The Start of Us: Book 1 in the No Regrets series

by Blakely, Lauren

  I cut her off. “Go down on you?” I say, and my voice is hoarse, my body swimming in desire for her.

  “Yes.”

  I bring her close to me, graze my lips from her jaw to her ear. “I would love to taste you. But what do you think about getting off at the next stop and catching a train back into Manhattan?”

  5

  Harley

  Thirty minutes later, we’re back in the city, hailing a cab, and then making it up the steps to Trey’s little studio apartment on the Lower East Side. I’ve never gone to a guy’s home. All my work was done in hotel rooms or bars or on assignment at events. But I want to be here. I want to let myself feel everything I’ve missed out on and everything I’ve never wanted to have before. I’ve never had the desire to be touched like that, to let someone feel me, slide a hand between my legs. Never in my life. The only orgasms I’ve had have been delivered solo, and I’m not a regular practitioner of self-love.

  Tomorrow everything changes, but tonight is still mine.

  And Trey feels like mine too. Like he came into my life tonight for a reason. For more than just a tattoo. For this. For this night to exist suspended and apart from everything else.

  “So this is it,” he says, flicking on a light.

  His apartment is tiny, but that’s what I’ve come to expect from New York. There’s a futon and bookshelves stuffed with paperbacks and sketchbooks. He turns on his playlist so low I can’t really make out the music.

  But it sounds like Corinne Bailey Rae, and I can’t think of a sexier kind of song.

  He takes my hand and leads me over to his futon.

  He leans into my neck, runs his nose from my throat to my earlobe, then nibbles on it. “You smell so fucking good. Do you have any idea how much I want to go down on you?”

  I shake my head in answer, even though I think I do know. I felt how hard he was earlier when we were all wrapped up together. I press my hand against him, outlining him through the denim of his jeans. I feel so risqué, so daring, but I like this wild side of me. And he does too.

  “That feels so good,” he says with a groan. But then he takes my hand off of him.

  I furrow my brow. “Why did you do that?”

  “Because this isn’t about me. This is about you. I want to make you feel good. I want to do things to you with my tongue that will have you screaming. I want to taste you. I want to be the first to know how you taste.”

  His words send heat through my body and a sweet ache between my legs. My panties are so damp already from what he did to me on the train.

  “I want you to do all those things,” I say, and that’s all it takes. His hands are under my skirt and he’s tugging off my panties.

  “Let’s get you naked,” he tells me, raising an eyebrow playfully. I slide off my skirt, and he takes off my shirt. I’m down to my bra. I hope he likes what he sees. Not because he paid for it or ordered it, but because he wants it.

  He moans and shakes his head appreciatively. “You are gorgeous,” he says, and unhooks my bra then runs his thumbs over my nipples. No one has touched my breasts before. No one. I barely know what to expect, but my body’s reaction hits me quickly. I hitch in a breath as my nipples harden, and desire spreads through me as he bends his head to kiss my breasts, while touching my arms, my belly, my thighs with his hands.

  He is memorizing me with his fingertips, and it’s making me woozy and wobbly.

  He lays me down on the futon. He’s still in his jeans and his shirt, and I’m in nothing, but I’m in heaven because he’s returned to my lips, that divine mouth of his kissing me once more. He’s soft and hungry at the same time, and it’s such a heady combination. His lips are amazing, and he kisses me greedily, like I’m a chocolate cake and he wants to gobble me, and honestly I want that—to be eaten up.

  He kisses his way down my neck, and I tense for a moment, not sure what to do or how to respond. Do I moan? But I don’t like moaning; I don’t like making noise. I’ve never wanted to make a sound before, and suddenly I’m overanalyzing every sensation. I’m losing touch with the intensity of the here and now because my mind is elsewhere. It’s back to my past, to my shame, to all the things I never wanted to hear. But then I hear him, his sighs against my chest as if I’m the best thing he’s ever had. “You are delicious,” he murmurs, his tongue tracing the tops of my breasts, and I say to myself, Screw the past. Screw the future. The only thing that exists is the present, and this is a gift. I will take it.

  Savoring every second of his soft mouth on my breasts. Reveling in the way he kisses my nipples, flicking his tongue against one, sucking gently then hard, all while running his hand along my hipbone. The feelings overwhelm me, and I simply have to give my mind a break. I put it on cruise control, letting my body take charge and make all the decisions, and my body is in love with these sensations I’ve never experienced before. Sharp, sweet waves of pleasure literally roll through me, and my bones feel alive, humming and buzzing with energy. My skin tingles in the most delirious way.

  I am breathing hard as he feathers his hands against my ribs, inching his way down. He kisses my belly, then lower, lower, hitting the top of my pubic bone. I arch my hips, wanting. So much wanting.

  He looks up, and I meet his eyes.

  “I can’t wait to make you feel good.” Then his face is between my legs and he starts with a kiss. A soft, fluttery kiss against my wetness, and I fling my hand over my mouth to capture the sound I’m tempted to make. Because oh my God, this is the softest and most incredible thing I have ever felt. Then he places another kiss against my center, and I can feel it everywhere, like a blinding wave crashing through me. I squeeze my eyes shut, and I am sure everything good in the world is happening here, right now, in my body, as he layers more hot, wet kisses between my legs.

  The press of his tongue is firm and insistent as he licks me, and I want to die from the pleasure. This rush, this thrill, this ecstasy—this is the true high. He works me up and down, and I am floating, falling, drifting along this rapturous path as he swirls his tongue across me, making me even hotter. I had no idea it was possible, but everything he does sends me higher and higher. Soon I gasp in pleasure. And I don’t try to stop the sounds I make.

  I don’t cry out, but I start to moan, keeping my voice low because I don’t want anyone to hear me. But I can’t help myself—I have never felt anything like this. This never-ending bliss, this sweet devouring as he unravels me. Sparks soar from the center of my belly to my chest to my fingertips. He’s licking me as if I’m the best thing he’s ever tasted. I hear him groan hungrily, and I think he likes doing this to me as much as I like having it done. As I thread my hands in his hair and hold on tight, I know this—he’s the best thing I have ever felt. My belly tightens, and I feel as if I’m about to shatter into a million diamonds.

  “Oh,” I moan, and he cups my ass and buries his face between my legs. Then the quickening intensifies, and I can feel it for the first time—like a wave slamming into the shore. Pleasure spins wildly through me, and I pull his hair and rock into his face. A long moan escapes me as I come for the first time from another person.

  The orgasm rockets through my body, leaving no inch of me untouched, as if I need to be wrapped in it, to feel it everywhere as I experience desire and pleasure and want for the first time. And I know what everyone is all in a lather about.

  This is why everyone wants some.

  I get it now. I understand. It’s like a cocoon of bliss, of pure, sweet, exquisite agony. As if my whole body was lit up and sparklers were shooting through my veins.

  And it’s the last time too.

  Tomorrow I start love and sex addiction rehab.

  6

  Trey

  She is blissed-out beyond any and all recognition, and I am filled with a dumb sort of pride. I did this to her. I guess she could lie about me being her first, but why would she lie? She didn’t act like she was some pleasure hound; she didn’t sidle over on the bed, lower her lashes
, and practically purr at me like other women have. She seemed all fluttery and nervous, like everything was new. Judging from the look on her face, all rosy and happy, and the heavy way she’s breathing, she can still feel the aftereffects. I curl up next to her, wrap my arms around her, and plant a kiss on her cheek.

  “I loved making you come for the first time.”

  She turns to me, that shy look on her face again. “I loved what you did to me too.”

  Minutes later, we doze off.

  Sometime after that, I can feel the empty space where she was. I yawn and open my eyes to find her tugging on her shirt and pushing her arms into her jacket.

  “You can stay the night,” I say, glancing at the clock. It’s four in the morning.

  “I should go. Tomorrow is a crazy day for me.”

  I nod, acting cool. “Yeah, me too. Big day here.”

  If she only knew why. But she won’t. She can’t.

  Then she leans over and kisses me, and I can feel the goodbye on her lips. It’s a last kiss, meant to linger, meant to carry on long after she leaves.

  “Should we…” I say, but let my voice trail off. I can’t ask for her number because I can’t do this again. If I had her number, I’d call her, see her, try to find her. I’d want more of her, and I can’t have any more.

  She shakes her head. “Sometimes I think things happen for a reason. Like, I was meant to come to your shop tonight and get this tattoo. And I think if we’re meant to run into each other again, fate will make it happen.”

  Her words feel both like a brush-off and like the truth. Like some kind of hopefulness. Maybe I will see her again someday when I am ready, when I am better, when I can have a girl like her in my life.

  “Yeah. I believe that too.”

  I get out of bed, walk her to the door, and cup her cheeks in my hands, looking deeply into her brown eyes for the last time. “This one’s for the road,” I say.

  Then I kiss her, and it’s a kiss full of regret and hope at the same time.

  Or maybe it’s a kiss with no regrets because tonight was everything it should be. One last night, one last chance, one last first kiss before tomorrow.

  When I start love and sex rehab.

  7

  Harley

  I’m a sex addict and a virgin.

  I know everything about sex and I’ve never done it, though I came close last night.

  I know nothing about love.

  I know men.

  I can size up a guy in seconds. I know if he wants my sweet and innocent side, or my sophisticated persona, or if he just wants me to shut up and nod while he talks about his day, because some just want to talk. I know how he likes it, how he wants it, and I know by the end of the hour or two if he’ll request me again.

  But those days are behind me.

  The past is the past.

  This is now.

  That’s what I have to believe as I walk into a church in Chelsea off Ninth Avenue to repent. It’s a fading white church, rather plain looking, unmarked by flying buttresses or soaring angels. The white brick is streaked with gray from soot and dirt and New York itself breezing by over the years. There’s a requisite steeple on top, unassuming, but still there pointing to the sky, and a small plaque outside the doors that declares its nondenominational-ness. Every flavor of fucked-up is welcome.

  On some nights, you can find the alcoholics. On others, the former drug abusers. On another night, this place is home to those trying to kick the gambling habit. And tonight? I will spend the next hour with people like me, who are addicted to love and sex, sex and love.

  Some to both. Some to only one.

  I know both in ways I never wanted to. But in ways I still long for too.

  That’s the problem.

  I am twenty years old and I have kissed twenty-four guys, which amounts to three guys per year since my first kiss at age thirteen. I kept a running list of their first names and how they rated. They were all zeroes or ones. Those names on the list are all the reasons why I’m pushing open these wooden doors, the brown paint cracked and peeling.

  Fitting. I am cracked and brittle too, hardened by all the things I’ve seen—and most of all, the things I’ve heard—over the years.

  I spot the first sign, and I stop in my tracks. The blocky letters wallop me with the reality that I now belong to a club I never wanted to be in.

  On a sheet of white paper, the letters SLAA (College) have been written in all caps with a big blue marker.

  How embarrassing. As if anyone can’t figure out what the acronym means. But still, I follow the arrows on the sign pointing to the stairwell, then down the musty wooden steps that creak with every footfall as they announce my descent to the basement. More signs are plastered on the flimsy brown plywood, more arrows directing me through the dark hallway, around the corner, then past another bend, deep into the bowels of the church.

  My insides are comprised of knots tightening in and wrenching around themselves, pinching all my internal organs.

  I wish, I wish, I wish that I weren’t going here.

  But I have to.

  I took the fall, and that brought me here.

  I run my fingers across the fabric of the red shirt that’s against the skin of my shoulder, tender today after my new tattoo. My reminder of who I was. But even so, the reminder on my skin is not enough to quell the nerves. They snake through me, setting up camp in every cell of my body, as I enter a standard-issue Sunday school room with thinning brown industrial carpet. Earlier in the week, this room was probably crammed with cutesy blue wooden chairs adorned with drawn angels, clouds, and fluffy bunnies. Now, it’s filled with cold, hard folding metal chairs for addicts. The walls are bare, except for a few inspirational posters: Hang in There with the kitten dangling from a branch, Perseverance with a man climbing a snowcapped mountain, and Patience with a lone woman standing at the edge of a cold beach in the winter.

  I’m five minutes early, and there’s one other person in the room. A thin woman with pink hair cut in a stick-straight bob rises and greets me.

  “Hi. I’m Joanne. Welcome to the SLAA meeting,” she says, pronouncing the name of the group like slaw.

  “Layla,” I mumble, not sure how words are even coming out of my mouth as I give her a fake name. There is no way I’d use my real name here. Besides, Layla is the name that brought me here. Layla is my other name. Layla is the other me.

  I shake Joanne’s hand. It feels smooth, and she smells like lavender, like she just put on lotion.

  “Coffee?” She smiles brightly at me, as if coffee is the answer to every addict’s deepest desires. Because it’s the only acceptable drug.

  I am a junkie. I’ll take what I can get.

  I nod, barely able to speak. I sit in one of the chairs as Joanne pours coffee from a pot into a chipped ceramic mug with the slogan When in Doubt, Don’t.

  Great. If only I’d had a collection of mugs emblazoned with Keep It Simple and Just for Today, maybe I’d never have slid down that slippery slope into Layla.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Layla,” Joanne says, flashing me another happy grin. “Do you knit?”

  Crap.

  Do I have to make small talk with her?

  She gestures to her canvas bag, spilling over with yarn, steely blue knitting needles, and what looks to be the start of a maroon scarf.

  “I’m not very crafty,” I say, and leave it at that as she talks about the scarf she is working on and how she’s going to pair it with a matching sweater. I simply smile at her without showing any teeth.

  There. I’m keeping it simple.

  I’d rather go mute for this meeting because my mouth feels like cotton and my head is a pinball machine, and the last thing I want to do right now is talk about how my life has spun out of control.

  Except for last night. Because there is one guy who didn’t make it on my list. One guy who never felt like a list. The guy from last night who inked my shoulder and kissed my body, and who gave
me something I’ve never felt before—touch without agenda. A true and real want. He didn’t want anything more from me than me. It was such a foreign feeling, but such a wondrous one.

  And I’ll never see him again.

  Soon the room starts to fill, and I keep my head down, doing everything I can not to meet their eyes. I don’t want to know what other addicts look like. I don’t want to know if they look like me. I stare at my shoes, my Mary Janes, the black buckle shiny because it’s always shiny, because that’s what made me top of the line. I was the whole package—the shoes, the plaid skirt, the white blouse, the beyond innocent look on my face.

  I hate that I miss that me.

  I miss her terribly.

  Even after last night, and all that it could have become, all the ways it was different from the past, I still miss me when I was Layla.

  The circle of chairs has been filled in with guys and girls. I scan their faces, and all I see are their secrets.

  Then my blood goes both hot and cold when he walks in. Trey, the guy from last night with the scar across his right cheek.

  8

  Trey

  This is the last place I want to be even though it’s the only place I should be.

  Seeing as how I have a permanent reminder on my face of what happens when you go too far.

  I’d be able to handle this better if I could expunge the memory of last night from my stupid head. But I can’t because she’s staked a home in my skull, and the images aren’t going away anytime soon. That girl who walked into No Regrets was the hottest girl I’d ever seen, and so damn innocent looking—a combination that killed my resolve to start over. She drove me wild, which made zero sense, since I’ve never been attracted to girls younger than me.