by Lexi Ryan
My stomach protests at the thought of Sam waiting for me at the front of the house—fear and hurt and hope all take hold of my heart and engage in a three-way game of tug-of-war. Part of me wants to imagine he’s here because he has feelings for me, but it’s more likely that he wants to make sure I don’t tell Miss Little Black Dress about our night together.
He never struck me as the kind of guy who would cheat.
I wipe my hands on my pink sheets turned paint rags and climb down the ladder. “Does he need a cup of sugar?”
She lifts a brow but doesn’t argue with my suggestion. “I’ll be here when you want to talk about it.”
“Talk about what?” My smile is so plastic you could make Barbies with it. I push past her and find my way to the living room, where Sam is standing, looking out the window with his hands shoved into his pockets.
He’s in a simple white T-shirt and jeans, but he’s so gorgeous it hurts to look at him. Sometimes it’s nice to want things you can’t have, and sometimes the want is so deep that it’s a flame tearing through your heart.
“Hey, Sam!” I call, keeping my Barbie smile in place.
He turns, and I wait for his eyes to skim over me in my too-short cut-offs and tank, but they don’t. In fact, he’s looking at me, but I can tell he’s not seeing me at all. “Can we talk?”
“Sure! Let me slip on some shoes.” I don’t want to leave with him, but I’m so ashamed of the position I’ve put myself in, the heartbreak I brought on myself, that I don’t want Hanna to witness this conversation either.
I slip on my flip-flops and grab my hoodie from the hook by the door, then lead him outside. We walk for a bit without talking, just breathing in the cool, late-autumn air and trying to figure out where we fit with each other now. Or at least, that’s what I’m doing.
“I know we said it was just one night,” he begins.
I can’t handle hearing more, so I butt in before he can speak again. “No strings, no attachments, no expectations. You’re not here because you’ve changed your mind on me, are you?”
He stops walking and blinks at me. “I . . .” He shakes his head then swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “A friend gave me some news this morning, and I wondered if I could take you out. Talk to you about it.”
His tongue down her throat sure made it seem like she was more than a friend. “I’m kind of busy.” My heart trips on the tangle of emotions in my chest, but I’m determined to get through this with my pride intact. I’ve been rejected by Sam before. I can’t handle being rejected again. “No expectations, Sam. But that has to go both ways. I don’t want this to be all awkward now.”
He cocks his head, studying me. “You’re special, Rowdy. Sometimes I get the feeling you don’t actually know that.”
Don’t do this. Don’t say nice things that make me want to love you. “I’m just a girl who needed a good lay. Thanks for that.”
He flinches. Sam Bradshaw actually flinches at my rough words. Inside, I’m flinching too. “I don’t even know what to make of you.”
I shrug. “Do you really need to know?” Oh, fuck. Tears burn the back of my throat and I can’t let them out. Not here while he can see. “Can you do me a favor? Don’t tell anyone about our little . . . indiscretion? I’d like to keep it our secret. I don’t want people getting the wrong idea about me.”
“Who would I tell?”
One more time with the plastic smile. This is it, I promise myself. Just one more minute smiling, and you’re out of here. “It was sweet of you to come by, but you don’t need to worry about me.”
I give a little wave, turn, and walk away, and I feel his eyes on me with every step.
“Rowdy,” he calls when I’m nearly to the door. I turn to face him but don’t trust myself to talk. He jogs to the porch and a takes a deep breath. “Her name’s Asia. I thought it was over, but things might get . . . serious.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I . . .” He shrugs. “I wanted you to hear it from me first.”
“Good night, Sam.”
When I get back into the house, Hanna’s on the couch, her legs curled under her, her laptop perched on the coffee table. “Is Sam okay?”
“Yeah, he’s fine. He just wanted to talk to me about Max.” Hanna’s whole body flinches at the mention of her unrequited love, and I hate myself a little more than usual for bringing up his name. “Nothing like that,” I say. “Just trying to get me to join the gym to support Max. As if, right?”
Hanna’s eyes go a little hazy, and I know I’ve thrown her off the trail of my troubles for a couple of minutes.
“I’m going to go finish painting.”
Back in my room, a four-by-four patch of pink wall stares at me. Suddenly, I regret everything—pretending I was okay with Sam, painting my room, going to his house last night . . . the whole damn weekend.
I rush to the bathroom and turn on the shower, wiping the tears from my face as fast as they fall. I’m not sure what makes me grab my phone, but I text Connor.
Her name’s Asia. That’s all I know.
Then I climb into the shower, lean against the wall, and let the hot spray wash away my foolish hopes and all my naïve beliefs that I might be something special to him.
Epilogue
Sam
Two Years Later…
Her date is at least fifteen years older than her and could probably find steady work as a stunt double for Smokey the Bear.
Not that I care. I definitely don’t care who Liz Thompson is sleeping with.
She laughs at something Smokey says and then excuses herself and heads to the restroom, her tight ass swinging with every step.
“You’re staring,” Max says.
I bring my attention back to my table and find William and Max both studying me. Max is smirking. Asshole. “I’m not staring at anything.”
“You were definitely staring,” Will says. “And before you were staring at her, you were giving her date the I’m-going-to-hang-you-by-your-balls-over-a-pit-of-vipers look.”
“Don’t give him a hard time,” Max says. “That’s a completely normal reaction to have when you catch someone out with your wife . . . but wait. She’s not your wife, is she? Or your girlfriend even? Huh.”
Will smirks. “Can’t tell by the way he’s looking at her.”
I lean back in the booth. “You’re both assholes.”
“You could just ask her out,” Max suggests.
“I’ll pass,” I say, but the words come out as a growl, revealing too much. I clear my throat. “Excuse me.”
I head back toward the bathrooms with a half-cocked plan to corner her and make her talk to me. But about what? We haven’t talked since last summer—out of respect for my sister Della, I’ve kept my distance. The last thing my pregnant sister needs is to see her big brother making nice with the woman who nearly tore her world apart.
When I reach the back hallway, I spot Liz and my steps slow. Smokey the Bear must have snuck back here to meet her when I wasn’t looking. He’s shoving his tongue down her throat and feeling her up. Jesus. Couldn’t they at least go somewhere private?
Smokey goes in for another kiss, and Liz turns her head to the side. “Sorry,” she says. “I don’t have sex on the first date. Ever.”
I grunt and watch for a minute, wondering if he’s going to buy the shit she’s shoveling.
“Want me to take it slow, baby?” her date asks. “I can take it slow. With me, you’ll want it to last all night.”
“Listen, Ha—”
“If you’d excuse me,” I say, interrupting. I can’t stomach much more of this.
Liz narrows those pretty blue eyes at me and lifts her chin. “Did you need something?”
“Restroom.” I point behind her.
She blushes prettily. Everything Liz does is pretty. The way she drinks a beer is pretty, the way she nuzzles her pillow in her sleep, the way she kisses her way down my stomach before . . .
Fuc
k that. I skim my eyes over her date. If that’s what Liz wants, she can have it. There’s no reason for me to stand in her way. I attempt a smile. “You two kids have fun.”
I push into the bathroom and let the water run hot in the sink as I stare at myself in the mirror. “You don’t need her, Bradshaw,” I mutter at my reflection, and my stomach knots at the words. I may not need her, but I want her—a want that’s so intoxicating, so potent, it masquerades as need. I want her. I miss her. But none of that matters because I can’t forgive her.
THE END
Reckless and Real, Book 1 by Lexi Ryan
Chapter One
Liz
Riverrat69: I’m jealous of your date tomorrow.
Tink24: Why? I thought you didn’t like dating.
Riverrat69: I’m jealous of what he gets to do to you. Or maybe I’m just thinking of what I’d do to you if I were your date.
Tink24: Do tell . . .
Riverrat69: I’d start by making sure you wore a skirt. With nothing underneath.
Tink24: Maybe that could be arranged . . .
Riverrat69: I’d take you somewhere with really good wine, and I’d have you sit next to me in the booth so I could watch you enjoy your food and your wine, and so it would be easier to slide my hand under your skirt. Have you ever gotten off in the middle of a crowded room?
Tink24: Can’t say that I have . . . Not sure that I could . . .
Riverrat69: Don’t worry. I’d get you there. My touch would be light at first, warming you up while you sipped your wine. Then I’d slide a finger inside of you and whisper in your ear. The waiter would come over, and you’d have to order. I think it would turn you on—knowing I was touching you like that and we could so easily get caught.
Tink24: It might. If you played it right.
Riverrat69: Oh, I’d play it right. Soon, I’d add a second finger and feel you squeeze around me. Are you a screamer? Because the key to getting off in public is not letting anyone else know what’s happening under the table. Could you be quiet while I fucked you with my fingers?
Tink24: I think I could manage, but what about you in all of this?
Riverrat69: This is just the foreplay, baby. If you’re wet, I’m good.
Tink24: I would be . . . I am.
Riverrat69: It’d be after the restaurant. After I got you off right there in public, after I watched pleasure wash over your face as you came, then it would be my turn.
Tink24: Would you take me home? Tie me up?
Riverrat69: Maybe we’d go to your place but I’d bring everything I needed to tie you to the bed. Would you like that?
Tink24: I want that.
Riverrat69: Since this is all just a fantasy and we both know you’ll be with some other idiot tomorrow night, would you do me a favor?
Tink24: What’s that?
Riverrat69: Put your hand in your panties.
Tink24: Who said I’m wearing panties?
Riverrat69: You’re going to be the death of me.
Rereading last night’s conversation has me shifting uncomfortably in bed. One hell of a way to start my day, but I went to sleep thinking about him, dreamed about him, woke with him on my mind.
I close my eyes and picture everything he described. I imagine Sam next to me in the restaurant. Sam whispering dirty words in my ear while he fingers me under the table.
I press my head into the pillow and whimper. Sam would do those things. And as much as I question my ability to orgasm in a public place, I know Sam could do it. He’d have me coming on his hand before dessert came. And after . . .
Rolling over, I bury my face in the pillow. It doesn’t matter what would happen next. Like River said, everything he described is just a fantasy. And this idea in my head that my anonymous online friend—who likes to talk dirty to me, who wants to tie me up—the idea that he is Sam, that Sam is River, that’s probably just a fantasy too. Albeit a long-running one.
And if it is Sam, the idea that he could forgive me enough to want to do those things with me again? That’s definitely a fantasy.
* * *
Sam
I plunge my hands into her hair and open my mouth against her breast, drawing her nipple between my teeth—a little rough, just like she likes it. She’s blindfolded and her hands are stretched above her head, tied with my ropes to the second floor banister. She’s completely at my mercy, a fact that arouses us both.
I’m working my way down her body, kissing, tasting, licking every inch of skin along the way. Liz moans my name. I don’t stop. Instead, I suck at the tender flesh over her hipbone and slide my hand between her legs, where she’s hot and slick and ready for me.
“Sam!” she screams this time. “Sam! Sam!” Then again and again until my name becomes more of a piercing screech than a word.
Groaning, I roll over and smack the snooze button on my alarm clock with more force than necessary. I’m not interested in examining why I’m dreaming about Liz Thompson when I don’t even talk to her anymore. The dreams are frequent and increasingly frustrating, and my cock doesn’t give two shits that I shouldn’t want her, so I take my dick in my fist, close my eyes, and imagine Liz tied up like she was in my dream.
I tighten my grip and imagine cradling her ass in my hands as I drive into her so hard the walls rattle. I can practically hear the breathy little noises she makes when I’m touching her. And though my hand is a piss-poor substitute for being inside her body, the fantasy makes jacking off more satisfying than usual and has me coming hard and fast before the alarm sounds again.
Chapter Two
Liz
Once upon a time, I believed there was nothing I loved more in this world than a dirty-talking man—the scratch of his beard against my neck between quiet suggestions in my ear, the low rumble of his voice, the heady intoxication of knowing where the night was going, knowing he wanted the same things I did.
But I was wrong. Because while a lot of men can talk dirty, I can count on one hand the number of men I’ve met who can do it well. In my dating escapades of the last eight months, I’ve learned there are two kinds of dirty talkers in this world: the ones who use language like foreplay and make my knees turn to putty, and the ones who talk dirty by channeling bad rap lyrics.
“I wanna put it in you, baby,” my date says.
His name is Harry. And he is—hairy, I mean. He’s the kind of guy who wears his polo shirt unbuttoned so thick tufts of wiry chest hair stick out. I’m not opposed to chest hair, but I am in favor of grooming and trimming where appropriate. If that’s the condition of the stuff on his chest, can you imagine what’s happening under his briefs?
“You want me to put it in you, don’t you?” He sounds so sure of himself.
No, hairy Harry, I don’t want it anywhere near me. But I don’t say that. He’s between the ages of twenty-three and thirty-four (or so says his profile), has a steady job, loves his family, and is looking for someone to settle down with, preferably in New Hope. These are all the qualities I’m looking for in a man, and I’m supposed to be giving him a chance. I want to give him a chance.
Hot bodies and stellar bedroom skills have always been my priorities when choosing what men to date—which probably explains why I’m twenty-four and haven’t had a single romantic relationship that lasted longer than three months.
“Hmm,” I reply, dodging a second beer-flavored kiss. “Sorry, I don’t have sex on the first date. Ever.” Anymore would be more accurate than ever, but I don’t think God cares about lying when it’s done to avoid regrettable sex.
We’re in the back hallway at Brady’s. I met Harry here for a drink, and he cornered me after I finished in the ladies’ room, which was an expert seduction move on his part because nothing says “sexy” like the smell of urine and stale beer.
His breath is hot and sticky against my neck, his hand inching up my shirt. I grab his wrist to stop him, and decide to give a mental count to ten before pushing him off me. He seemed nice online. Maybe nerves are the
reason behind tonight’s metamorphosis into a douchecanoe.
“You want me to take it slow, baby? I can take it slow. With me, you’ll want it to last all night.”
Yeah, I doubt that. “Listen, Ha—”
“If you’d excuse me?” a deep voice asks.
I push Harry back so I can see over his shoulder and find myself looking at Sam Bradshaw. Sam God-Between-the-Sheets Bradshaw. Sam Knows-What-I-Look-Like-Naked Bradshaw.
The look on Sam’s face says he has witnessed more of my private time with Harry than even I wanted to witness. I’m not sure mortification is a strong enough word for what I’m feeling right now.
I lift my chin. “Did you need something?”
Sam points behind me. “Restroom.”
“Oh. Right.”
Sam gives Harry a once-over then looks at me, smirking a little. “You two kids have fun.”
Now there’s a man who knows how to talk dirty. Sam pushes through the swinging door into the restroom. He’s all broad shoulders and swagger. And there’s not a tuft of chest hair in sight.
Harry clears his throat. “You know him?”
Biblically. “He’s an old friend.”
