The Lucky in Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  My brain short-circuits, and my body goes haywire.

  She’s too sexy for my own good.

  She’s curvy in all the right places and trim in all the other ones. Toned and tight, with tits I need in my mouth.

  “I’m not going to force you to do anything.” Her voice is smoky.

  I clear my throat, trying to wrestle some control over the situation, but I’m pretty sure I have none as she walks toward me, impossibly sexy and with just enough gloss on her pouty lips to make me want to kiss it all off.

  She leans against the arm of the couch, crosses those toned legs, and tells me to join her. I move next to her, my skin sizzling at how damn close we are and how much closer I want to be. She swipes her finger on the screen and taps on a clip of the best movie kisses of all time.

  “We can try reenacting Gone with the Wind, Ten Things I Hate About You, and even Spiderman, which would be tough to pull off but could totally win us the contest on account of how hard it is to do an upside-down kiss in the rain. Or we could do Dirty Dancing, when Baby crawls across the floor to Johnny.”

  “Sure,” I say, my voice gravelly because I don’t care which one we do. I want them all. I want her.

  She shows me the reel, and it’s a blur because I’m thinking of her body and the way she smells and how she looks. Soon enough, she shuts the cover of the iPad and tells me to sit on the floor like Swayze did in Dirty Dancing. She turns around, gives me the naughtiest look over her shoulder, then walks a few feet away. She swivels back, drops down to her knees, and proceeds to crawl to me.

  Across the floor.

  This is the best roomie situation ever. She’s the perfect housemate. Yeah, come sit on my face. Come ride me.

  She reaches me, meets my lips, and kisses me so softly and sweetly, it blows my mind. My dick would like to be blown too, and he’s announcing his desires loud and proud.

  Perri slinks closer, deepening the kiss. She swipes her tongue against mine and ratchets this moment to a whole other level. She’s fierce and fiery, and she kisses me with an intensity that makes my cock swell and my desire shoot through the roof.

  I want to take her right now. Have her right here. Fuck her on the floor, on the couch, anywhere, everywhere.

  She’s insistent and in control, even on all fours, kissing me. She rises to her knees, and my desire shoots to the sky. Touch me now, I want to growl, and maybe my wish is going to come true, since her hands are on a fast track for my crotch.

  But they land on my thighs.

  And you know what? That feels pretty fucking good too. She presses her palms hard on my legs, inching close to my cock as she kisses me.

  “The other night,” she whispers, breaking the kiss.

  “Yeah?”

  “After the forehead kiss. When you went upstairs and you had nothing on . . .”

  “What about it?”

  “Did you get yourself off?”

  I groan. “Damn straight I did.”

  She murmurs. “You, in bed, jacking off. Hot.”

  “You can come help me tonight,” I rasp, shuddering as lust surges through me. As I picture her finding me, joining me, wrapping her hand around my dick.

  I’m burning up with a wild longing for her. I grab her wrists, drag her even closer. Her eyes drift down to my hard-on, tenting my shorts.

  She licks her lips. “Will you be jerking this perfect dick in your bed in a little while?”

  Holy hell, she is the vixen of my dreams with her filthy little mouth. “I’d much rather you do it for me.”

  Her lips curve up. “I bet you would.”

  “You want to, kitten?” Fuck resistance. Fuck ground rules. I need to fuck her.

  “I’d love to . . .”

  I’m ready to pull her up, toss her over my shoulder, and carry her upstairs. “Now. Let’s go now.”

  She smiles like that’s all she wants in the world. Then the smile transforms. Naughtier, more mischievous. She lets go of me, sighs contentedly, stands, and brushes her hands down her thighs. “That was great practice.”

  What the hell? Is she high? Is she tripping on something? Because there’s no way she said that.

  I rub a finger against my ear. “That was practice?”

  She blows me a kiss. “Of course. Just like the times you teased me. No mercy, remember?”

  I burn with frustration. I’m amped up to the moon. I’m a lethal combination of aroused to the ends of the Earth and annoyed to the center of it. I point at her. “Don’t forget the no sympathy part. That means you, woman. You want to play this game? Then you are on.”

  She lifts her defiant chin. Nibbles on the corner of her lip. Arches an eyebrow. “Bring it.” She winks, sways her hips, and saunters down the hall. When she reaches her door, she turns around, slides her hand down her chest on a fast track to her waist, then lower. She teases her fingertips against the waistband of her shorts.

  My dick tries to chase after her, the rest of me army-crawling behind it if need be.

  “By the way, I’ll be in my room, naked and thinking of you as I replay that.” She dips her finger inside her waistband before she spins around.

  A second later, her door clicks shut.

  Payback isn’t a bitch. Payback is a hard-as-stone dick that’s desperate for attention and not getting it.

  Screw silver-screen imitation.

  Forget my own attempts at air smooches, old-fashioned lip-locks, and any other kind of kiss.

  It’s time to throw out the playbook.

  That’s what I intend to do, before I detonate from lust.

  23

  Derek

  I’ve applied pressure on wounds. I’ve felt pressure to pay bills. But I’m learning a whole new meaning of the word as I imagine Perri while I ride to work, as I picture her between calls, as I see images of her lush body flash before my eyes no matter what I do.

  During a break, I hit up Merriam-Webster to make sure I’m clear on it. There are a handful of definitions for “pressure”: “the action of a force against an opposing force,” “the stress or urgency of matters demanding attention,” and “a sensation aroused by moderate compression of a body part or surface.”

  That all sounds about right. But there’s one missing—the stress of wanting your roommate naked, under you, calling your name . . . but too bad, sucker, because you’re engaged in a war of resistance with her.

  Yeah, this pressure is a fresh category of dick affliction. Doctors will soon determine it’s worse than blue balls. It’s the albatross of horny men everywhere.

  The pressure spreads to my lungs, making me think of her with every goddamn breath. It expands to my brain, where every bit of gray matter is stuffed with thoughts of her.

  Her face, her body, her mouth. All I want is to touch her, have her, taste her.

  Even work doesn’t distract me. The gym doesn’t erase her from my mind. A shower certainly doesn’t do the trick.

  And an evening blowing bubbles for Molly and the baby and shooting hoops with happy-go-lucky Travis does zilch to move the implacable space she’s commandeered in my head.

  The pressure only intensifies.

  When I leave Jodie’s and return to the house I share with the woman I crave like oxygen, like water, like food—well, that was a dumbass decision living with her, wasn’t it?—I’m finished playing games.

  Because the doctors say there are two treatments for this disorder.

  One is ending the flirtation.

  The other is ending the flirtation.

  Maybe I started the kissing games, but I’m going to finish them tonight.

  When I walk through the back door, I call her name.

  No answer.

  Dragging a hand through my hair, I huff, ready to blow a gasket. I’m a geyser. I’m a fire hydrant. Something has to give.

  I head to the kitchen, grab the chalkboard, and write a note, scratching so hard I nearly leave gouges in the blackboard. I step back and stare at the seething letters. Even my han
dwriting looks charged.

  I stomp upstairs, grab my book, and dive into a story of a small town upended by a violent crime and disturbing supernatural forces. The escape from my reality only minimally calms me.

  After nine, I hear the lock click. A key slide. A door open.

  My heart rate speeds up. I close the book.

  Dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and my bare feet, I go downstairs. As she drops her purse to the counter, she flicks on only one light, so the kitchen is barely illuminated. The light-blue dress she wears is elegant and sexy at the same time.

  It accentuates every curve of her body, every inch of her figure that I want to explore. But she could wear a grocery store bag, and I’d still want her. This desire for her is more than physical. It’s burrowed deep, much deeper than how she looks. I wanted her the moment I met her, and the more I’ve come to know her, the more profound the longing has become.

  “Were you with Arden and Vanessa?” I ask.

  She startles then turns around. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “You’re dressed for women.”

  Her lips curve up. “I am.”

  I walk to her, saying her name in a rough voice, ending the small talk. “Perri.”

  The moonlight casts half her face in a silvery glow. “What is it, Derek?”

  “Read the note.”

  She peers at the chalkboard.

  Practice is over.

  She looks back at me, a new vulnerability in her green eyes. Maybe even concern. “It is?”

  I cross my arms so I’m not tempted to touch her. There will be no coaxing hands or whispering lips. This is about choice—choosing what we do next. No more games.

  “I’m going to be direct here.”

  “Okay. Be direct.” Her tone gives nothing away.

  I nod at the board. “We’re done practicing.”

  “I can see.”

  “The game has changed.”

  “Has it?”

  The time for bluffing has passed. “All my cards are on the table. This is how it’s going to be. The way I see it, this flirtation needs to end.”

  She squares her shoulders, lifting her chin. “Fine.” She says it like the tough girl she is.

  “It can end one of two ways.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It can end cold turkey.”

  She winces but nods. “Fine.”

  “Or it can end the other way.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Let me lay it out.” I point to her hallway—her do-not-go-down-it hallway. “You can go to your off-limits room and do what you did last night. You can slide your fingers inside your panties and get yourself off.” Her eyes widen like I’ve nailed it. “You can pretend it’s me licking you or sliding inside you or whatever you imagine. And you can come that way tonight.”

  A breath rushes from her lips. She licks them, raises her chin, and whispers, “And the alternative?”

  I let my gaze linger on her face, then I take my time perusing the rest of her. Hard nipples, quickened breath, eyes darkened with desire.

  “The other option is this.” I gesture to the steps. “I go upstairs, and you follow me a minute later.”

  “And what happens upstairs?” She’s so damn direct it arouses me further. Because it suggests she’s done with the games too.

  “Up there, the games are over. No more resistance—no more toying. We give in to this.” I gesture from her to me. “We give in to what’s been happening from the second you pulled me over. I haven’t once stopped wanting you. I want you more every day. You’re under my skin and in my head, and right now, I need to fuck you. And you need to fuck me.”

  Her breath hitches. “Is that what I need?”

  “Only you know. But you sure look like you want to get on my cock and ride me.”

  She gasps.

  I step closer. “And that’s where I want you. But you also look like you might need me to put you on your hands and knees and slide into you, fucking you so damn hard you scream.”

  “That’s what you’d do?” She’s breathless, and her hand flutters over her chest.

  I give myself another up-and-down tour of her body. “Or you might look like you want me to spread your legs and devour your sweet little pussy with my mouth and tongue.”

  “Those are a lot of options you’ve just laid out,” she says, a little flirty, a lot dirty.

  I grin. “Consider it lady’s choice tonight. You come upstairs, and you can take your pick from the No More Practice menu. I’ll be waiting.”

  She hums, and it hits an octave I’ve never heard till tonight. “Is that what happens in the room above the garage?”

  I lift a hand and finger a strand of her hair. She trembles as I touch her. “Come find out.”

  24

  Perri

  There are hard decisions. There are easy decisions. And there are no-brainers.

  When Derek leaves, I don’t say one, two, three. I don’t employ patented techniques of discipline. Nor do I turn and head the other way.

  I simply hit replay on his last words.

  Come find out.

  I listen to those three words over and over, letting them ripple through my body, linger on my skin, and turn me on and on.

  It’s like he’s flipped open the lid of a jeweled chest of desires, and he’s luring me with his invitation to explore the treasures inside. I want to know everything it holds. I want to head upstairs, turn the corner, and find him in bed.

  I want to discover him, and to find us, because I’m dying for him.

  But there’s more than mere lust at stake—that, I can manage on my own, thanks to fingers and wands and twelve-speed friends in my nightstand drawer.

  This is different.

  This is a longing deep in my bones. It shows no sign of leaving. Because I care for him so damn much.

  I like him for more than the body, the face, and the jawline. I like what’s inside. I like what he says. I like who he is.

  Maybe that makes the trek upstairs a dangerous idea. In fact, it probably is. But I don’t want to play games anymore either. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, I leave the kitchen, cross the back hallway, and open the door to the stairwell.

  I stop at the bottom stair, letting my eyes adjust to the dark. I know these steps. I’ve walked up them. But tonight, they seem to lead to a whole new world. An after-hours den where passion is the offering, where pleasure is the currency, where coming together is the one and only goal.

  In my black heels, I take the first step.

  Then the next.

  With each click of my shoes, I shed my worries. I dismiss the hurdles—he’s my roommate, I need to focus on work, I’m not interested in relationships.

  I kick over those roadblocks as I go.

  We’re mature adults, and we’re choosing this tonight—we’re choosing the feel-good factor—and all its risks. I’m choosing what I’ve wanted from the start. I wanted all of him in the waffle truck.

  I reach the top step, and it’s silent. So quiet and still. I listen for his breath, for a word, a groan.

  All I hear is my own hammering heart. I keep going, turning the corner into his room—a wide-open space with a big bed and moonlight streaming through the windows.

  He’s lying on top of the covers, eyes closed, hands parked behind his head.

  I half expected to find him with his hand wrapped around his cock, shuttling his fist.

  But he’s waiting.

  Like he promised.

  Waiting for me. Wearing his jeans and T-shirt.

  It’s my turn. It’s my move.

  I make it.

  “I found you,” I say into the dark. It feels like I’m speaking for the first time in my life. Like words have eluded me till this moment.

  His eyes float open, landing on me. Even from across the room, they’re blazing with lust. “So you did.”

  Kicking off my heels, I glance around. He’s barely moved in. “I like what you’ve done with
the space,” I say, joking.

  He pats the bed. “This is the best part.”

  I stare at him for a minute, taking in his long legs, his strong thighs, his flat stomach, and the scruff covering his jaw.

  He gazes back, his lips a straight line. It’s still my turn. He’s shown his hand. The rest of the night belongs to me, and I have to decide what cards to play next.

  I go all in, pushing every chip to the middle of the table as I slide off a strap of my dress. Trembling, I ask, “Will you take off your shirt?”

  He’s up in an instant, tugging his T-shirt over his head in that sexy way men do, tossing it on the floor and stalking over to me.

  Roughly, like I want it, he grabs my head, curls his fingers around my skull, and tugs me close. “Get all your clothes off, kitten. I need you naked, and I need it now.”

  In a flurry, we’re pulling, tugging, unzipping. There is no slow dance, no striptease. I push down the other strap of my dress and take it off, while he unsnaps the button on his jeans then shoves them down, kicking them off.

  My eyes eat him up, savoring the visual feast of his body. His strong arms covered in art, his firm pecs, his insanely defined abs. And then there. The birds on the V that leads to what I want. His hard-on strains against the fabric of his black boxer briefs, showing off the most delicious bulge I’ve ever seen.

  My mouth waters, and I ache between my legs. My hand darts out, cupping him.

  He growls. “You like that, kitten?”

  “Love it,” I murmur as I stroke his hard length. But as much as I savor touching him like this, I want him in the flesh. I push down the waistband, and he shucks off the briefs the rest of the way. His cock is beautiful. Long, thick, hard. Pointing at me.

  He gazes at my breasts, barely hidden in lavender lingerie. “Look at you. Just fucking look at you.” He stares at the demi-cup lace bra and tiny matching panties, fire flickering in his brown irises. “I knew you wore panties like this. I almost don’t want to remove them, but I have to get you naked.”