The Lucky in Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  33

  Gabe

  There’s a fire extinguisher handy. I bought her extras a few months ago when I installed additional smoke alarms too.

  Pretty sure they’re going off right now.

  Because I am en fuego.

  That ass.

  Those legs.

  Those curves.

  Yes, it’s a five-alarm raging in my body as I stare, slack-jawed, at my good friend while she turns the corner into her bedroom.

  Evidently, I’m still a gentleman since I don’t go chase her in there. I wait, like a good boy. Or, really, like a dinosaur of the cock-a-saurus rex variety.

  She’s magnificent in all her nearly naked glory, and even though I was panting like a dog to see her in the apron, her switcheroo worked.

  Hell, did it ever work. I tug at the neck of my shirt. I try in vain to adjust myself in my jeans.

  No luck. Her effect on me is stubbornly self-evident, and I’m damn sure I’m not going to be able to erase the image of her barely covered body from my brain any time soon.

  Nor do I want to.

  Shoes click against the hardwood floor, and she emerges, stopping at the end of the hallway, gesturing to her new ensemble. “Is this better?”

  A small black apron covers her front and her belly, reaching down to mid-thigh.

  I walk to her and take yet another liberty when I get there, running a hand down her bare arm. “Everything you wear looks amazing, and if you ever open the door in lingerie, or in this, whoever is lucky enough to be on the other side is going to be one happy motherfucker.”

  A slow smile spreads, and her eyes stay on mine. Like she doesn’t want to look away.

  “Thank you.” Her words are soft and breathy, and they ghost across my skin, weaving around me. She takes my hand, squeezes. “I mean it, Gabe. Thank you. For all of this.” She waves around at her house, and I furrow my brow.

  “What do you mean?”

  She takes a breath as if she’s fortifying herself. “For letting me try new things.”

  My heart vaults out of my chest, skidding at her feet. “You don’t have to thank me.”

  She swallows. “But I do. You’re my friend, and that means you make me feel safe, but somehow, you make me feel beautiful too. I don’t know how you do it, but you do.”

  I close my eyes for a second, processing her words. It’s no mystery to me why I make her feel beautiful. None whatsoever, but I need to demystify it for her, and soon.

  I shake my head, trying to form words.

  “What is it?” Her voice rises.

  I take a breath, look at her again. It’s hard to look away. “Thank you for trusting me to be the one you try new things with.”

  “There’s no one else I’d want as a guide.”

  No one else.

  The one.

  That’s what I want. For all her explorations to begin and end with me. “But there is one more thing you wanted to try, I believe?”

  “What is that?” Curiosity weaves through her tone.

  I make a circling gesture with my finger. “Turn around, Arden.”

  A wicked grin takes hold of her mouth and widens. She spins halfway.

  I point to the living room wall. “Hands against the wall.”

  She bends forward, dipping into a beautiful, enticing L. I move behind her, sucking in a harsh breath through my teeth as I enjoy the peek at her ass, her cheeks barely covered by the lace panties.

  “Ready?”

  “So ready.” A tremble moves through her body, and it’s the most sensual thing I’ve ever seen. It’s evidence, the physical manifestation of all I’ve been seeing in her eyes these last few days. A true and real desire. All I can think about is whether one quick slide of my hand to cup her between her legs would reveal if she’s on the edge too.

  But that’s not what I said I’d do.

  Instead, I raise my hand then lower it, swatting her ass.

  “Oh!” she yelps.

  I rub my hand over the flesh. “Did it hurt?”

  She nods. “But do it again.”

  I laugh. “You little junkie.”

  I swat her other cheek then soothe it with my palm.

  I’m so damn tempted to plant a kiss on those pink cheeks. To grab her luscious ass and squeeze hard. But this will have to suffice, and if I’m doing it right, I’ll leave her wanting more.

  I give one more swat then grab her waist, yank her up, and whisper, “Now feed me, woman.”

  And that tremble? It turns into a full-body shudder.

  I don’t know how the hell I’m going to make it through this meal.

  I’m so sad.

  I completely understand the sad panda saying now.

  Because Arden is now dressed.

  She’s serving dinner in . . . wait for it . . . clothes.

  Cue the tears.

  But the chicken stir-fry she’s made is heavenly, and I can’t complain about her cooking.

  I try to remember my dad’s words—focus on the friendship. But now that I’ve seen her in a bra and panties—dear God, has a bra and pair of panties ever looked as good on a woman as they do on her?—I can’t unsee it.

  Can’t unsee the apron either.

  Can’t unsee anything.

  Nor can I unhear the thank you.

  The vulnerability in her voice. The way she wanted me to know that what we’ve done—and not done—matters to her.

  “Do you realize how useful you’d be at the end of the world?” she asks as she picks up the plates at the end of the meal.

  I grab them from her and take them to the sink. “That’s random. Why are you asking that?”

  “You have real skills. You can put out fires and build them.”

  “You think I should become an arsonist at the end of the world?”

  “I’m just thinking about the things the ladies at the book club said today.” She turns on the faucet.

  “What did they say?”

  She tells me about the conversation, and her voice is pitched higher, and that’s when it hits me. She’s nervous.

  I move in behind her and turn off the water. “Let’s do the dishes later. Let’s just sit and talk now.”

  “About the end of the world?”

  I shake my head, grab the bottle of wine along with two glasses, and guide her out of the kitchen and to the living room. We sit on the couch.

  “Tell me more about the ladies in the book club.” I pour two glasses and hand her one. She loves talking about work, so this should ease her mind.

  She takes a drink. “They’re these bawdy sixty-somethings. They’re funny and bold, but they’re real too. They talk about how they feel and what they think. I love that they read everything from memoirs to romance to dystopian lit.”

  “Sounds just like you. You’re an omnivore reader.” I down some of the sparkling wine, and it tickles my tongue.

  “That’s true. Maybe that’s partly why I connect with them. But I also do because of their friendships with each other. It reminds me of how I want to be in thirty years.”

  “You want to be a bawdy lady in a book club?”

  She nods. “I do. I want the people I’m close with now to still be in my life. To still be part of my story.”

  Her meaning isn’t lost on me. She’s talking about her girlfriends, but she’s also talking about me. I’m not sure how to give her the reassurance she needs, so I keep it broad.

  “You will be. I’ve no doubt about that. No one is writing anyone else out of their story.”

  She drinks some more, stares at the window looking thoughtful, then turns back to me. “Sometimes I want to ask the ladies for advice.”

  “What would you ask them?”

  She lowers her voice to a feathery whisper. “If they think it’s crazy that I want to do a striptease for my best guy friend.”

  I laugh, loving the direction she’s heading. “I’ll answer on their behalf.”

  “Will you now?”

  “The
answer is most decidedly no. It’s not crazy.”

  She raises her glass, offering a toast. “To friendship. We can stay friends, right? Even if you see me in nearly nothing?”

  “I want that badly.” To stay friends and to see her in nearly nothing. The trouble is, I want a third thing too, but I’ve no idea if she does. I’m confident she’s physically in the zone, but I don’t know if her heart is hanging out even remotely in the same vicinity as mine.

  She stands, sets down the glass, and tells me she’ll be right back.

  And because I know her, I don’t turn on “Pour Some Sugar on Me” or “Back in Black.” Grabbing my phone, I find Norah Jones on Spotify, because it’s sexier, because it’s mood music, and because I’ve heard her play it before.

  I lean back against the couch, and soon her shoes echo against the floor. Holy smokes.

  The pink dress is gone, and in its place is the black apron with the pink bow. But she’s changed something else too. Her hair is pinned up high on her head in a clip, and she stops in front of me.

  Jesus Christ. My throat is dry. Parched, even.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Want a dance?”

  “Fuck, yeah.”

  She turns around, raises her arms above her head, and sways.

  That’s all she does.

  No gyrations. No twerking.

  She moves her hips back and forth, but it’s not a striptease. It’s more like I’m looking through a peephole, witnessing a woman in her room, dancing alone, her eyes closed, music pulsing in her veins. This dance is more sensual and erotic than I imagined. It’s like I’ve been invited into her private thoughts.

  She leans her head back and runs her hands down her sides.

  She’s stunning. Her ass wiggles in front of me, but she’s not going for an in-your-face-with-a-G-string move. She’s simply grooving to the music.

  “How’s that?” she whispers, tossing her gaze over her shoulder at me.

  Our eyes connect, and in hers I see vulnerability and passion at the same damn time.

  “It’s so fucking sexy.”

  She smiles, and it’s a new kind of smile. Daring and pleased. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Desire charges across my body in sharp, hot spikes as she turns around, bends forward, and places her hands on my knees, giving me a perfect view of the swells of her breasts.

  Dear God. Her tits are exactly where I want to bury my face. All night long.

  “That’s so incredibly arousing,” I rasp out.

  “I know,” she murmurs. She stands tall again and slides her right hand down her breasts toward her legs, and I go up in flames.

  She reaches behind her, unties the apron at her neck, and lets the top fall, revealing . . .

  A new bra.

  This one is white lace, and it’s even better than the last. It suits her. She’s a woman made for white lace.

  I lick my lips. I want to be smothered in the lust I’m feeling for her.

  She unties the apron at the waist and tosses it at me.

  I catch it, laughing, grateful for the momentary relief from the gallons of sexual tension flooding my body and brain.

  “Nice catch,” she says.

  “I still have some baseball skills.”

  “Maybe next time you can show off your other skills. Do a fireman thing. Like a fireman stripper.”

  “That can be arranged,” I say as she pivots, giving me a fantastic view once again of her ass, half of her cheeks exposed in her white panties.

  She takes a step, looks back at me, then loses her footing. My hands shoot out, and I reach for her as she stumbles into my lap.

  The music still plays, but it’s as if the house has gone silent. The quiet enrobes us, wrapping us in decision time.

  My hands are cinched on her hips.

  I don’t say anything.

  She doesn’t either.

  Instead, she inches closer, scooting nearer to me.

  A cue.

  I let go of her hips, lift my hands to her hair, and unclip it, letting it fall in gorgeous blonde strands down her back. She gasps.

  I move her hair to the side and press a soft kiss to her neck. A groan works its way up my throat. “Arden?”

  “Yes?” That one word is full of so much desperate need.

  It’s time to let her know that yes is what I want from her. That yes is how I feel.

  “Whatever comes next, I don’t want to mime it.”

  34

  Arden

  I’ve never thought of myself as a risk-taker. It’s not that I’m scared of taking chances. It’s that I’m a plotter. When I’ve made big choices—where to go to college, how to open a business, when to buy a home—I’ve done all my homework.

  I’m a person who likes to prep. Technically, I can say I’ve prepped for this possibility during the last week.

  But I’m most definitely taking a risk.

  A huge one.

  One my body is positively begging me to take.

  As I turn my face toward Gabe, it’s not only my body urging me on. It’s my heart. It thumps loudly against my chest for him. This man has earned it, and I want him to have my heart, my mind, my body.

  I don’t think he was trying to win me, but the race is nearly run, and I’m pretty sure my heart wants to cozy up with him. He’s kind and funny and good, and so damn sexy. He takes care of me, and he pushes me when I need it. He’s a friend, but he’s so much more, and I want the here and now, and I want the after.

  My chest tightens, though, because I don’t know if he feels the same.

  Even so, I’m going to dive in.

  Risk our friendship.

  Risk my heart.

  Sometimes, desire is stronger than logic.

  Hell, maybe it is all the time.

  I turn around, straddling him, and I clasp his face in my hands. His eyes glimmer with beautiful desire, with a lust that ignites me from head to toe. How is it possible to be more aroused? But it is, and I am. I’m dying for him. For this man I shouldn’t be falling for except that it’s too late. I’ve fallen for him, and I want more than one night.

  This might be a mistake, but I’ll deal with that in the morning. I can’t stand the thought of losing him as a friend, but right now I can’t stand the thought of this night ending either.

  Everything crackles between us, like the air before a lightning strike. We are the lightning strike. He licks his lips, and the need to kiss him is maddening.

  I’ve been building up to this moment, to speaking my mind, to feeling empowered. I am empowered as I tell him exactly what I want. “Let’s give in tonight. Because I want to kiss you so much I might go insane.”

  His lips part on a sexy groan. “Let’s give in and go mad together.” His hands lace through my hair, and in a second, in the span of a heartbeat, they’re curled around my head, and he’s pulled me close, his mouth claiming mine.

  We kiss.

  It’s not slow. It’s not an exploration. It’s a supernova, a burst of light and heat. He claims my mouth, and I claim him right back, kissing ferociously. We are fierce new lovers, taking, giving.

  Wanting.

  His hands rope through my hair, and I hold his face, my thumbs running over his stubbled jawline as we devour each other’s mouths.

  Our tongues skate together, our breaths mingle. Excitement blares through me. This is what he promised. This is what I’ve sought. To be kissed into blissful oblivion. And I want him to know. I want to tell him. Somehow, I extricate myself, my breath coming faster. “Blissful oblivion,” I murmur. “That was most definitely blissful oblivion.”

  “It was. And I’ve wanted it for so long.”

  “You have?” My voice rises with wonder. Has he wanted me before this one-week project? I’ve never considered that. Never thought that was a remote possibility.

  He tugs me closer. “So goddamn long. I want you so much. I know you want to be friends, but right now . . . to
night?” He takes a beat, stares into my eyes. “Let me be your lover.”

  No words have ever thrilled me more. A surge of pleasure races through me, settling between my legs in an insistent hum. I can’t think about what he means by how long because all I can think is right now. “Yes,” I moan, and I dive back into the kiss.

  This time it’s more than a kiss. It’s a grind and a press. It’s a prelude to fucking.

  I rock my pelvis against him, feeling the hard outline of his erection, pressing my breasts against him, seeking contact everywhere.

  My thoughts go foggy. They’re nothing but a haze of pleasure.

  His hands slink around my back, and he unhooks my bra, my breasts falling free. He pulls back, and a hiss falls from his mouth—a hiss of appreciation—as he gazes at me. “Have I mentioned you ought to be worshipped? Do you know how that feels?”

  “Show me.”

  He lowers his mouth to a breast, licking and sucking and driving me out of my mind. He lavishes attention on each one, and I’m keenly aware that my good friend has my boobs in his mouth . . . and yet, it feels so unbelievably right.

  So unbelievably good.

  Like it’s meant to be this way—friendship on fire.

  I’m aching everywhere, exquisitely and desperately. Every flick of his tongue, every groan from his lips makes me throb more. “Gabe.”

  He lets go with a hungry sigh and looks at me with sapphire irises full of heat.

  I flash back to our night on the rocks by the water. He started then to teach me to dirty talk. I’m a quick study, and he lit the match, kindling the fire already in me.

  But there was something I didn’t practice saying that night.

  Something I’ve been dying to say.

  To him.

  I bend closer, brush my lips against his. I’m drunk on desire, I’m high with lust, and most of all, I’m floating on this newfound brazen confidence he helped me discover.

  I don’t know what to do with the way my heart leaps toward him. He’s the man I’ve fallen for, but I’ll have to sort that out tomorrow.

  Tonight, he’s my lover.

  I run my thumb along his jaw. “Fuck me hard.”