by P. J. Mellor
“Thanks so much for reminding me,” she said in a watery voice as she swiped at more tears.
“You lived with Andre for almost two years,” he continued. “Then, not long after you broke up with him, you started dating Collin.” He shook his head, then met her red-rimmed, blue-eyed gaze. “As I recall, I tried to discourage you at the time. Not only did you not listen to me or any voice of wisdom, but you also ended up engaged to Collin before you’d dated more than a couple of months.”
“That’s so not true! We dated for, well, a lot longer than that.”
“Ah, yes, and we see how well that turned out.” He handed the cocktail waitress his credit card, then grasped Ashley’s hands again. “Ash, we talked about this before—”
“We did not! We’ve never talked about why we haven’t hooked up.” She pulled her hands from his and crossed her arms, putting the ample breasts he’d been doing so admirably at ignoring front and center of his attention. “I’d have remembered that,” she mumbled, drawing his attention back to her red-blotched face.
“I didn’t mean your question; I meant we talked about your track record with men—more specifically, your relationships.”
“That’s why I asked.” She reached for her raincoat and purse. “Through every mess I’ve made in my life, you were the one constant. I always tell my clients to trust the one they turn to first. The one they run to. With me, that would be you. Yet, we’ve never…well, you know.”
Yeah, he knew. And it was killing him that she didn’t.
2
Ashley stood and shrugged into her raincoat, then picked up her purse again. “I should get going.” She walked to his side of the booth and leaned down, brushing a chaste kiss on his cheek. “Thanks for the drink.” Her scent enveloped him when she pulled him into an impromptu hug, the soft pillows of flesh lurking just beneath the thin fabric of her fitted white shirt pressed enticingly against his cheeks.
It made him instantly hard.
“Wait.” He grabbed her hand as she turned to leave. “I’ve thought about it,” he blurted out.
Thought about it? Hell, he’d obsessed over it for more years than he cared to remember. And their one encounter, at the Halloween party the night before she’d moved in with Andre, did nothing but fuel the fire of the torch he carried for her.
“About why we never hooked up?” She sank back into her seat. “Please don’t tell me it’s because I’m so undesirable the thought never crossed your mind. I’m not sure my fragile ego could take it at this point.”
“Don’t even kid about that, Ash.” Reaching across the table, he squeezed her shoulders. “You are easily one of the hottest women I’ve ever met. But you’re also one of my best friends. Did you ever think I never hit on you because I didn’t want to ruin our friendship?” Say it. Tell me you at least remember our time together. Call me on my lie. He gave a little fake growl that brought a smile to her tear-stained face, then gave her blond hair a playful tug. “Besides, Goldilocks, what red-blooded bear wouldn’t want you in his bed?”
“Obviously you,” she groused, but with a little smile still lurking. “Okay, if you don’t want to talk about why you aren’t compelled to jump my bones, why did you want me to wait?”
“I’d say for the pleasure of your company, but I have to tell you, Ash, you’ve been kind of a downer the last day or two.” He grinned and took another swig of beer. “Naw, I just had an idea. Sort of an experiment.” But did he have the balls to follow through? On some level, it felt wrong, deceitful. But all was fair in love and war, so why not?
Ashley looked reticent. “I don’t know. It doesn’t involve drugs or monkey sex again, does it?”
“Would you stop bringing that up? We were in college, and I was only joking. After all the time we’ve known each other, I’d have thought you’d realize that.” He glared at her, then slid his hands down to hers, covertly checking her pulse rate. He’d discovered a person’s pulse often was a truer indicator of their feelings than their words. “So, no, it doesn’t. This is different. I’d have to call it more of an, um, intervention than a true experiment.”
“An intervention? Whose intervention?” She leaned forward, her breasts so close to his hands that his fingers itched. By the widened eyes and color on her cheeks, he knew he had her hooked.
Now all he needed to do was reel her in.
“Daryl? Whose intervention?”
“Now, don’t take this the wrong way—”
“What? Are you saying you want to do an intervention on me?” Her heightened color didn’t bode well. Neither did the spike of her pulse.
“Just hear me out, Ash. Let’s look at this in a clinical, non-threatening way.” He squeezed her hands with each point. “One, out of the blue, you moved in with my roommate.” Worse, she did it the day after having mind-blowing sex with Daryl. But for some reason, she refused to acknowledge it had happened. “Two, after investing in that relationship for way too long than was comfortable for anyone—and be honest, you know it’s the truth—he finally had the balls to dump you. What did you do when that happened?”
“Fell into a million pieces you had to pick up and put back together again,” she mumbled.
“Well, yes, but my point was you came to me to cuss and discuss as well as to dissect what went wrong.” And, in reality, what was wrong was you were sleeping with the wrong guy. But she needed to figure that out on her own. Which is why he had to convince her of what he was about to propose. “Almost immediately, you hopped into a relationship with Collin, which leads us to point three, which is your choice in partners. I love you, Ashley.” At her widened eyes, he hurried to qualify his statement. “As a friend, of course. Which is why I’m telling you this now.”
She took a deep breath, her cleavage momentarily distracting him.
“What?”
“Hmm?” He tore his gaze from her assets. “What?”
“That’s what I said. What are you telling me, Daryl? Because, so far, you haven’t told me anything we didn’t both already know.”
“Oh. Right. What I’m suggesting is—and don’t shoot it down until you at least give it some thought—a sex-only relationship.”
She blinked. But she didn’t laugh in his face. Or slap him. That had to mean something. But with Ashley, you never knew.
“With anybody in particular?” Her glossed lips twitched as though she was holding in a laugh.
“Don’t be obtuse.” He glared and gripped her hands tighter. “We’ve seen how well you do with picking partners. No, this time, I get to choose. Hell, it couldn’t be any worse.”
“Have you already picked someone out?” All laughter was gone.
“Ah, well, I mean…how about me?” At her stunned expression, he knew he had only a few seconds, at best, to plead his case. “Think about it. We’ve known each other for years. We’ve been through pretty much everything a couple can go through…except intimacy, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I know you’re familiar with the term friends with benefits.”
“I believe they’re called fuck buddies, Daryl.” Her eyes narrowed. “What’s all this really about? Are you just horny and think I’d be an easy victim because I’m lonely and desperate? So desperate I’d accept pity sex?”
This wasn’t going well.
“No! My point is you have no success with relationships that involve emotions and sex. Remember your training? To see the problem, you have to first be able to isolate and identify it. By entering into a sex-only relationship with, um, well, me, we could better understand your needs, both physically and psychologically. From that analysis, we would be able to develop a strategy that would, ultimately, lead to a successful long-term relationship.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?” He knew her—if he didn’t make her spell out what she was agreeing to, she could back out.
“Okay to what you said.”
“You’ll have a sex-only relationship with me?” Could it
really have been that easy? He took a deep breath, telling his body to stop doing a possibly premature happy dance.
“No, I will think about being fuck buddies.” She laughed and stood again. “Call me tomorrow.” After brushing a kiss on his forehead, she strolled out of the bar.
Fuck buddies? What a dismal, depressing thought. The only good thing was the fuck part of it. Ashley had become his obsession, emotional and sexual. Fuck buddies? Oh, they’d be more, much more, than that by the time their experiment was over.
He hoped.
3
Ashley shoved the sheet down her sweating, naked body with the soles of her feet as she writhed on the damp sheet.
Close. She was so close.
Damn Daryl Garrett. It was his fault she was so restless, so needy. So horny.
Of course, she’d been pretty free and easy about throwing the f-word around, so she couldn’t totally blame Daryl. And saying it made her think about doing it. And thinking about doing it with Daryl, of all people, inhibited her. That had to be it.
Not that she hadn’t thought about it, fantasized about it, on more than one occasion since puberty. But the timing had never been right. Then there was the whole best-friend thing they had going on.
She flipped the switch on her vibrator, increasing the speed, and held it firmly against her aching clitoris. Eyes squeezed shut, she tried to envision the one magical night of sexual bliss she’d had almost five years ago…
The Halloween party had been packed, everyone in costume. When the guy dressed as the phantom asked her to dance, she’d been willing—after all, even in costume, it was obvious he had a killer body. Within seconds, she’d been practically rubbing her needy body against his clearly excited one. She’d followed willingly into the storage closet, where he’d blown every sexual fantasy she’d had out of the water. She’d fallen instantly in love, having to force herself to allow him to leave her side. When he reappeared to drive her home and she finally took off his mask, she was thrilled to discover it was Andre, one of the guys who had been persistently asking her out. She’d pushed past her natural reticence and moved in with him and his roommates the following day. She wasn’t about to let him get away.
But the sex was never the same, and he became angry when she asked him to put on the costume again….
A frustrated moan escaped her. Dang it, all she could see was Daryl’s face.
How could she even consider having sex with Daryl, of all people? Especially when even thinking about him made her trusty vibrator dysfunctional?
She paused, remembering the sexy way his hair looked, as though he’d just rolled out of bed—a bed where a thoroughly sated woman had been running her fingers through his hair.
Why couldn’t she be the woman raking her hands through his thick brown hair? It wasn’t as though he was unattractive.
The thought sent tingles to her nether regions. Or the vibrator was finally doing its thing. Could be either.
Regardless, within seconds of relaxing and anticipating having sex with Daryl, her back arched off the mattress as waves of satisfaction washed over her.
Enjoying the breeze from the ceiling fan above her bed, she waited for her breathing to return to normal while she applied lubricant to the vibrator, idly rubbing the excess oil into her aching nipples.
When her lust rose again, she had no problem envisioning Daryl’s face, Daryl’s hard body, rubbing against her excited flesh, his erection sliding forcefully into her eager body. One thrust later, she climaxed again. Then again.
Maybe fuck buddies was a good idea after all.
Daryl rolled over and looked at the glowing numbers on his clock radio. Four-fifteen in the morning was probably too early to call Ashley and ask if she’d made a decision yet.
He rolled to his stomach. Rather, he tried to roll but found it uncomfortable with the hard-on he’d maintained pretty much since seeing Ashley in the bar the night before.
Flopping onto his back, he huffed out a sigh. He needed sleep. He had four patients to see in less than five hours.
His hand slid beneath his boxer briefs. Trying to imagine it was Ashley’s hand didn’t work. The calluses on his hand from his tennis racket interfered with his normally vivid imagination. The pad of his thumb brushed over the sensitive tip, eliciting a drop of moisture. He rubbed it in, wishing Ashley were the one touching him so intimately. Would she take him into her mouth?
His hips bucked.
Hand dipping lower, he caressed his testicles. Maybe he should do his monthly lump check, since he was already touching that area…
With a groan, he pulled his hand out of his boxers and rolled over, punching the pillow for good measure.
Maybe he was an idiot. An oversexed, sleep-deprived idiot.
An annoying buzz intruded on Ashley’s x-rated dream. Sunlight spilled in through the partially opened shutters.
She slapped at the alarm clock a few times. When the buzzing did not relent, she cracked open one eye just in time to see her cell buzz itself clear off the nightstand, hitting the hardwood floor with a crack.
Buzz.
Whoever was calling was persistent at…Crap, was it already almost ten o’clock?
Hanging off the side of the tall mattress, she grabbed her phone and flipped it open. “Hel—” She cleared her throat. “Hello?”
“Did I wake you up? Don’t you have to be at work soon?”
“Hi, Daryl.” She smiled and rolled to her back, absently rubbing her bare chest. Her nipples responded to the cooler air, immediately puckering. She plucked at them, wondering if Daryl would like to play with her breasts.
The thought made her squirm with renewed moisture. Sighing, she rolled back to her stomach, allowing her aching folds to rub on the sheet while she talked. “No, I don’t have any clients this morning.” She arched her back, stretching, luxuriating in the feel of cotton against her hard nipples and swollen clit. “Don’t have to be at the office until after lunch, in fact.” Was he calling to continue their discussion about a sex-only relationship? The thought made her wet.
Maybe he wanted to come over to get started on it—on her—now.
That thought gave her pause.
Was that what she wanted? What if having sex ruined their friendship?
“What are you wearing?” Hey, she’d had plenty of guys ask her that. Why shouldn’t she ask? Funny, she’d always thought it was a stupid thing to ask but found she suddenly really wanted to know. Just out of idle curiosity, of course.
“Huh? Ah, pants, a shirt, a tie. You know, the usual Monday shrink uniform.”
She smiled. Poor Daryl. He sounded distinctly uncomfortable. The idea he had daily outfits he wore each week was suddenly endearing.
“No suit today?” Rolling to her back, she plucked at her nipples, bringing them to even stiffer peaks.
“No, I went casual, remember? I stopped wearing suits and sport coats a few years ago. But why are you asking?”
“Just curious.” Her hand slid between her legs. “I mean, if we become, um, more than friends, I need to know what you wear.” She lowered her voice to what she hoped was a sultry whisper. “Day and night.”
Daryl cleared his throat. “Ah, okay…What are you wearing?”
“A smile.” She flipped the phone shut and reached for her vibrator.
This time when she came, she knew exactly why.
Daryl stared at the phone, then hung up. Thanks to Ashley, he had to wait a few minutes for his boner to dissipate before seeing his next patient.
“Your next appointment is here,” the voice of his receptionist, Tiffany, sang through his intercom.
He stood and made an adjustment, then pushed the button. “Send her in.”
Maybe Mrs. Jetton would take his mind off Ashley for a while.
She was lying on the couch when he walked into the inner office, her legs crossed, her eyes shut, like some sacrificial lamb.
With her looks and come-hither voice, not to mention her sex addic
tion, it was out of the question to call her a sacrificial virgin.
Daryl bit back a smile. He’d told her many times it wasn’t necessary to lie on the couch, that sitting in the guest chair or on the couch was fine. But she’d insisted. In her early sixties, Mrs. Jetton wasn’t really a sex addict; she just liked to think she was. But he hoped she didn’t verbalize her latest prurient fantasies today. His already excited libido may not survive.
“How are you today, Mrs. Jetton?” He took his seat and picked up his recorder as he pushed the RECORD button.
“Horny.” She opened one eye. “Looks like you are, too, Doc. Want to swap fantasies?”
It was going to be a long day.
Ashley trudged into her apartment and tossed her keys into the basket by the door. Her briefcase slid into its spot beneath the entry table.
What a bitch of a day.
Couples counseling seemed to get more difficult with each session. But she’d signed the contract with C.I. Industries, so she was just going to have to put up with it. Rubbing her temples, she kicked off her shoes and padded into the kitchen.
Food. She’d been too stressed about the possibility of having sex with her best friend to be able to swallow a bite of breakfast or lunch. Now she felt as though she could polish off an entire buffet.
Slinging open her French-door refrigerator, she hoped the food fairy had visited since the day before.
She hadn’t. Ashley scanned the contents: a container of black olives with a curious-looking whitish fuzz growing on top, a partial package of cream cheese with a coordinating green fuzz, and a half loaf of bread.
“Crap.” She let the doors swing shut as she flipped through her takeout menus.
The phone rang, startling her.
“Speak,” she said after pushing the speaker phone button.
“Did you get them? Did you get the reservations?” Her associate at the clinic, Amy, sounded excited. “Did you call and make your counter offer?”
