

  That’s all.

  Nothing more.

  There can’t be anything more to it.

  My phone buzzes, vibrating on my bed.

  I stride over, grab it and slide open a group message from my girls. Nicole says she’s on her way to the wig shop. Penny chimes in that she’s running a few minutes late. I hastily reply that I’m on my way.

  Grabbing my wristlet, I stuff my phone inside and ignore Trevor’s message as I catch a subway downtown.

  I’ll write back later.

  On the train, I stare at my shoes the whole time, daydreaming.

  16

  Tyler

  * * *

  The yo-yo soars in a wide circle, around and back down. I punch the air as Carly lands her second trick.

  She jumps in the park, squealing.

  “Around the world! You did it.” I hold up my palm and she slams hers against it. “Who rocks?”

  She giggles and points to herself. “I do.”

  “You absolutely do.”

  Earlier in the week, she mastered walk-the-dog. Yep, I’m going to teach her a whole slew of yo-yo tricks. Shocking in a world of Candy Crush and Pokémon Go, but we do all kinds of shit that doesn’t involve a phone or a battery. I’m an old-school uncle. She’ll have plenty of time to stare at screens all throughou
t her life, but it doesn’t have to be on my watch.

  “You are the yo-yo master,” I tell her.

  “Can you teach me some more?”

  “Absolutely.”

  We tackle the elevator trick, as I show her how to make the yo-yo look like it’s rising up along the string. It’s a tough one, and after a few tries, she decides she wants to scale the rock climbing wall, so I head over there with her and stand behind her as she climbs.

  “How’s second grade treating you, little lady? You learning about complex algebra and writing essays on Shakespeare yet?”

  She narrows her eyes as she looks back at me from a purple handhold. “Who’s Shakespeare?”

  I set my hands on my hips. “Only the most famous poet and playwright of all time. But you’ll get to him soon enough.”

  “Did you know I’m learning how to do big multiplication?” she asks as she grabs a red climbing divot on the wall.

  “Tell me more.”

  As she moves up and down and across the wall, she updates me on second-grade math, and how she’s moved way past easy stuff like eight times eight and onto bigger numbers like twelve times sixteen, which sounds damn impressive for a second grader to me.

  “I’m advanced at math,” she says as she hops down, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Beyond second grade level.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “That so?”

  “Is so.”

  “Well, what’s fourteen times thirteen, then?”

  She closes her eyes, and draws on an imaginary chalkboard with her finger, mouthing the multiplication. “One hundred eighty-two,” she says as she opens her eyes.

  I nod approvingly.

  “My teacher says the key is to follow the steps. Don’t cut corners, and take your time.”

  “Smart teacher. That’s not bad advice at all. Matter of fact, that’s great advice on just about everything.”

  We leave the park and head through the streets to meet up with her parents, chatting about the type of poetry she’d write if she were a famous poet someday.

  “And I’d make sure to take my time,” she adds.

  I linger on the notion of time, wondering how much I have with Delaney. What will it take to win her over? How many days or nights will she give me? But I also wonder what I’m trying to accomplish. Sometimes, I focus so much on the doing that I don’t always think about the why. Do I want to go back to the way it was with us or start something new entirely?

  And the most important question of all is this—how do I get any of that without hurting her again?

  When we meet Clay and Julia at a café for lunch, Carly climbs into her dad’s lap and throws her arms around him. He nuzzles her face, then Carly gives her mom a kiss on the cheek.

  Later, when the meal ends and Julia and Carly head off to the ladies’ room, it’s just Clay and me at the table.

  I meet his eyes. “You were right.”

  “I usually am. But about what this time?”

  “It was regret fueling me with Delaney. Not just curiosity. Not just the possibilities.”

  He nods knowingly. “Thought it might be.”

  “I was an ass when I ended it with her. I fucking regret it. And I want her back.”

  He holds up a hand. “One question first. Is it still regret that’s driving you?”

  I flash back to this morning in her mailroom, to earlier in the park, to last night at the bar. Yes, I acknowledged my regret, but that’s a damn good thing. Regret can make you change. “It’s that, but it’s also something more. Something deeper.” I tap my breastbone. “Something in here.”

  I don’t name it. Not yet. Instead, I give him a quick overview of what’s transpired in the last week. “Tell me what to do next,” I say, wanting, needing his insight. The man is older, wiser, smarter.

  Clay chuckles deeply and leans back in his chair. “How much time do you have to win her back?”

  “That’s the question. I don’t actually know.”

  He sets his elbows on the table and looks me square in the eyes. “Look, there’s no roadmap. There’s no set of instructions to follow. You hurt the woman before, but she seems to be giving you another chance. Let’s start with this—don’t be an asshole. The world is full of pricks and selfish fuckers and far too many man-children. Then, you’ve got the guys who are so goddamn self-absorbed you wonder if they were raised by coddlers, and then you’ve got men who have so little fucking backbone they can’t wipe their own ass.”

  I shudder, and he points at me, that intense look in his dark eyes. “You’re not any of those, Tyler. You’re a man, and you behave like a man. The number one rule that most men today forget is this —don’t be an asshole. The world is full of assholes. Be a man.”

  17

  Delaney

  * * *

  Nicole marches along the cobblestones, stops in front of me, and shoots me a dagger stare outside Jen and Dena’s Wig Emporium in Greenwich Village. A mannequin head sporting a leprechaun green bob cut peers at us with unblinking eyes.

  Nicole parks her hands on her hips. “What do you have to say for yourself, missy?”

  “I’m in the market for a fun new wig?” I offer tentatively, hoping to deflect a lashing from one of my closest friends even as I brace for it.

  The only saving grace will be strength in numbers, since Penny’s on my team. But she’s not here yet, and these bodiless heads in the display window aren’t going to save me from Nicole’s ire. I gird myself for the verbal whipping.

  Her green eyes narrow. “Let’s talk about why we’re getting two wigs.” She taps her toe on the sidewalk, the leather boot beating a rhythm of frustration. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  She opens her mouth wide, but words seem to fail her. I smirk. Nicole is rarely speechless. But the dialogue desertion doesn’t last long. “You have some serious explaining to do.” She pokes my shoulder. “How did one drink turn into a morning jog, and then another date? A date we need to go wig shopping for, of all things?”

  I break down her question into the easily manageable parts. “I try to run every morning, and you’re allergic to six a.m. starts. So Tyler went with me, and then we ran into a client in the park, and she invited us to her party.”

  Yes, there. Blame it on Gigi.

  Nicole huffs and wags a scolding finger at me. “Now you’re trying to talk circles around me, when all I’m trying to do is protect you from getting hurt.”

  “Nicole,” I say plaintively. I know she means well. I know she’s only pissed because she’s looking out for me in a super protective, mama bear, slash-anyone-who-comes-near-her-cubs way.

  She heaves a sigh and then softens. “‘Laney-girl, exes are bad news. Do I need to remind you of the top five reasons you should never get back together with an ex even if he blows your mind in bed?”

  That was the title of one of her recent columns. I read it, but I didn’t memorize it. Seems I didn’t need to, though, because she holds up her index finger, and I’ve got a feeling she knows this quintet cold.

  “Number one. You broke up for a reason.” She stares me down.

  I hold out my hands, admitting that much.

  “Number two.” She counts off with two fingers. “He hurt you like a son of a bitch.”

  I screw up the corner of my lips. “I don’t think you said son of a bitch in your column.”

  Like I can catch this woman on a technicality. But hey, I have to try.

  “I write online. You bet I used ‘son of a bitch,’ and if I have to use ‘motherfucker,’ too, I will.”

  I raise my hands in surrender. “Wouldn’t want to run into you in a dark alley.”

  “Damn straight. I know Krav Maga. On to number three. They often have new bad habits, and the new ones can be even more disgusting than the old ones.”

  I scrunch my brow. “Seriously? That’s a reason?”

  She nods. “What if he hogs the bed now? What if he cuts his toenails in front of you? What if he expects you to
pick up his dirty socks?” She cringes to emphasize the horror of this parade of possible gross behaviors. “Burps? Picks his teeth? Doesn’t text back in a timely manner? Leaves cabinet doors open? Sucks annoyingly on a water bottle?”

  I give her a look like she’s insane. Because, seriously? “Leaves cabinet doors open? That’s a thing?”

  Her eyes blaze with anger. “Has that ever happened to you? Because it is a living hell. Shoulder bruises. Smacked eyes. Scratched temples. It’s like evil elves booby-trapped your home.”

  I lean my hip against the store window, where a rainbow-colored head stares at me. I point at Nicole. “I’m feeling like that might be something someone did to you.”

  “And it drove me insane,” she says, gripping her head.

  “Nicole, anyone can do those things. Why is that uniquely annoying with an ex?”

  “My point exactly. Everything, literally everything”—she slashes an emphatic hand through the air—“is more annoying with an ex. It’s all amplified, especially bad habits. That’s the nature of a second chance. You already gave him a first chance. Everything is in stereo the second time around.”

  “Tyler never did those things before, though. No cupboard doors swinging madly and no slurping of bottles. So I’m not biting on the habit issue.”

  She huffs. “Number four. The sex might be different.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “That one is not an issue. Whatsoever.”

  She stalks me, backs me up to the window, and sets a hand against the display, breathing fire. “You did not sleep with him.”

  “There was no . . . penetration involved,” I say, then I clasp my hand over my mouth. “Oops. Wait. There was.” I waggle my fingers.

  “You dirty girl,” she says, but her lips twitch, and it’s clear she’s reining in a smile.

  I wiggle my eyebrows. “Also, the penetration was even better than before, and that’s saying something.”