by Lili Valente
Timing is learning to listen to her needs, her wants, her wishes, so he can make her writhe with pleasure so sweet it’s almost painful. And don’t even get me started on orgasms. Those precious, life-bestowing detonations of pleasure require the precision of an atomic clock.
You have to know exactly when to thrust harder and deeper. When to grind and when to glide. When to lick, touch, and stroke.
You only get out of something what you put into it, so when it comes to making sure my lover’s satisfied, I leave it all on the field. I’m a gentleman, at least in that regard, and a gentleman always makes sure a lady comes first.
And hard.
And often.
But timing isn’t only paramount in the bedroom, it’s critical with professional choices, as well. You must take the proper steps at the proper time to ensure success.
And success will be mine. Again. But this time, on my terms.
I stayed the course when I was younger. When I graduated from university, I did what was expected, plugging away in the family business. But when I hit my goals, it was time to pivot.
And pivot I did, from London to New York City.
It might seem a huge risk to up and move across the pond, but I’ve been prepping for years. Everything is in place, and now the stars have aligned and the timing is right. I’m in New York, ready to execute my precisely laid plans.
And then a gorgeous, brilliant, Rubik’s-Cube-wielding redhead sashays into my life. There’s no other way to describe the way this woman moves—like life’s a dance and she’s relishing every minute of it.
Too bad it turns out she’s the last woman I should be dancing—or anything else—with.
Timing is everything. And this timing is about to go tits up.
1
Gigi
The new cases were installed today, and they look amazing.
The pie specials are prepped for tomorrow and Calliope is coming in early to start the ovens so I can sleep in.
The money is counted, the shop is spotless, and all is right with the world.
I pat the counter and blow a kiss to Sweetie Pies as I go. “Love you, darling," I say, dragging down the metal gate in front of the door and locking up for the night.
As I head down the sidewalk, I remind myself of all the good things in life. It’s a nightly ritual I’ve done since I was a little girl.
I have my friends. My brother, Harrison. My gram. And the most fantastic business and customers in the entire world.
And it’s party time!
I can’t remember the last time I went to a party. Or the last time I stayed out past ten o’clock. Much like a real offspring, my bakery baby requires certain sacrifices. I’m out of bed at five most mornings and up to my elbows in dough by five fifteen. I moved to an apartment a two-minute walk from Sweetie Pies in order to be closer to my darling girl. I love being able to stick my head out my kitchen window and see her sitting safely there on the corner, looking adorable and delicious.
Ruby teases me about being a helicopter pie shop parent, but I just feel better when the things and people I love are close.
If I had my way, Harrison and Gram would move into the apartment above mine and Ruby and her true love, Jesse, would move into the empty building across the street from Sweetie Pies.
Or they could have moved in a month ago if some wretched tea-peddling human hadn’t snatched it up.
Ugh. Tea. It’s like drinking grass juice with lemon on top.
I hate it. And I really hate people who intend to sell tea and sweet treats right across the street from my pie shop.
I fold my arms, shivering as I pass the building in question, looking menacing and ominous with its “Tea and Empathy Opening Soon” sign taped in the front window.
Why? Why must competition move in right across the street at the exact moment I’m primed to achieve total dessert domination of Greenpoint and greater Brooklyn at large?
Deep breath. Everything will be fine.
The tea peddler will probably be a horrible baker who does a piddling little business that won’t interfere with mine. But as I start up the steps to my apartment, I do wish things were different.
If Ruby and Jesse had bought the place, we could have had coffee and slices together at two twenty-five each afternoon—two twenty-five being the perfect time for an afternoon treat. It’s not too close to lunch and still leaves time to work up an appetite for a healthy dinner.
Or a handful of spinach eaten straight from the bag and an only slightly expired cheese wheel you dig out from behind the butter sticks in the fridge, if, say, you haven’t had time to go shopping for yourself in ages.
As I bustle around my apartment, munching soggy spinach while running a bath and laying out my party dress, I promise I’ll do that on my day off tomorrow. Grocery shopping isn’t nearly as much fun as getting one’s nails done or popping into a favorite consignment shop to try on crinolines, but it’s a necessity.
And I do like to eat things other than pie.
Occasionally.
As a reward for consuming rabbit food, I pour myself a glass of pink bubbly to enjoy during my bath and settle in for a soak with a happy sigh.
The hot water feels heavenly on my aching, dough-rolling-taxed shoulders, and the champagne is sweet and fizzy on my tongue.
Yes, the world is still full of sensual delights that have nothing to do with breath-stealing kisses, ripping a man’s shirt off in the heat of passion, or having him turn you over his knee for a spanking.
Mmm. Spankings. Swats. Hair pulling.
I hum under my breath to the tune of the Sound of Music since these are, indeed, a few of my favorite things.
Then I do my best not to linger on spankings because I really do love a fun, flirty spanking and it’s been so very long since I enjoyed one.
Months, I think.
Many months.
Maybe close to a year?
“No. Stop. Don’t,” I mutter aloud.
I will not think of Theodore or how much fun it was to play sex games with him or how often I’ve run into him since we broke up without him even noticing that I’m in his general vicinity. I wear brightly colored dresses with huge fluffy skirts and, more often than not, a considerable amount of cleavage on display. Nice cleavage too, if I do say so myself.
But I am apparently invisible to the last man who gave me orgasms.
“Which is fine, because you can give yourself orgasms,” I say, as my red toes peek out of my bubble bath. “Better, faster ones.”
But the words don’t tempt me to slide my fingers under the bubbles and between my legs the way I would have earlier in my adventure in celibacy. These days, my best bet is to not think about sex too much, even when I’m alone. It’s just too frustrating. The last prospect broke up with me via parrot before we could get to orgasm territory, and I don’t see an end to that frustration anywhere in sight.
Yes…a parrot.
The bird squawked, “It’s me not you. Me not you. Let’s break up,” on cue. Did he train it to say that or did the parrot learn it since he said it so much?
Either way, dodged a bullet with that one. Besides, I’m looking forward to flying solo to this party tonight. It’s so much easier to dominate at Rubik’s Cube, giant Jenga, and other assorted classic games without a guy around judging my nerdish tendencies.
Maybe someday I’ll meet a man who enjoys being nerdy together.
Ha. Maybe I’ll ride a unicorn to the party too.
Forty minutes later, I’m breezing out of the subway into the cool night air in front of The Library, one of Brooklyn’s hottest live music venues. It features a stage and dance floor surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, including a historical romance section with a take-a-book-leave-a-book policy—be still my bookish heart.
But tonight, the floor isn’t filled with thrashing punks or swaying hipsters in jeans too tight for real dancing. Instead, gamers surround tables spread with Scrabble, Clue, or Monopoly, a giant J
enga game dominates the stage, and—most tantalizing of all—the Rubik’s Cube twist off tournament begins at nine. It looks like most people are competing in teams of two or three, but I’d rather go solo than risk being paired with a novice who will bring down my time.
I’m not just nerdy, I’m competitive about it.
I sign up for the second heat, wiggle my fingers for good luck at the line of cubes on the edge of the stage, and head for the bar to grab a coffee.
With one glass of champagne under my belt, I can’t afford to further dull my senses, not if I’m going to win bragging rights—and the Master of The Cubeiverse T-shirt I’ve had my eye on since word of the party popped into my social media feed.
I’m leaning into the bar, shamelessly offering a glimpse of cleavage in hope of luring the busy bartender my way, when I hear it.
The voice.
A rich, deep, sexy-as-hell British voice asking for a Scotch on the rocks.
It’s a voice made to melt panties and weaken resolve. That alone is nearly enough to make me rethink my vow to remain married to my pie shop and leave dating to women with more tolerance for assholes and their feathered friends.
I shift to my right, sneaking a peek at the owner of the voice, and I am…lost.
Utterly lost, helpless to resist the magnetic pull of a thirtysomething, dark-haired man with Henry Cavill broad shoulders, the profile of a Roman warrior, a beard I want to feel against my face, and the plushest lips I’ve ever seen on a man, perfectly full and absolutely kissable. And on this massive, sexy beast in a three-piece suit—clearly custom made to accommodate his staggering broad-shoulder-to-trim-waist ratio—that mouth is perfect.
He’s perfect.
And just like that, I decide that he will be mine.
At least for a night.
Tonight, I will claim Rubik’s Cube victory and the pleasure of this gorgeous human’s company. Tonight, Gigi James is coming out on top.
Or on top and bottom and up against the wall and as many other positions as we can fit in between now and tomorrow morning.
2
West
I didn’t come to this party to meet a woman.
I’m here because my friend Graham texted me earlier today. It’ll be fun, he said. You can’t spend all your time in the States with your nose in your business. Plus, it’s a great way to say an ironic ‘see you later’ to all those dating games.
With that closing argument, I was sold. Dating shouldn’t be a game, but lately I’ve run into more than my share of women playing the prove yourself to me game, the hard-to-get game, and the if he texts first, he’s a chump game.
For fuck’s sake—how is that even a thing?
Yet, it is.
Since I’m so very done with figurative games, I said yes to real ones.
But right now, all I want to say is “Hello cleavage. So lovely to make your acquaintance.”
To think I nearly missed this chance encounter. If I’d sidled up to this bar a few minutes earlier, I might have missed this beauty in the purple dress—a dress that suggests the how does one get a woman out of a dress with so many tiny buttons and buckles game.
Thank you, kismet, for ensuring I was waylaid by an old schoolmate who’s still deep in the investment banking scene. I haven’t seen Nigel since uni, but he couldn’t wait to tell me how much money he was making and to flaunt his Vacheron Constantin watch as we chatted.
He almost clocked me in the nose with it. Twice.
Yes, I get it. You spent nearly $200,000 on a wristwatch. Good on you. And your wife just bought a Bentley.
Or perhaps it was a designer hedgehog. I can’t remember, and it hardly matters.
There’s a reason I rarely spend time with people who are obsessed with making money.
They’re dull.
But gamers? And not just any gamers, but vintage gamers? These are my people, and games belong at a party.
Graham’s off with his wife playing Jenga, which I think is a euphemism for foreplay. But with the two of them, everything is a euphemism for foreplay, as it should be when you’re disgustingly happily married.
But that’s all for the best since here I am face-to-face with the most stunning woman I’ve seen in ages. I hope she’s brainy too.
I noticed her the moment she walked in—the way she owned the room, the confidence in her stride, and in her smile too. A woman who’s unafraid to come to a party solo—that’s so damn sexy.
Like the rest of her—her curves, her smooth, creamy skin displayed by that fantastic dress with a bustier that’s doing everything a bustier should do.
Boost the assets.
All the assets. If they aren’t each an overflowing handful, I’ll eat my pocket handkerchief.
Her hair tumbles in soft, auburn waves over her shoulders, and her blue eyes shine with shameless appreciation as she meets my gaze, as if she’s just tasted the most delicious treat.
It’s a damn good look on her.
Especially when the tip of her tongue flicks out to lick the corner of her glossy pink lips, ever so briefly.
Yep, I’m not going anywhere else tonight. She’s where I want to spend the rest of the evening. Especially when I notice her earrings, and just like that, I know we have something in common.
With an elbow against the bar, I lock eyes with her, savoring the twinkle in hers. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but if you’re in need of a Rubik’s Cube partner, I can finish in under a minute.”
My opening line is a thrown gauntlet, and her lips curve up into a grin I want to kiss. “Well, what do you know? So can I,” she says. “Though I’m pretty sure that’s the only time when finishing in under a minute is something to boast about.”
“Exactly. I’m all for endurance and stamina in other areas. Like…swimming, for example,” I deadpan.
“Or reading?” she tosses back.
I tap my chin, considering. “Yes. A long read is a lovely thing. Or perhaps a twenty-four-hour ballroom dancing competition?”
She brings her hand to her chest, fingers splayed across the beautiful cleavage I can’t wait to worship with my mouth. “You’re speaking my language, mister. Those are some of my very favorite things. But I do believe you left out one important activity that requires stamina.”
I knock back some of my Scotch. “Ah, but did I? Perhaps I was simply being polite.”
“There’s no need for that. Especially since you say you have,” she waggles her fingers, her nails decorated in a bright ruby red, and whispers, “magic hands.”
Any cuber worth his salt should possess those.
“Oh, I absolutely do.”
The bartender hands her a coffee with a, “Here you go. Black and strong.”
She flashes him a grin. “Thank you. The only way to drink it.”
I beg to differ. The best way to drink coffee is to…not drink it. Ever. It’s a wretched beverage, but now is not the time to say so.
She lifts the mug and takes a swallow, leaving behind an imprint of her gorgeous lips on the white stoneware. When she sets it on the edge of the bar, my eyes stray to the marks. “Lucky mug.”
“I could say the same about your glass of scotch, Mister Magic Hands.”
“I’ll gladly accept that nickname.”
She takes another sip as she looks me over, drinking me in as seductively as she drinks her coffee. I feel like I’m being sized up for possible devouring and, holy hell, I like it.
With a satisfied sigh, she sets down the mug again. “I think our game of choice requires a certain amount of magic, don’t you?”
“Absolutely. Assuming we’re here, then, for the same game? What with your earrings, I assumed…” I gesture in the direction of the little Rubik’s Cubes hanging from her ears.
She reaches for one, running a finger over the miniature cube in her right lobe, as if she just remembered it’s there. “You assume correctly,” she says, then lowers her hand.
I eye her up and down, appreciating he
r attention to detail. Something about the way she’s put together—the thick curls of hair, the flouncy dress with all those buttons, the heels, and the charm necklace—suggests she likes looking good for herself, not for a man.
Aside from the cleavage, it’s not an outfit designed to attract a man’s attention—it’s a little too fluffy, too girly, too quirky in a way that reminds me of my sister playing dress up in our mother’s closet when we were kids—and that’s precisely why it draws my eye.
It says more than look at me.
It says she’s a woman who knows what she likes, what she wants. Seeing as I’m a man who also knows what he wants—a woman who’s as smart and independent as she is sexy—I don’t plan on letting this one out of my sight tonight.
“But if you don’t want to go cube to cube, we could always play Scrabble, instead,” I suggest. “Keep things friendly.”
She leans a little closer and brings her finger to her lips. “Shh. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m absolutely down for a game of dirty Scrabble, but only if you show me what you can do with these first,” she says, casting a pointed glance down to my hands.
Hell, yes. The game is on, and it’s exactly the kind of game I live to play.
I knock back the rest of my Scotch. “I’d love to show you. Any chance you’d like to be my partner in the Rubik’s Cube tournament?”
With narrow eyes, she shoots back, “Maybe. But how do I know you won’t be the weak link?”
I step closer, hooking a finger gently in one of her curls. “There’s nothing weak about me, love.”
She shudders. Her breath catches. “All right. Let’s go add your name to my team. I signed up for the second heat.”
“Perfect.” I extend a hand and add, “I’m West, by the way.”
When she takes my hand, something shivers up my arm. I don’t want to say a spark zaps between us. A spark is just static electricity, and static electricity is unpleasant. But touching this gorgeous woman, even for something as pedestrian as a handshake, is…electric.
