The Only One: A One Love Novella

by Lauren Blakely

  At last, he puts me out of my exquisite misery, and I whimper as he slides his fingers across me. “Oh God. Oh my God.”

  His shoulders shudder, and he pushes closer to me, his lean body pressed against my side as his fingers find a fast and glorious rhythm, sliding across all my slippery wetness, seeking my swollen bundle of nerves then driving me wild.

  My eyes squeeze shut, and my body burns white-hot. My vision blurs, and it’s as if I’m buzzing with electricity.

  Noises and wild sounds fall from my lips. And from his, too.

  Yes, please. So hot. Come for me.

  He doesn’t have to ask twice for that.

  I’m nearly there. I was on the edge back on the dance floor. I was hovering when he pushed me to the wall. Now I’m climbing up that last cliff. As his finger flies over my clit, he thrusts another inside me, and I dip down on his hand, seeking more friction. I’m so far gone I barely know where I am anymore. My knees buckle, and he grips me tighter so I don’t fall. In seconds, all the rapturous sensations twist inside me, and I shatter.

  I break, falling apart into pieces of beautiful, lovely bliss.

  I’m not quiet.

  I cry, and I moan, and I sing out his name, and that hand behind my head clamps down on my mouth, covering up my loudest cries. Ripples of pleasure flood every corner of my body. I pant and I moan, and when I somehow find the ability to open my eyes again, he’s grinning at me like he has a naughty secret.

  He lets go of my mouth.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re even more beautiful than I remembered.”

  “I am?”

  He nods. “Yes, but especially when you come.”

  I smile dopily. “Guess I got to have dessert tonight after all.”

  He grins. “Three out of four then.”

  Then I reach for him. But when I rub my palm over his erection and say, “Let me,” he shakes his head.

  “No. I want to torment both of us.”

  And when I go home that night, I want him more than I ever did before.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gabriel

  The next night we go to the Museum of Modern Art. As we wander through the paintings, we talk about the places we’ve been and what’s to come.

  “Tell me where you want to go when you explore the world again,” I say as we stop in front of a Magritte.

  She nibbles on the corner of her lip, not answering right away. Then she says, “Kyoto, to see all the temples. Prague, because it sounds like a city of fairy tales. And the Maldives, for when I want to be someplace where I can’t be found.”

  I file away her answers, storing them safely in the drawers in my mind, which have now been reopened to her. It’s as if I’ve stumbled upon a photo album that I once thought lost for good, only now there are new pages, new pictures, new memories to make. “Are you trying to escape from the world, Penny?”

  She shakes her head as we round the corner. “Not lately. But if I wanted to escape, I’d want to be in one of those idyllic huts over the water,” she says, sweeping her arm out wide. Her eyes sparkle as she talks. “You know the kind?”

  I nod, picturing a trip to a faraway island. “Where the water is crystal clear, and the sand is like sugar, and the sky stretches in an endless expanse of blue.”

  She sighs contentedly. “Yes. That. Take me there.”

  I loop an arm around her waist. “I’d take you anywhere.”

  And then I kiss her, deep and hard, in front of a Kandinsky. She tastes like caramel and memories and all my dirty dreams.

  When the security guard standing in the corner clears his throat, we move along, snickering as we go. “Too bad this isn’t a sculpture museum. I’d tug you behind some huge statue and have my wicked way with you.”

  She tsk-tsks me. “Defiling a noble institution of art as part of your torment plan. I’m shocked.”

  “We were always quite accomplished at PDA, if memory serves,” I say, running my hand along her spine as we stroll through another gallery. “Remember Papabubble?”

  She stops and cocks her head, seeming to slide back in time. Then her eyes widen. “The caramel shop. Oh my God, the caramel shop.”

  “You loved caramel. You said it was your favorite.”

  “It is.” She drops her voice to a whisper, angling closer to me. “You practically had your hand in my skirt while they were making candy behind the counter.”

  “Practically?” I say, acting offended at her recounting of the time I circled my hands around her waist, and then lower still, during our visit to the artisanal caramel shop in Barcelona. “I’m pretty sure it was actually.”

  A faint blush sweeps over her cheeks. “Only for a moment. I couldn’t last like that in public. I swatted your hand away.”

  I hold mine up in surrender. “That made me so sad.”

  “Maybe that’s why you pounced on me when we got back to your room.”

  “Your lips tasted like caramel, and you looked like the sweetest sin. How could I not?”

  Her eyes dance with naughtiness as she moves closer in a sexy challenge. “And now? How do I taste?”

  “I’d like to find—”

  But I cut myself off when a mother marches into the gallery with two redheaded grade-schoolers in tow. Penny straightens and points her thumb at a red-and-black-splashed canvas. “Jackson Pollock. Overrated? Underrated?”

  Bringing my hand to my chest, I feign humility. “I am but a lowly chef. How can I judge an artist like him?”

  She scoffs. “Lowly chef, my butt.”

  Not covertly, I peek at her ass. “It is a lovely ass,” I say when the trio is out of earshot. “Have I mentioned that?”

  “No. Feel free to sing its praises,” she says, then reaches for my hand. “By the way, I don’t think you’re a lowly chef. From what I’ve read, you’re quite a superstar, and from what you made for me the other day, I’d say all the accolades fit.”

  I squeeze her fingers. “Thank you. Maybe you’ll let me cook for you. Just you.”

  “Let you?” She arches a brow. “How about I demand you cook for me?”

  “I’d love to.” Then I circle back to something she said the other night. Calling me a playboy chef. “Do the other names bother you? The things that have been said about me?”

  She exhales as if she’s considering it. “At first, yes. But not anymore. I’m really trying to just focus on the here and now with you and me. Not what happened in between then and now.”

  “Not anymore? Are you sure?”

  She nods, resolute. “Yes. I’m sure.” I hope she means it. The other night she flung those words at me like insults. I understood she was hurt, and I’d probably have done the same if I were her. Even so, I want what’s happening between us to be about us.

  “I’m doing the same.” I tap my temple and wink. “Besides, my brain has played this fantastic trick on me. It blots out any thought of what you’ve been doing from the moment you left Barcelona until you walked into my restaurant the other day.”

  She laughs. “Nice trick.”

  “It is. It’s like this complete blankness. I love it,” I say, because I hate the thought that any other guy has had his hands on her. I’m not a jealous man by nature, but the mere possibility that anyone else has ever touched this woman inflames me. It’s not realistic to think she’s been a nun for ten years, but I vastly prefer pretending I’m the only one who’s been with her, ever.

  Yes, that probably makes me a dick.

  Perhaps I am on this count.

  She shakes her head, bemused. “Yes, Gabriel. I’m as pure as the driven snow. Just like the day I met you.”

  “Perfect answer,” I say, then I drop a quick kiss on the tip of her nose.

  After we spend far too many minutes kissing in front of a Matisse painting of a goldfish, we decide it’s best to take our brand of PDA out of the museum. We leave and get into the long, sleek car I had waiting for us at the curb. The driver pulls away, and before he s
lides up the partition I tell him to just drive.

  “Speaking of taste…can I torture you now?” she asks, and I’d be a fool to deny her request.

  “I believe I’m amenable to your brand of torture.”

  Soon enough she’s unzipped my jeans and taken me into her mouth, and I’m not ashamed to say it hardly takes me any time at all because she looks like a goddess.

  My goddess.

  My beautiful woman with her long hair spilled over my thighs, and her red lips wrapped around my hard length. My hands cradle her head, and I guide her up and down, telling her how fucking good it feels the whole time. I groan as I stare at her, her head bobbing between my legs. Her tongue is divine. Her mouth is heavenly. And when she drags her teeth the slightest bit along my shaft, the angels of blow jobs weep with approval.

  Because holy fucking heaven, Penny goes down on me like she loves it, and God knows I love the sight of her, the feel of her, the smell of her. And especially the passion of her—how much she seems to want to do this. She moans as she moves along my cock, and she makes such beautiful sounds—her murmurs, her groans, her noises of pleasure as she sucks me off.

  My breath hitches and pleasure burrows deep into my body. Then, the desire grows more intense, more wild, more furious. My hands grip her tighter, clutching her head as I fuck her beautiful mouth.

  Penny and I were never short on passion when we first met. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. I still can’t get enough of her, but I also find we’re freer this time around. She never went down on me like this before. She was younger, more exploratory. Now, she’s wilder and hungrier, and it’s fucking alluring.

  I groan her name as I stare at her greedy mouth, stretched wide with my cock.

  So fucking good.

  So fucking hot.

  You.

  My God, you.

  My thoughts turn baser and my words are no longer English. Soon, they’re no longer words, just grunts and growls and noises as Penny licks and sucks me into a state of divine fucking ecstasy.

  When I come in her mouth, my orgasm barrels through me, torching my blood and radiating in my bones.

  Not just because she gave me an epic blow job. Because she gave it to me. This woman captivated me once, and she’s done it again.

  I am so far gone with her, and I don’t want to ever turn back.

  * * * *

  Tina’s raised eyebrow tells me she doesn’t believe me.

  As I slide the fresh basil to her and point to it with the knife, I defend myself once more. “Of course I have no problem giving up other women,” I say, incredulous she’d suggest otherwise.

  “You say that now…”

  “Seriously. Why do you doubt me? Just because I’m a big fan of women doesn’t mean I’m incapable of being with just one woman.”

  As she slides the blade over the leaves, she says, “The whole ladies’ man persona is part of your identity. Not just as a man, but as a chef.”

  “Where do you come up with such insanity? Do I need to cancel the rest of your cooking tutorials for uttering such blasphemy?”

  “You’d never do that to me,” she says firmly, setting down the knife and pinning me with a daring look in her wise eyes. “Who else would be this blunt with you?”

  I laugh. “Fine. You’re lovely and blunt. But what is this nonsense about my identity?”

  Her voice softens. “Your star rose right along with your popularity with the female sex. You’ve said it yourself. Perhaps not in those exact terms, but it wasn’t hard to figure out. As soon as you were on that show and your restaurants grew more popular, the women flocked to you in droves.”

  She’s not wrong when she says women and success have gone hand in hand. Yes, it’s true that perhaps my rise as a chef paralleled a jump in attention from the press when it came to my dating, and an increase in my exploits, and a lot more women. “And that means…what exactly?”

  “That your affection for women isn’t just about women. I think a part of you believes your success is tied to the entire persona the show crafted for you. They molded you as the sexiest chef. And the question is this—once you’re attached, can you still wear that crown?”

  I scoff, dismissing her idea. Cooking is my love, and if I didn’t believe in my deepest heart of hearts that I was meant to do it, single, married, or otherwise, I wouldn’t have slaved over a burner and a skillet and a kettle for countless hours. “I love the theory, but the fact is, even if my professional and social identities have been intertwined, I have enough faith in my abilities to know the customers will show up regardless.”

  “Good.”

  “Besides, the past is the past, right?”

  She answers me with a smile.

  It better be. The past really better be behind us.

  Chapter Twelve

  Penny

  Later that week, I head downtown to Gabriel’s restaurant. When I turn onto Christopher, I spot the red wooden sign hanging above the door like a beacon. Funny how a little more than a week ago, I marched down this street, steeling myself, unsure what to expect. My armor strapped on, I was girded for battle.

  Then, I was thrown for a loop when he didn’t appear to recognize me.

  Now, as I walk to his eatery to finalize plans for the event this coming weekend, a mix of confidence and happiness surges in me. It’s such a welcome change from the last time I was here. When I press my palm on the glass door, I enter as the woman he wants, the woman he can’t let get away.

  But something in me seizes up when I see a mane of blond hair and hear a woman laugh.

  “Wait till you try the blackberries, though. You’ll be making a blackberry cobbler tonight for sure,” she says, her voice like a cat’s purr.

  Tension flares in me when my eyes settle on the back of Greta’s head and her long curtain of hair. She’s chatting at the bar with Gabriel. The restaurant is quiet now, since it’s not yet lunchtime. A swoop of dark hair falls over his eyes, and for a moment I picture her reaching out a hand, as if she’s going to brush it away for him.

  Jealousy burns white-hot in my blood. A fantasy unfurls, one of leaping onto her back, grappling her hair, and scratching her eyes out.

  “I do enjoy a delicious blackberry cobbler,” he says to her, and that’s when I should launch my attack. Go airborne. Full woman-on-woman ambush. I rise up on my toes, and if I’ve got the angle right, I can fling myself on her, tackle her to the ground, and claw her away from my man.

  But that’s not what happens next.

  Because what happens next has nothing to do with her or with him.

  It has to do with me.

  Taking a breath, I shoo away my errant thoughts.

  I trust Gabriel, but more than that, I trust myself. There was a time when I doubted what I deserved in life, when I wondered if I was unlovable because he’d stood me up. But over the years, I made choices and I made changes. I sought out the kind of life I wanted to live. Yes, I’d been hurt when he didn’t show. Deeply, terribly wounded. And for a long time, I’d shut down. Maybe I didn’t let myself fall too far or too deeply for anyone else.

  And I’d believed I was protecting myself from hurt.

  But I know now that’s not the reason I never fell for another man.

  As I look at Gabriel, my heart thumping with a wild madness, the reason is this—my heart was given to him long ago.

  And now, he has it fully—because of me and the choices I’m making this time around. To trust him. To believe in us. To have faith that he’s with me.

  I choose to believe that even if she flirts with him, it doesn’t change who he wants.

  He still wants me.

  And I want him.

  Even if he makes a comment about blackberry cobbler, he’s not going home with her tonight. He’s taking me to his bed.

  And I don’t care who he’s been with before, or in between, or how many women have wanted the “sexiest chef.” When he glances away from the produce purveyor and his eyes
meet mine, they light up in a way that rocks my world.

  There’s no past that can come between what was meant to be.

  Us.

  His amber eyes shimmer with happiness when he sees me. They don’t just light the room—they power the whole city. I’m the one he’s making dessert for.

  With a grin I can’t hide, I walk up to him, say hello, then extend a hand to Greta. “I’m Penny Jones. I run Little Friends. Nice to meet you.”

  A smile lifts on her pretty face. “Oh my God. I have a dog from Little Friends. A tiny little Min Pin who is a complete lapdog prince. So good to meet you.”

  My smile might now match hers. “I’m glad to hear that. What’s his name? What’s he like?”

  Greta pulls out her phone from her pocket and proceeds to show me a photo of her little dude, reclined on a chenille throw with his paws crossed elegantly. She says she calls him Prince Harry, since she always had a thing for Princess Diana’s second son.

  “Perfect name for him,” I say, as I mime stroking his chin on the phone photo. She laughs and then coos at her boy.

  Gabriel wraps his arm around me and brushes a quick kiss to my cheek, murmuring something soft and sexy in my ear. Then he turns to the other woman while gesturing to me. “Greta, Penny is the woman I was telling you about yesterday. The one who got away. The one I once thought I lost.”

  Greta beams. “Seems she’s been found.”

  Gabriel grips me tighter. “And I couldn’t be happier. Especially since I think she’ll like the dessert I have on the menu tonight when she comes over for dinner.”

  My heart does a jig. “I can’t wait,” I say, my voice a little breathy.

  Greta pats Gabriel’s shoulder, then slides in closer to give me a hug. That’s when it hits me—she’s just one of those people who likes to touch. Who likes to talk. I’d invented all those worries I had after the first time I met her. I’d crafted a story for her that was solely my imagination, fueled by my doubts from the past. Those doubts have been put to rest, and the reality is that Greta is a lovely person.