by Sara Ney
We watch as Ben stalks away to fetch me the liquid refreshment I don’t actually really want.
“Jeez, bitter much?” my boyfriend grumbles.
I turn to face him, up on my tiptoes. “We don’t have to wait around, do we? You’re totally turning me on right now.”
His dark brows rise, hands sliding down to my ass. “That was turning you on? Wow, you’re easy.”
“I am.” I nip at his earlobe with my teeth. “Let’s go. I don’t think I can stand to be here all night. I want to go home and rip your clothes off.”
We’ve been here less than ten minutes.
“So what you’re trying to tell me is: you’re horny?”
God I hate when he uses that word. “Yes. That’s what I’m saying. And if I have to stand here another second…”
“Shh. Say no more.” His forefinger silences me. “If my baby wants to go home and screw, I’m going to take her home and screw her brains out, because that’s just the kind of guy I am.”
My vajayjay is positively tingling.
“Your place or mine?” He’s already dragging me toward the door like a caveman, minus the club and pet dinosaur.
“Someplace where no one will hear you?”
I’ve learned that when Rowdy Wade has sex, he’s vocal—louder than I am, his groans of pleasure embarrassingly dirty and noisy. He swears and grunts, headboard usually banging against the wall.
So erotic, I could orgasm just listening to him moan.
Rowdy releases me, grabbing me by the hand. “Let’s get the fuck out of here and go bang.”
Rowdy
“Are you watching me sleep?”
Scarlett’s drowsy question comes from out of the dark, the only light coming from the light in the hall. I left it on when I took a piss earlier, and the soft glow streams into her bedroom, casting a radiant filter on her smooth, bare shoulders.
She got up after we had sex to braid her hair, and now it drapes down her back like a long, silky cord.
It’s one o’clock in the morning and I haven’t been able to sleep since she shut her eyes and drifted off—hours ago.
I don’t know what woke her up, but her eyes are blinking open, lashes fluttering like butterflies.
“What’s wrong?” Her voice is laced with fatigue and concern. “Can’t you sleep?”
“Nothing is wrong.” Nothing is wrong and everything is right and I just want to lie here, basking in it, in how easy this relationship is.
Scarlett reaches for me, sliding her lithe naked body across the mattress until her ass is pressed into my front, as if it’s not the most counterproductive thing to do.
My cock twitches knowingly.
I slide my arms around her, resting along the underside of her breasts, stroking with my thumb, burying my lips in the crook of her neck.
“I love it when you touch me,” she murmurs, groggy. Then, when she raises an arm behind her to stroke the back of my neck, I use the opportunity to cup her breast in my palm. Play with the nipple, breathing into her hair. “Mmm. Love it when you touch me.”
Love.
Tenderly, I caress her skin. Gently. Lovingly.
Over her hip, deliberately, lips pressing into the flesh behind her ear. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”
“It’s too late for that.” Scarlett captures my hand, settling it between her legs, a week’s worth of non-stop sex making her bold.
And she’s good at it, too.
We’ve discovered she likes it rough. Likes a little hair pulling, likes it from behind. Loves it on top, especially when her hands can grip the headboard.
We discovered that if I suck her tits long enough, she’ll come.
We discovered that if she sucks just my tip long enough, I’ll come.
My stiff erection finds its home between her ass cheeks, digging in. Teasing. Hot and hard.
Scarlett rolls.
I grab a condom from the bedside table, rip open the wrapper, roll it on. Rise above her, pushing in.
Tired, she watches my eyes, hands on my biceps as if needing to brace me up. When I’m balls deep, I lean down, latching our mouths together, hips swiveling painfully slowly.
Mercilessly slowly.
I whimper, burying one of my hands beneath her ass, pushing deeper, the tip of my cock bumping her cervix. My eyes roll to the back of my head. Nostrils flare.
Pelvis grinds.
Scarlett lies beneath me, barely moving except to moan, tipping her head back and swirling her tongue around in my mouth. Sucks on my bottom lip.
Half asleep fucking is the best kind of fucking.
Fuck it feels good.
Shift my shoulders back, breaking the kiss, chest heavy. “Scarlett.”
I pause to glance between our bodies. Down my abs, where we’re connected. Back up, into her half-hooded eyes.
I love you. My mouth shapes the words, though no sounds come out. When I press my lips back against hers, the bridge of my nose tingles. “I love you.”
Freaking eyes get misty, so goddamn cheesy. What the actual fuck is wrong with me? Am I seriously about to fucking cry?
These are my last coherent thoughts as I start spilling my guts—just as I’m dumping my load into the condom, the words start cascading out of my freakin’ mouth.
“I’m so fucking in love with you, Scarlett.”
Her sleepy doe eyes—they’re beautiful, blue perfection. Soft as she gazes up at me, the palm of her petite hand cupping my jaw, adoringly.
“I love you, too,” she whispers.
I kiss the palm of her hand before bowing my head, burying it in her shoulder. We stay this way for a long while, wrapped up in each other, neither in any rush, my spent cock still inside her heat.
My best friend.
I am one lucky bastard.
113th FRIDAY
EPILOGUE
“The One Where We Went Back for Homecoming Two Years Later.”
Scarlett
The baseball house hasn’t changed a bit—same peeling paint on the siding, same crooked floorboards, same porch swing.
The chains are rustier now, and it still hasn’t been given a new coat of paint, but it’s swaying back and forth with the breeze, sturdy and inviting as it ever was.
I plop down on it, feet dangling. Give it a push, letting it glide me back and forth. Take a sip from my water bottle just as a group of co-eds climb the wooden stairs, their tight leggings and Iowa crop tops a stark contrast to my outfit: blue jeans and a fitted black and yellow Wade #8 baseball jersey.
Sterling had it custom made for me so I’d be a better WAG (I had to google it after all, not knowing that it meant wives and girlfriends of athletes), and his were all too large for me.
When he got drafted—sixth round, to the Diamondbacks—he had one of those jerseys made for me, too.
That’s where we ended up: Arizona.
Farther from water than I was before, but Sterling bought us the sweetest little house with beautiful mountain views, a pool, and giant king-sized bed. I managed to land a job at the new aquarium they built in Phoenix, three years old, full of state-of-the-art lab equipment, and some of most beautiful saltwater fish I’ve ever seen.
Life is good.
I love my job, but not nearly as much as I love him, so when I can travel to his away games during the season, I do, not wanting to become so independent I lose sight of what we’re working toward.
Us.
I pull my warm coat tighter around my body, enjoying the cool breeze kicking, when a familiar face walks past the porch from the side yard.
“Hey sweetie, where have you been?”
Sterling’s face is older now and every bit as handsome, the Arizona sun having bronzed it to perfection. “I was just about to come looking for you.”
“What are you still doing out here alone? I thought everyone went inside?” And I was here, waiting for him.
“Waiting for you, I guess.” I give the swing another push with the toe of my boot. “E
njoying the quiet.”
“You weren’t inside cock blocking any of the youngsters inside, were you?” Sterling teases. “Ben didn’t try to kick you out for old times’ sake, did he?”
“Ben’s blacklisting days are over, honey.”
Because Sterling and I are legendary now.
Everyone on campus eventually heard our story, how I was brought onto the porch for driving his friends crazy, how I came back the next Friday, and the Friday after that…
And, every once in a while, Sterling will get a message from Ben Wilson—the colossal asshole who wanted me gone, who’s now taking credit for our relationship. Ben isn’t playing baseball professionally, but he’s living with a girl he met at the house on Jock Row. Felicity showed up to one of their ridiculous parties wearing a turtleneck and blue jeans, finished the punchline to his terrible pick-up line before he could, and called him a douchebag to his face.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Ben took one look at her and fell hard.
“You’re out here because it’s quiet?” His brows go up.
The music inside is blasting and the place is packed, full of drinking games and shouting, drunk, cheering voices.
My mouth quirks. “You know what I mean.” I’ve never been wild about hanging out inside. Even though at homecoming there are just as many alums as collegians, which evens out the underage drinking ratio considerably in the right direction.
Something about this porch is everything I need.
Sterling wipes the palms of his hands on the dark denim of this thighs, taking the seat beside me on the swing. Wipes his hands again, resting them on his knees—his bouncing knees.
It creaks under his solid, 220-pound weight and sudden fidgeting.
My brow creases, but I say nothing.
“Feels good to be back, doesn’t it?”
“Sure.” But I don’t miss it as much as I thought I would when we left, probably because we’re together. And Sterling Wade is the funniest, sexiest, sweetest man. And he’s mine.
“Do you remember…” Sterling begins. “When I said I’d buy this house and rip the porch off? I said I’d bring it with us when we had our own place.”
I smile at the memory. “I remember.”
“I was an idiot.” He laughs nervously. “You can’t buy a front porch.”
No, you can’t. Not unless you’re crazy.
“But…” He nods decisively. “There are other things you can do.”
I cock my head to the side. “Like what?”
“I have something to show you.”
As he reaches behind us and plucks a manila envelope from the railing, the music cuts off inside the house, the raucous noise dying down by decibels. The evening suddenly becoming tranquil.
So strange.
I hadn’t seen the envelope when I sat down earlier, but Sterling is peeling open the seal and tugging out its contents. Lifts out a rectangular, gold-plated plaque.
Hands it to me.
I tilt it so it catches enough of the dim light to read:
IN THIS SPOT, U OF I SHORTSTOP STERLING “ROWDY” WADE (CLASS OF ’18) MET AND FELL IN LOVE WITH SCARLETT REGINA RIPLEY
“What is this?”
Sterling clears his throat. “They’re hanging it out here, next to the front door.”
The plaque is suspended between my hands, the metal shiny and new. Symbolic.
“The guys are going to hang it out here?” I look down at the inscription again, biting down on my bottom lip. My god he’s adorable. “This is seriously the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”
I adore him and his sweet, sexy face.
I twist my torso, clasping my hands behind his thick neck, planting my mouth firmly on his. Whisper, “You’re the most handsome man on this earth, and I swear I could eat you up.”
Sterling gently removes my hands from around his neck. Stands. Takes a deep breath, facing me as I rock back and forth on the swing.
“Never have I ever…” Drops to his knee. “Been down on one knee.”
I roll my eyes; what an odd thing to say. “What are you doing on the ground?”
Instead of standing like I expect him to, he inhales a deep, steely breath. When he speaks, it’s raspy. “Scarlett, I love you.”
I nod, frowning. “I love you, too.”
The giant hands that were all over my body this morning, making me moan, are reaching into the pocket of his Diamondbacks team jacket, large fingers holding a black velvet box.
Breathing escapes me.
“Never have I ever been this nervous since the season opener,” he jokes, voice croaking, sounding terrified.
Sterling might be intimidating to most people—an imposing, beautiful ass—but he’s the most romantic soul I’ve ever met.
His head is bowed, breathing unsteady. Blows out a shuddery breath as those mammoth hands shake, cracking open the lid, fingers trembling; a sparkling solitaire diamond ring sits on a bed of satin, twinkling under the dim lights of the porch.
“Never have I ever been engaged to be married.”
My own palm covers my mouth—just like in the movies—my wobbly legs holding the swing steady.
“I loved you from the minute I laid eyes on you, Scarlett. I love you, so I’m asking you here, in front all of these witnesses…” He gestures toward the house, where an entire party full of people have their faces pressed against the glass of the living room window.
Laughter bubbles up inside my stomach.
“Would you rather suffer a lifetime without me or marry me and be my wife?”
I drop down on my knees beside him. “I want to marry you and be your wife.”
When our foreheads press together, Sterling snaps the velvet ring box and lets it fall to the ground, cupping my face. Kissing me senseless on the front porch where we met.
He gasps then says, “Let’s get married right here.”
I pull a face. “Uh, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We have plenty of time to figure it out.”
“Come on, honey, it would be so fun.”
Yeah—for him and his baseball buddies.
Someone inside bangs on the window, and we look up to see Ben Wilson waving at us. “What did she say?!” he shouts through the glass.
Sterling looks at me, fumbles and feels around on the ground for the ring. Plucks it up and re-opens the box, removing the pretty little ring nestled inside.
Slides it onto my fourth finger.
I turn it this way and that, letting it catch the light as we both admire how perfectly it fits.
He clasps my hand and holds it up for everyone in the house to see. “She said fuck yeah!”
Unruly cheers erupt and the music explodes back on, blasting louder than it was before, booze flowing freely. I watch as someone shakes a gilded champagne bottle, pops the cork, and detonates it over the entire crowd dancing in the center of the room.
Oh jeez.
I eye the scene dubiously. “That floor is going to collapse into the basement.”
“Yeah, maybe we shouldn’t rush inside just yet.”
He’s so very wise.
And so very mine.
Forever.
“We like it better out here anyway,” I point out. “In our spot.”
We lean into each other again, lips touching. “I love you so fucking much.”
“I love you too.”
“Plus, you’re the best lay I’ve ever had.”
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book was more difficult to write then you’d probably expect, and I never set out to write something laugh-out-loud funny. Or sweet. Or sexy. These characters took on lives of their own. Scarlett and Sterling wanted drama-free as much as I tried to throw in a little conflict.
Wasn’t happening.
I’m glad I listened, because I love this couple and hope you did, too.
It takes a village, so I want to say Thank You to the slew of people who made it
possible for me to hit publish. I don’t even know what order to put any of this in, so I’m just going to wing it:
To Starbucks in my little corner of the world: you go above and beyond. Best brew and crew in the Midwest.
The members of Neys Little Liars, for loving my books and not minding when I’m MIA for days and days at a time. Forgive me, for I am writing….
Thank you to my assistant, Christine Kuttnauer (wife #1). You’re my friend, my therapist, my left and right hand… [insert Batman flapping Superman’s cape GIF here] Pretty sure my life would be utter shit without you.
My Beta readers, Laurie Darter (wife #2), Kristin Cipolla, and—Christine. I absolutely rely on these women for honest, critical feedback—and they delivered, even though it hurt. I don’t think anyone realizes just how much effort goes into a Beta read. The time it takes to comb through and send notes. Thank you.
My copy editor, Becca Mysoor with Evident Ink. You may have single handedly saved this story.
I might be a drama queen, but there’s no exaggerating that truth. To say you have an attention to detail would be a disservice and an understatement. You and your mermaid hair are brilliant.
My cover designer, Sarah Hansen, at Okay Creations, who always kills it. And tolerates when I nit-pick, but with an eye roll.
Gel Ytayz (Tempting Illustrations) for my gorgeous marketing graphics.
And to my clean up crew….
My Editor, Caitlyn Nelson, who I’m certain pulled an all-nighter for this one but was too sweet to tell me so. I will buy you all the taco’s you can eat. And Jennifer VanWyk—your side comments had me laughing more than once.
Danielle Sanchez, my publicist with Inkslinger, PR—thank you for having my back (and my front)—who I’m certain only humors my dumb jokes while she’s trying to be serious and get shit done.
And last but not least: my agent Kimberly Brower (Brower Literary Agency) for representing me with such class—and a special thanks to Aimee Ashcroft (Brower Literary Agency).
Now.
On to writing Love, Sincerely, Yours (with Meghan Quinn) and JOCK RULE (Book 2 in the Jock Hard series). See you on the other side.
Other Titles by Sara
