by Lila Monroe
“They’re amazing,” Selena assures me cheerfully. She’s wearing a white tank top that says bride across the boobs in curling gold script and a pair of Lululemon leggings, spotless white Birkenstocks on her feet. “I swear by them.”
“I mean, it sounds great!” I lie delicately. “I think I’ll probably pass, just because I generally try to, you know . . . keep my blood in my body when at all possible? But thanks for the offer!”
Turns out, all this relaxation is exhausting. By the time I’ve been buffed and exfoliated and had every last impurity brutally squeezed from deep within my pores, I’m ready for a nap. But Selena’s got an appointment in the oxygen chamber—which to my untrained eyes looks more like a primitive treatment for polio than a beautification tool, but what do I know? So, I take the opportunity to sneak over to Wes’s office with some lunch to surprise him.
“Hey there, Counselor,” I greet him, knocking on the open door of his office and holding up the takeout bag. “Are you busy saving the world with emergency injunctions, or do you have time for a break?”
He grins across the his desk. “I think I can take time out of these thrilling contract proof-reads.”
I close the door behind me and sashay over to him, perching on the desk and pulling him in for a sizzling kiss.
That gets his attention. Wes groans happily against my mouth, sliding his hands around my waist and tugging me closer against him. I revel in the taste of him and how perfect he feels in my arms, hot, and hard, and . . .
Very hard.
I quirk an eyebrow. “Really?”
“I mean . . .” Wes gives me a rakish grin. “If you want?”
Oh, I want.
I teasingly unbutton the top of my sundress. “Full disclosure: I’ve always had that fantasy of a guy sweeping all his papers off a desk and throwing me down.”
Wes chuckles. “I’m all for some throw-down, but this contract is like three hundred pages long, and it’s not stapled.”
I consider the massive stacks of paper cluttering his workspace. “I mean, fair enough,” I concede, before helping him move it all onto the top of the filing cabinet, keeping everything in order so he doesn’t lose his place. “I’m not an animal.”
But once the contract is safely set aside? All bets are off. It’s fast and fun and reckless, Wes bending me over his desk and yanking my dress up and my panties down, driving me crazy with his fingers before sliding deep inside of me. I gasp at the thick, hot stretch of him, bracing my hands against the desk and arching back against him. He thrusts hard, slipping his hand around to toy with my clit until I’m moaning.
“Shh,” he mutters, sounding amused. “Quiet, now. Someone will hear . . .”
Oh, fuck.
It’s hot and illicit and only makes me crazier. I grit my teeth to keep from screaming, my climax crashing through me hard and sweet as Wes finishes with a shudder, his hands gripping my hips so hard, I know there’ll be marks there tomorrow.
“Christ,” I manage, gasping for air. “That was incredible.”
Wes laughs hoarsely, planting a cluster of gentle kisses along the nape of my neck. Both of us are laughing, gasping, dizzy over it. “You’re incredible.”
We straighten up and pull ourselves together. I smooth my dress down and check my compact mirror to make sure my expression doesn’t say, I just got fucked hard against a desk.
Wes tucks his shirt back in his pants. “Any chance of an encore performance later?” he asks. “We could go to dinner first, maybe get some ice cream?”
“I wish,” I sigh, “but I’ve got a bachelorette thing for Selena. A friend of hers rented out the penthouse at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
“That should be an adventure,” he says, and although his tone is light and teasing, in the second before he rearranges his expression, I think I see him frown.
“Everything OK?” I ask.
“Huh? Oh, sure,” he says quickly. “There’s just a lot happening right now. Multi-tasking.”
“Yeah, this wedding is a lot,” I agree. “Still, your bosses should be happy, right? They wanted a Selyder happily-ever-after from the start.”
Wes nods, still not looking thrilled. “I know,” he says. “And I’m happy for them, it’s just . . . I don’t know. Do you think they’re really a good fit for each other?” he asks.
I laugh, I can’t help it—after everything that’s happened, he’s worried about this now? That horse has well and truly bolted from the stables. “You sound like me,” I tell him with a grin. “But I don’t know. Maybe I judged this one too quickly? People can change and find their way back to each other. I mean, look at us.”
Wes nods slowly, though he doesn’t look entirely convinced. “I guess.”
“On top of which, it’s a little late to be worrying about that now,” I add, smiling. “The wedding is in”—I check the time on my phone—“twenty-eight hours.”
He blinks. “That’s . . . soon.”
“It is.” I tilt my face up for a kiss. “I could come by after the bachelorette party,” I offer, batting my eyelashes a little. “You know, in my party clothes . . .”
That gets a smile out of him, just like I knew it would. “Twist my arm,” he says, and he kisses me again.
I meet Brooke and we head over to the bachelorette together. “Brace yourself,” she warns me. “Last time I catered one of these, they had the entire cast of the Magic Mike stage show giving lap dances—totally naked.”
“Consider me braced,” I say, but as we walk in the penthouse suite, I let out a sigh of relief. No buffed, oily men, just a room full of fluffy pillows and more candy than the gift shop at Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Apparently, the theme is a nineties sleepover, complete with brightly colored silk pajamas sets for each of us and a game of “Pin the Penis on Timothée Chalamet.” I stick close to Brooke, who as far as I can tell is the only other mere mortal in a sea of glossy actresses, models, and influencers. “Do not leave me by myself with these people,” I mutter through gritted teeth.
“Live together, die alone,” Brooke murmurs back.
Selena’s friends turn out to be surprisingly friendly, though, and the party is way more fun than I would have thought. I help myself to a cocktail that’s supposed to taste like Hawaiian Punch and is basically a hangover in a champagne flute—“It’s zero-calorie!” Selena calls happily, and I raise my glass in a toast—and join Brooke in a dramatic rendition of “Shake it Off” as part of a Taylor Swift karaoke tournament.
Eventually the conversation turns to the wedding, and then to boy drama in general, and I sit back, listening as Selena’s friends chatter on about their various romantic entanglements. I meant what I said to Wes in the car the other day: I thought I’d seen basically everything over the course of my career as the Breakup Artist, but these girls are truly next level. One of them was being paid to act as a beard for a famous pop star who was secretly gay—or thought he was, until they fell in love and it turned out that possibly he was just bi-curious, but the whole thing was too much for him and he abandoned her to find himself at a yearlong silent retreat at an Ashram in a remote part of India. Another, minor royalty from a small country in Eastern Europe, thought she’d finally met her soulmate—she thought he was her cousin, which wasn’t a deal-breaker, but then she found out he was her half-brother, which was. And a third let herself get fixed up with another one of her agent’s clients specifically so that they could stage a spectacular, headline-grabbing breakup, only then she caught feelings and has been having her manager make excuses for why it’s not the right time—“career-wise, of course”—for over a year now. “I could use your help, actually,” she tells me. “Selena says you’re the best when it comes to breakups.”
“You are?” another girl perks up. “Because I’ve been trying to tell my sugar daddy adios forever, but he’s not getting the hint!”
Soon, I’m swarmed, handing out my contact details as fast as I can. And, yes, some self-promotion is always a good th
ing, but I can’t help feeling kind of sorry for these women, as beautiful and glamorous—and, OK, rich—as they all are. It sounds exhausting, to have your love life be on show like that, people always watching, and I feel a wave of relief that I found Wes again after all this time. I feel like I can just trust him, and be myself when we’re together, and listening to these girls tell their stories, I realize how rare that is.
There’s a knock on the door. “Who could that be?” Suzie trills, her voice high and exaggerated in a way that can only mean one thing.
“Oh, God, no,” Brooke groans.
“Oh, yes.”
Sure enough, when the door swings open, a group of beefy dudes in full Magic Mike costumes come bursting into the hotel suite. “Somebody call for a show?” one of them asks, as Ginuwine’s “Pony” starts pumping through the in-room surround sound.
Selena shrieks in delight, waving handfuls of dollar bills as the guys break into a choreographed dance routine and proceed to rip their jeans off in perfect unison.
“I think that’s my cue,” I murmur to Brooke. “Want to make a break for it with me?”
To my surprise, Brooke shakes her head. “I don’t know, these guys are actually pretty good,” she says with a smile. Then, off my raised eyebrows: “What?” she asks, all innocence. “Just because I’m not about to order anything doesn’t mean I can’t peruse the menu. Tell Wes I say hello,” she adds with a wink.
I make my escape and grab an Uber over to Wes’s apartment, watching as LA streaks by outside the window, all neon and glamor and cool night air. He answers the door in jeans and a white T-shirt that’s been washed so many times it’s almost translucent; I can hear Springsteen playing quietly on the sound system inside. “Nice party clothes,” he says with a smile.
I look down at my silky purple PJs. “You’re lucky I’m not wearing short-alls and a hat with a giant sunflower hot-glued to the brim,” I retort, then I hold up my gift bag from the bachelorette. “I come bearing snacks—although I have to tell you, I think everything is probably low-cal and gluten-free.”
“Thank God,” Wes deadpans. “I’ve been really worried about how I’m going to look in my bridesmaid’s dress.”
He leads me through the apartment, grabbing a bottle of wine from the kitchen and a big cozy throw blanket off the end of the couch. He opens a pair of French doors, revealing a small terrace overlooking the courtyard. The space is just big enough for a pair of lounge chairs, which Wes pushes together, for us to snuggle under the blanket and sip our wine.
It’s magical. I can hear the fountain burbling away down in the courtyard and the sound of someone playing the guitar in the distance. “My neighbor,” Wes explains. “He’s in a band.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Anybody I’d know?”
“Maybe,” Wes grins, “but I’m not going to tell you who because he’s hotter than me and I don’t want to lose your interest.”
That makes me laugh. “Doubtful,” I say, reaching out and squeezing his hand. Wes takes the opportunity to pull me close, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, and we sit in easy silence for a few long moments. I can feel his chest moving as he breathes, the steady rhythm of it familiar as home. “It’s peaceful here,” I say, tilting my face up to squint for stars. “Like a little oasis right in the middle of the city.”
I feel his smile more than I see it, the curve of it warm against my temple. “You know I hardly ever come out here?” he asks.
“Really?” I look over. “Why not? If I had a space like this, I’d use it all the time. I just have to perch on my fire escape any time I want to grab some air.”
Wes grins. “I guess part of it is that I work so late most nights. A lot of times I just come home and crash in front of the TV with some takeout.” He gives me a squeeze. “And part of it is I guess that I haven’t had the right person to sit out here with.”
I snuggle in a little closer, breathing him in. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m happy to come take advantage of the perks of your swanky apartment any day of the week.”
I was right about the snacks from the bachelorette party—most of them taste like air and sadness—but there’s a bar of amazing dark chocolate tucked in at the bottom, and we share it as we snuggle there together, the music still drifting up from his neighbor’s apartment. “Did you ever play an instrument as a kid?” I ask. “Piano or anything like that?”
Wes shakes his head. “I mean, just the recorder.”
“That counts!” I laugh.
“I . . . do not think it counts.”
“It totally does,” I insist, still giggling. “Actually, did Ryder ever book the wedding band? Maybe you could ask to sit in with them for a set.”
“Oh, you’re hilarious.” Wes nudges me playfully, then he gets quiet. “So,” he says. “Speaking of the wedding . . . Do you think you’ll head back to New York right away? Or . . . would you want to hang out on the West Coast for a while?”
My heart does a little flip. I’ve been wondering what’s in store for us once this whirlwind Hollywood wedding is over. I want to spend more time with him, but this is all still so new; I don’t want to rush into anything.
“I mean, the bachelorette party was full of girls who need to break up with their loser boyfriends,” I joke. “I could definitely spend some time out here if I wanted.” Then, more to the point: “If you wanted.”
Wes nods. “I want,” he tells me, low with intensity.
I kiss him then, melting happily against him. Wes pulls me into his lap, so I’m straddling him, the blanket draped over both of our bodies. He kisses me again, deeper this time, unbuttoning my pajama top and slipping it slowly off my shoulders. His fingers trace every inch of me, so soft and teasing that I’m gasping for more, shivering at every touch.
“Somebody’s going to see us,” I whisper even as I go to work on his T-shirt, stripping it off and smoothing my hands along the hot, hard planes of his chest.
Wes smiles, molted and tempting. “Nobody can see,” he promises, and it’s dark enough that he’s probably right. Still, I need him so badly and with such sudden desperation that I don’t know if I’d stop even if it was broad daylight in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard.
God, I want this man.
We shimmy out of the rest of our clothes, my PJ pants hitting the floor in two seconds flat. He works the clasp of my bra as I reach down between us and curl my fingers around the length of his cock, covering his mouth with my other hand when he gasps.
“Shh,” I tease him as he bites gently at my fingers. I echo what he told me at his office. “Someone will hear.”
Still, I barely hold back a sigh as I guide him inside me, sitting upright on top of him. Wes’s eager fingers play over my nipples, stroking them into stiff peaks. The quilt slips from my shoulders, baring my back to the courtyard, the cool night air, and to anyone who might care to see us, but I’m too far gone to care. “Please,” I whisper, my voice hoarse and unfamiliar. “Please.”
The orgasm is slow this time, the build of it seemingly endless before all at once it bursts. It feels like it goes on forever, pleasure flooding from the center of my body down through my fingers and toes. Wes follows me a moment after, his muscles tensing and relaxing as he muffles the sound of his groan against my neck.
We stay on the terrace for a long time once it’s over, the sweat cooling on our skin and our breath syncing up, deep and even. The guitar has long since gone quiet, the steady thud of Wes’s heartbeat the only sound I can hear. I don’t want to move; I don’t want to break this spell.
I want this feeling to last forever.
19
Katie
It’s just after dawn when I blink awake the next morning, yellow-pink California light spilling across the mattress and a steaming cup of coffee waiting for me on the bedside table. I sit up and take a grateful sip, closing my eyes in pleasure—at the warmth of the drink, at the morning-after looseness in my muscles, at the sheer fact of being here in this apartm
ent with a man who leaves a mug for me on the nightstand.
Life is good.
Finally, I climb out of bed and pull one of Wes’s T-shirts over my head. I follow the scent of frying butter into the kitchen, where I find him standing at the stove, a stack of fluffy pancakes on the counter beside him.
OK, let me correct myself: Life is great.
“Well, hello there.” I lean against the doorway, unable to keep the smile off my face. “So this is your game, huh?”
Wes grins back, his bedhead looking adorably ruffled. “A man needs to have some skills. Something to offer a woman.”
“I’ll say.” I pluck a blueberry from the bowl on the counter, savoring the sweet burst of the fruit in my mouth. “What other tricks have you got?”
“This is pretty much it,” he grins, ladling the batter into the pan and sprinkling a few berries on top. “It’s my dad’s recipe. He always used to make pancakes for breakfast on big days.”
“Big days?” I say absently, busy admiring the way he looks standing there, shirtless in sweatpants, a spatula in his hand. Then my eyes widen. “Oh my God! Today is the wedding!”
Wes snorts. “Today is the wedding,” he confirms. “Did you forget?”
“I didn’t forget, exactly,” I insist, moving to slip my arms around him from behind. I can smell him, soap and sleep and my own perfume sticking to his skin. “I just got distracted, is all.”
“Ah, I see.” Wes turns around inside my arms so we’re face to face. “Any chance I can distract you some more?”
“Uh, yep.” I pop up on my tiptoes and brush my lips against his. “You sure can.”
I’m about to suggest we stick the pancakes in the oven to keep warm and head directly back to bed when my phone dings on the counter—once, twice, then three times. “Speaking of the wedding,” I say when I glance at the screen. “That’s Selena.”
