Asking For A Friend

by Blakely, Lauren

  “Gladly,” I say, and on the street, I kiss her hard.

  This is not a romantic-comedy kiss. This is not the kind of kiss where the hero says good night and walks down the street in the rain smiling because they had such a great date. We haven’t even had a date.

  This is the kind of kiss that goes one direction only.

  And Amy Summers is making it damn clear that this train is the express tonight.

  I’ll take a ticket, thank you very much.

  I break the kiss, meeting her eyes. “I don’t want to assume anything, but I’d really like to take you back to my place right now and work on all the different ways to make you moan like that again. How does that sound to you?”

  Her fingers tap-dance up my chest. “Dishy. It sounds dishy.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “And how about my place? It’s across the park, but my dog will appreciate it.”

  “Anything for that dom,” I say with a grin, then I hail a taxi, and I’m pretty sure it’s taking us to Bone Town.

  * * *

  Her dog jumps on me. He leaps up and down. “Did he swallow a pogo stick?”

  “No. He’s part kangaroo.”

  Bending, I scratch his chin as she shuts the door. “Hey, Inspector.”

  “Oh, just call him Attention Whore. He’s not usually this nice to strangers though. Are you wearing dog biscuit cologne?”

  I pat my neck as I stand. “My aftershave is made with kibble.”

  She laughs and grabs my shirt, jerking me close. Her humor fades, and her expression shifts to pure honesty. “Just to be clear, I really wanted Dax to be you,” she says, putting on a whisper.

  I slide my hand down her bare arm, shedding everything and giving her the bare truth. “I was hoping it was you, Amy.”

  She smiles at me, her grin a cross between giddy and give-me-some. Mine’s probably made from the same mix of emotions. The only thing absent is regret.

  Thankfully.

  Because though these confessions are making a mockery of my one big rule, I’m embracing being a rulebreaker. I savor every second that I flout my self-imposed guideline.

  I may have test-driven Boyfriend Material to take my mind off her, but my mind never strayed far at all.

  Hell, my thoughts were always on her. And even though I’m listening intently for that little voice that’ll tell me to stop, that’ll warn me that this might be a mistake, I don’t hear it at all.

  Besides, she’s not my direct report or vice versa. We aren’t shepherding any books together, and we don’t work side by side on the same projects. This is manageable, even with that little old matter of disclosure that Baldwin warned me about. But I’ll deal with that at another time.

  For now, it’s full speed ahead.

  I seal my lips to hers once more as my hands explore her body, travel down her back. I make mental notes as I go, recording everything she likes. Her shiver as my palms coast over her lower back. Her moans when they slide along her waist. That sensual gasp when I cup her breasts. I nearly lose my mind as I squeeze and knead the beauties, stroking my thumbs over the pert nipples that poke through her blouse.

  She wobbles then breaks the kiss, her hands clamping down on my hips. “You have to know I’ve thought of this so much.”

  My chest puffs out. Obviously. “Tell me all your filthy thoughts about me.”

  “They started from day one. You were so handsome, so damn sexy when I saw you in the break room,” she says, like she’s savoring the confession. She’s injecting me with so much masculine pride.

  “Yeah?” I take a step, walking her backward.

  “So hot,” she whispers. Another step. “I figured you had to be some sort of sexy motivational speaker-slash-author. Or Henry Cavill.”

  Laughing, my hands roam down her waist. “Right now, I have only one motivation.”

  “What might that be?”

  “To get you naked. Which might have crossed my mind the day I met you too.”

  “You dirty pervert,” she says.

  “And the other thing that crossed my mind was that you were going to be trouble.”

  She narrows her eyes, taking another step. “Why would I be trouble?”

  “Trouble for me. Trouble for my plans. Trouble for my head.” I sweep some loose strands of hair off her cheek then run the backs of my fingers across her face. “Because you were irresistible from the start.”

  She struggles to rein in a grin, then stops trying as we stumble in our two-step toward her bedroom. She jerks at the hem of my Henley, and I help her along, pulling it over my head. But we don’t make it down the hall. As she flicks open a button on her blouse, she pulls me to her couch.

  Sitting, I grab her waist and position her over my legs so she’s straddling me.

  I remove my glasses, setting them on her end table, and she does the same with hers.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen her without them. “Your eyes are spectacular.”

  Trembling, she whispers, “Yours too.”

  I hold her face, and for a few seconds, neither one of us speaks. We just look at each other, the intensity of the moment a taut line between us. There’s certainty too—the knowledge that we both want all the same things.

  And those things require no clothes.

  I return my focus to her blouse, unbuttoning her shirt, spreading it open, and savoring the fantastic sight of her perky breasts in a light-blue lacy bra—a sight that makes my throat go dry.

  She leans back, giving me room to explore her body, but there’s one thing I need to know. I pull at her skirt and peek at her panties, finding the answer when I see matching blue.

  “Amy,” I say, low and smoky.

  “Yes?”

  “Your bra and panties match.”

  It’s her turn to grin wickedly.

  I meet her gaze, asking in a rough voice, “Did you come to dinner planning to fuck me?”

  She laughs, then she grinds against my hard-on, and I groan so damn loudly.

  “I did,” she admits, with an owning-it shrug. “Like I said, I’ve had my eye on you since I heard you say you were faster than a family of honey badgers at demolishing a cake.” Her honesty is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. It’s such a turn-on. I grab her hips, pull her down harder against the outline of my cock, and bring my mouth to her ear.

  “Honesty will get you everywhere,” I say.

  “Good. Because I kind of want to be everywhere with you.”

  I thread a hand in her hair, wrap a chunk of it around my fist, and tug. Her lips fall open in an O, and her eyes float closed as she moans the most deliciously dirty sound.

  “But you know where I most want to be right now?” I ask.

  “Where?” Her voice shakes as I tug again.

  With every ounce of the filthy intent I feel, I tell her, “Inside you.”

  “Oh God. Yes, please. Now.”

  We are speedsters, shedding jeans, skirt, boxers, and those beautiful scraps of lace.

  After finding a condom from my wallet, I roll it on, and Amy positions herself over me, taking the reins as she rubs the head of my cock against her wetness. Rubbing and stroking and driving me wild.

  She’s so damn wet, so fantastically slick, and I want to feel that heat surrounding me. Want to feel her on me, chasing her pleasure, coming harder than she has before.

  But she’s content to play with me.

  To toy with my dick.

  With her fist wrapped around the base, she keeps up the game. Slide, play, tempt.

  I close my eyes, groaning. “You’re going to kill me.”

  “Death by a Sex Tease?” she asks, taunting the fuck out of me.

  “If that’s another one of your book ideas, you better get plotting this second . . . plot it while you ride me,” I grit out, grabbing her hips, and looking her straight in the eyes. “Because I want you so fucking much that you really need to get on my dick right now.”

  “As you wish,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows then sinking dow
n.

  As soon as I fill her, the naughty vixen act ends, and she shudders.

  Just shudders.

  Beautifully.

  She gives a full-body tremble then a rough breath, like she can’t believe it could be this good.

  Because it feels electric.

  “Linc,” she moans as she starts to move, “you feel incredible.”

  “We feel incredible.” Then I clasp her hips, helping her find the rhythm she wants, the pleasure she seeks.

  She rides me like a woman who knows her mind, who knows her body. She’s shameless and bold, owning her pleasure.

  “Use me,” I murmur. “I want you to feel so fucking good.”

  “I do,” she whispers, rising up and down, up and down.

  My hands slink around, and I squeeze both cheeks. She yelps in pleasure.

  That’s a clear order if I’ve ever heard one, and I know how to follow directions. I squeeze again, gripping the soft flesh, kneading her ass as she rides me.

  I lift a hand and swat her cheek.

  “Yessssss.”

  I smack the other one.

  “Ohhhh God.”

  She leans her head back, her hair spilling past her shoulders, her tits bouncing, and holy fuck, I’m in dirty heaven with this girl. She’s smart, funny, pretty, and fucking loves sex.

  She’s made for me.

  “Get yourself off on me, Amy. I want it. Want it so badly. Want you.”

  My words seem to unravel her, because in seconds she’s riding me harder, grinding and fucking and chasing, and it’s the most alluring sight I’ve ever witnessed.

  No.

  I’m wrong.

  When she comes on me, her lips parting; her eyes squeezing; her voice hitting the ceiling, bouncing off the walls, and sending her dog running to the other room, that’s the sexiest image in the whole damn world.

  Seconds later, I flip her to her back, thrust into her, and tell her to wrap her legs around me.

  She does, and I drive into her, desire and lust barreling down my spine, making my legs shake, radiating into every corner of my body as I seek my own release.

  But before I let go, I rope my hands in her hair and tug one more time.

  She cries out, and hell, if that doesn’t sound like she’s close again, I don’t know what does.

  I tug again, and Amy pants, “Coming.”

  Watching her second orgasm is better than watching the first.

  So good, in fact, that I don’t hold mine back. White-hot pleasure takes my body hostage, obliterating everything in its wake but this moment, this desire, and this woman.

  * * *

  Later, after she orders tacos from the best hole-in-the-wall Mexican shop in the city and they taste better than nearly any I’ve had in LA, I’m pretty sure I know where we’re going.

  “You know, Linc, you’re trouble too,” she muses as we eat on her couch.

  “Is that so?”

  “Complete trouble, but somehow a good idea at the same time.”

  “Like on par with banana bread and tacos? That good an idea?”

  She smiles. “Better.”

  Yes, I have to agree.

  Because this is what I suspected. The train didn’t go to Bone Town tonight.

  It went to boyfriend material.

  That’s where I want to be.

  And exactly where I shouldn’t.

  19

  Amy

  Did someone say good sex steals your brain cells?

  Well, if someone did, someone was wrong.

  Dead wrong.

  Apparently, sex makes you stronger.

  Smarter.

  Sharper.

  And more ass-kicking.

  I’m ten-feet tall as I stride into Tiffany Chilton’s office the next day.

  Sex, tacos, and a sleepover with a specimen of brains and beauty will do that to a girl.

  Especially when said guy offers to walk your dog for you at ten at night.

  Le swoon.

  Maybe he was just trying to get in my pants again, and if so, it worked.

  Oh hell, did it work when he returned with my pooch, tossed me over his shoulder, and carried me to my bed, where he proceeded to lavish attention all over my body with his magical tongue. Then he slid into me and wrung another orgasm out of me.

  After, I asked if he wanted to spend the night.

  He said yes and became the big spoon . . .

  Until six when he slipped out, kissing me on the forehead, saying he’d see me at work.

  That means I had four window-shattering Os, a full night of shut-eye, and a dog walker all in one.

  Praise the goddess!

  With a vanilla latte in hand, a plume of sweet steam rising from the top, I knock on Tiffany’s open door.

  Smiling, she calls me in, her eyes landing on the cup. “That better be for me. If it’s not, the meeting is over, because I’m going to hunt one down.”

  I laugh and set the drink on her desk. “It’s all for you. Courtesy of DoorDash. And straight from An Open Book.”

  She takes off the lid, draws a deep breath, and says, “Yes. I say yes to whatever you want.”

  Quinn’s words ring in my head. All you can do is be your best.

  “Well, when you put it like that, what I really want to do is publish a coffee table book called Cats Who Think They’re Dogs. Imagine all the hiking cats, and cats on leashes, and cats chasing balls who would grace the pages.” My confidence comes from humor, so I lean on it, trying to make her laugh.

  And laugh she does, then she whispers, “I have a tuxedo cat. Caravaggio greets me at the door every day with his stuffed mouse. That’s his most dog-like behavior, and I love it.” She takes a sip of the latte, puts on her serious face, then taps the cup. “Thanks again for coming to see me. And I appreciate the drink, but I want you to know I’d go to bat for you even if you didn’t bring me this.”

  I sit up straighter. That has my attention. “That’s wonderful to hear.”

  She swivels her laptop around, showing me a retailer product page from a book I worked on last year. “I’ve been watching your career, and your choices. Your books generate great reviews. And not just consumer reviews, but trade and industry ones too. Now, I know some of these are assigned to you and some are books you find, but universally, you have a more than solid track record.”

  Yes, sex and tacos and professional praise. I’ve grown to twenty feet now. More than solid works for me. “Thank you.”

  “The question is—what can you bring to Bailey & Brooks that will make the VPs want to move you into the editor position?”

  I gulp, nerves swooping right back into me. I thought they’d vacated, but their return is swift because this is my Achilles’ heel.

  Selling myself.

  Taking a beat, I reflect on the past few weeks, on my conversations with Josh and Linc, with Tiffany and Lola, and with Quinn when I brought her pickles and peaches.

  And with Dax. I was on fire with Dax, operating at my highest levels of pith and wit.

  But it’s not them I picture when I draw a deep breath.

  It’s my thesaurus. My energy source. My freaking life force.

  I don’t trot out fancy synonyms or try to entertain Tiffany the way I would a pack of middle schoolers.

  Even so, I turn to the thing that’s given me the most confidence over the years.

  My words.

  “Stories rock my world, and the chance to make them better is my jam,” I say, speaking from the heart. “I see myself as a book Sherpa, and I won’t stop climbing till I reach the peak. And I know how to reach it because words are my favorite things. They delight me. They always have. And I know how to make them shine. Take this book, for example.”

  I launch into my sample pitch for a mock book we’d want to acquire.

  I listen as she gives me feedback, then I adjust, make some changes, and try once more.

  “Great job,” she says. “Just practice a little more—you’re almost ther
e. The pitch is in six days, on Monday afternoon. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Me too.”

  When I leave her office, I’m floating on feathers, and I nearly race to Lola’s office, but she’s not there.

  And weirdly, that makes me happy.

  Of course I want to see her.

  But I also want to see him.

  I head past Rainey’s office, saying hi to Antonia and waving to the boss lady, who barely looks up, then I turn the corner and tiptoe past Linc’s office.

  He’s at his desk, on the phone, but he smiles the second he sees me and signals that he’s almost done with his call.

  I slip inside, and a few seconds later, he ends the conversation. “Hey,” he says. “How was your meeting?”

  I love that he remembered. “It was great,” I say then give him the lowdown.

  “That’s fantastic,” he says. “I knew you were going to do great.”

  “You did?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Amy Summers, you are completely captivating and charming. As long as you harness all your natural awesomeness, you’re unstoppable.”

  The smile on my face won’t budge. “Aww. You’re making me blush.”

  He narrows his eyes. “And it’s adorable.”

  I laugh, and he taps his pen on his desk, cocks his head, and seems to study me. Then he leans away from his desk, peering through the open door and into the hallway. Footsteps sound across the carpet, then fade.

  Once they do, he returns his gaze to me and whispers, “I don’t know why you ever said you’re no good at selling, because I’m sold.”

  My blush deepens. “Stop. You’re too sweet,” I whisper.

  “I can’t stop,” he whispers. “And I can’t stop thinking about last night.”

  Tingles spread all over. “Me too.”

  Another whisper, so low I can barely hear. “What are you doing tonight?”

  You. I’m doing you.

  I adopt a nonchalant shrug. “Rearranging my board games. Cleaning my cutlery. Vacuuming in my matching bra and panties.”

  There’s a rumble in his chest, and his blue eyes are fiery.

  He reaches for his phone, taps away on it, then looks up at me.