How to Get Lucky

by Lauren Blakely

  I head in her direction and wrap my arms around this beautiful woman, bringing her close. Another couple sways together several feet away, but as far as I’m concerned, my whole world begins and ends on this tiny corner of the dance floor, this space where I have zero worries about work and career and a future.

  There is no room for anything here but her and me, and how we fit.

  “Did Nate leave?” I ask.

  “Yes. He went out with some friends.”

  That answer tells me everything.

  She’s not leaving with him.

  And my body replies—I want her to go home with me.

  London leans her head against my shoulder, and I catch a heady whiff of the citrusy scent that makes me dizzy with want. I breathe her in as our bodies come together, drawn closer by this night, this song. The rest of the guests, most long gone now, were drunk on prosecco and gin. I’m intoxicated by this woman.

  We don’t speak. This moment doesn’t need words. With the palm trees rustling from a soft evening breeze and the stage lights mingling with the starlight, we move together, her arms looped around my neck.

  Both my hands cup her sculpted ass—because where else would I rest my hands?—and I pull back slightly so I can look at her face. Hard to look anyplace else.

  “This must be my lucky day,” I say.

  “Why’s that?” she asks, her eyes all soft and glossy.

  “Accidentally booked a dream gig, the event went off without a hitch, and now I’m dancing with a gorgeous, clever, irresistible woman alone on the dance floor.”

  Furtively, London glances around, tipping her chin to the other couple enjoying the last song of the night. “Technically, we’re not alone, Teddy.”

  “You want to bust me on a technicality? Or should we consider it within the scientific margin of error or whatever you call it?”

  “Science and science geeks can only explain so much. Maybe I’m your lucky charm,” she whispers against my neck.

  Luck. Is this luck? Or is want making me reckless? The club, my relationship with my boss, my burgeoning business—all are at stake.

  And yet as I slide my hands up her back, the last thoughts of Archer and my career slink off into the night like the final note of a song fading to silence.

  I run my thumb across her cheek in a gentle caress.

  She gasps, and with that sexy sound, I give all the way in. I’m not immune to weddings, to slow songs, to flickering strands of lights and warm breezes.

  “Maybe you are a good luck charm,” I say. “I should call you Lucky.”

  A grin tugs at her lips. “Did I just get a nickname?”

  “Seems you did.”

  “Better seal it with a kiss.”

  And because that is the next step of this dance routine, we kiss.

  As my lips slide across hers, the moment becomes stronger than me, stronger than my desire to play by the rules and go by the book. Her body melts into mine, and her lips part for me, inviting me in to kiss deeper, harder.

  And for longer.

  But longer would be better someplace else.

  Once our lips separate and we lock eyes, I make a choice.

  A dangerous one, but a choice nonetheless.

  “About that hypothesis you mentioned last night,” I say.

  “What about it?” Her question comes out breathy.

  “I believe I’d like to take the good-guy challenge.”

  “Let’s take it. Let’s take it now.”

  Looks like we’re both ripping up the rogue-kissing pact. Fine by me. The good-guy challenge sounds a helluva lot more satisfying.

  London helps with the lights and music breakdown, powered by that same fevered need that’s driving me, turned on beyond all reason.

  We load all the gear into my car then cruise to my condo, the traffic gods and goddesses gifting us green light after green light.

  “I only have thirty minutes,” she says in a rush as we get out. “Nate is out for a while, and Mr. Darcy turns into a barking pumpkin at midnight.”

  “Can he tell time?”

  “Yes. Breakfast time, dinnertime, and barking time, which he indulges in if he’s alone. Something I learned once when the neighbors complained when we were all out too late.”

  “Then we better be fast,” I say as we bound up the steps.

  With supersonic speed, we take Bowie and Vin Scully around the block—I’ll answer to Sherri’s arched eyebrows tomorrow—then return to my place.

  I lock the door, grateful that London still has that hungry look in her eyes.

  Pretty sure that look hasn’t left mine either.

  The energy and fire from the dance floor flicker across her irises. Though it’s more of a smolder now.

  But that’s okay. That gives me the chance to prove good guys have got it going on.

  I go for it. Not only for me, but hell—I have the honor of a lot of dudes to defend here.

  I finger the hem of her skirt. “So, this window before midnight. I bet we have just enough time to run an experiment.”

  She taps her chin, playing along. “Gee. What kind of experiment?”

  My fingers thread through her hair. “I’d love to prove to you that good guys have what it takes to be great in the bedroom.”

  She laughs lightly, but her gaze is heated. “What if I don’t want to run this test in the bedroom?”

  “Living room. Kitchen. Bedroom. A proper experiment requires a variety of controls and variables.”

  “And testing locations, it seems.” She swallows, lifting her chin. “So, what do you have in mind for the next thirty minutes? Or twenty-five, I should say.”

  I brush featherlight kisses along her neck, making her shiver as I work my way up to her ear. “Preliminary tests.”

  “Ohhh,” she says, a little shuddery, suggesting she likes where we’re going. “But we can do subsequent tests too?” she asks with a hint of sadness in her voice, and I mentally grin at her disappointment that we’re not sleeping together tonight.

  “We can do all the tests,” I say, and I slam my lips to hers, savoring her taste.

  We kiss hot and deep for several delicious seconds as I guide her back to the couch, sinking into it, pulling her on top of me. In a practiced move, she takes off her glasses and sets them on the table.

  My hands roam over her flat stomach, her back bowing as I touch her. Following her cues, I glide my hands beneath her dress, and in one swift motion, I tug it off, tossing it onto the floor.

  There is only one thing to do now—enjoy the view.

  I savor every inch of her.

  The curves of her tits in her lacy blue bra, the freckles splashed across the valley between them, the soft skin of her stomach. And her legs straddling mine, giving me a fantastic view of matching panties that drive me wild. I press my hard-on against her center, and desire spins wildly through me, racing faster as she grinds down on me.

  Our mouths connect again, tongues tangling together. We kiss harder, grinding together in a frenzy, a mad rush to get closer, to touch.

  Breaking the kiss, I run my lips over her chest, along the seam of her blue lace bra. Her skin pebbles at my stubbly caress, and she murmurs fantastic words like yes, more, again.

  What the lady wants . . .

  I undo the clasp then slide my hands over the globes of her breasts as her bra slips off. Her tits are . . . words fail me.

  Because they are perfect. There’s no other way to describe them. A perfect handful with tiny brown nipples that I’m desperate to suck. And I do.

  Greedily.

  She rewards me with a moan as she throws her head back.

  And holy fuck.

  That move right there makes my skin sizzle.

  The way she wants this, the way she wants me.

  Her nipple hardens in my mouth, making my cock strain tighter against my pants. My hands pay a visit to her ass, squeezing her flesh, all while my lips lavish more attention on her breasts, first one, then the other
.

  It’s only fair.

  “You are so fucking sexy, London,” I rasp as I come up for air. “These freckles on your chest have been driving me wild all night.”

  “Seems like fair play. Since you’re driving me wild right now.”

  “Good. Because that’s exactly what I want to do to you. You’re gorgeous, and I am so unbelievably attracted to you.”

  “Same. Same for me,” she whispers, then lets out a soft, throaty moan before she grinds against my erection. I push up against her, groaning too.

  My eyes swing briefly to the wall clock in the kitchen. The countdown is on. “We’re at about sixteen minutes before pumpkin dog. That means . . .”

  Spinning her around, I lay her back on the couch so she’s all stretched out. I lean over her, my lips returning to her neck, nibbling on her ear. She yelps lightly in surprise at the speed of our turn but settles in as I pepper her body with kisses, licks, and sucks.

  I trace a line down her front with my tongue, enjoying every inch of her lightly tanned skin, then I slide off the couch so I can kneel on the floor.

  This is the only place I want to be on earth—between her legs. I slide my hands up her thighs, delighting at the feel of the soft hairs as I make my way to her hot, wet center.

  Face-to-face with her matching blue panties, I trace the lines of her underwear with my finger, a sweet hint of her arousal darkening the middle.

  The temperature in me spikes.

  There’s nothing sexier than the woman you want wanting you right back.

  Not a fucking thing in the world.

  I hook my finger around the center of her panties and pull toward one thigh, revealing her to me. Soft and glistening with a tuft of hair on her mound, London’s pussy shines like a temple, one I am only too happy to worship.

  I lick her once, teasing her. And my God, she tastes better than salted caramel. I need access to all of her, want to feast on her, so I guide the lace down her shapely legs, enjoying every inch of her body as I undress her.

  As my gaze returns to her center, she parts her legs for me, and my dick thumps harder, my skin heats more. My tongue traces the outline of her pussy, and she gasps then moans low in her throat.

  Her sounds urge me on, right up to her clit. I lap gently at first, teasing the pleasure out of her.

  As I lick and suck, her body responds with arched hips, hands in my hair, and delicious moans, telling me what’s working and what’s not. I listen, I adjust, and then I ravage.

  I hungrily devour her, and I don’t ever want to stop.

  But I do like her tits, and judging from the sounds she made earlier when I kissed them, I roll the dice that she’ll enjoy double the attention.

  My hand flies up her belly, on a fast track for her chest. I cup her breast, massaging and squeezing her nipple as her hips grind against my face.

  Yes, I am getting my fill of London right now—my mouth and hands are very happy.

  So is she, it seems, as she shouts her approval.

  Yes.

  So good.

  Oh God, oh my God.

  Her hands curl tighter around my head, and her moans take on a rhythm of their own as my mouth seeks to match it. I concentrate on her pleasure, driving my face between her legs to the pace she’s set.

  Her tempo picks up speed.

  Her fingers grip me tighter. Hands tug me closer.

  “That. Do that. Don’t stop,” she gasps as I continue my sensual assault. My cock throbs for release, but my focus remains only on her.

  Her breathing quickens, and it’s time to push her over the edge. I reach for her other breast, squeezing both of them roughly as she grinds against me.

  She rocks as I lap at her clit, indulging in every second of her taste, her smell, her pleasure. Soon, her ass is thrusting off the couch. Her thighs grip my head in the best vise grip known to mankind, but even in that position, the fuuuuckkk she cries out is unmistakable to my ears.

  She freezes in ecstasy for a breath, lets out several wild shudders, and groans.

  Best chorus ever.

  Slowly, she relaxes into the couch with a happy moan. I gently release her breasts while blowing softly on her core. As her ass hits the leather and she lets out a blissful sigh, I kiss her inner thigh once, twice, and slowly exhale with her. I take a moment to enjoy this charged, wordless silence, the sweet sounds of her satisfaction, her hums and moans. I rise between her legs, gently caressing the tops of her thighs as I sprinkle kisses on her belly.

  I make eye contact with her and smile. She grins back, brushes her hair from her face, and exhales deeply. “That was . . .”

  Those two words don’t even need an adjective.

  “Yes, that was.”

  I head to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, then return and hand it to her.

  “Thank you,” she says, sitting up straighter on the couch to take a thirsty gulp.

  When London sets down her glass, she arches a naughty brow.

  Then she asks the best question ever. “Can I do that to you?”

  Too bad I can’t give her the answer I want to.

  21

  Her question is an arrow piercing my heart.

  Right now I’d choose blow jobs over tacos. Blow jobs over riches. Blow jobs over air.

  But I’ve got a good-guy rep to protect.

  The no forming on my lips pains me for all of humanity.

  It wounds me across the halls of time.

  But . . . dogs.

  “Pretty sure I would love that more than my next breath, but Mr. Darcy needs you. And I won’t stand between a dog and his need for after-midnight companionship.”

  “You are a good guy.”

  I brush my fingers along her arm. “Speaking of, how did I do defending our honor for Emery and Olive?”

  She drags her fingers down my chest. “Can I tell them you made me see stars? Supernovas? Galaxies light years away?”

  “How about another solar system?”

  “All the solar systems,” she says, still sounding high on her climax.

  And hell, I beam.

  Just fucking beam as she gathers her clothes and gets dressed.

  I knew great sex would be great fun. And this is officially the most fun I’ve ever had. Making London’s skin flush and her heart pound is everything I imagined great sex would be.

  “You have carte blanche to tell them anything about how many constellations you saw. Come to think of it, it would be cruel of you not to share it with your girlfriends.”

  She curls her hand over my shoulder. “Or taunt them with it.”

  I’d like to thump my chest right now. Stage a halftime show for my prowess tonight.

  But I do neither. Instead, I seize this chance.

  “We should do it again,” I offer. I’m generous like that.

  Also, I want her, no matter the risk.

  She bites the corner of her lips. Rises onto tiptoe. Brushes a soft kiss against my lips. “Yes.”

  One perfect word.

  She raises a finger. “And I would like to cash that reciprocal rain check very soon.”

  I give a no big deal shrug, even though blow jobs are the deal. “I believe I would be completely amenable to that.”

  “What do you know? I would too. But right now, I need to take off,” she says.

  “I’ll drive you,” I say.

  With a grateful smile, she grabs her purse, puts on her glasses, then we leave. I take her home, giving her a quick kiss at the curb, before I return to my place.

  Back inside, I’m intensely satisfied.

  And also not in the least, considering I’ve had a raging erection for most of the last hour, and once my eyes swing to the couch and I picture what transpired there moments ago, it returns.

  Great.

  Fucking dicks.

  And this one I’m pretty sure can win the honor of Boner Most Likely To Be Mistaken for a Viagra Overdose.

  This au naturel diamond cutter needs some tending
to.

  I head to the bathroom, shed my clothes, turn on the tap in the shower, and stand under a hot stream of water. I take my aching length in my hand, groaning at the first hint of relief.

  This won’t take long at all.

  I slide my fist up and down my shaft and picture all the things I want to do next with London.

  Her scent lingers in my nostrils, drifts through my mind.

  I imagine her riding me, and my dick likes that a whole helluva lot.

  But my dick has an equal opportunity imagination, so I flip through all the positions I want to try with her—her on top, her reverse cowgirling me, me on top, me on top with her legs draped over my shoulders—oh, yes, that would be fantastic. And how about her on her hands and knees, me pushing her shoulders down so she can raise her ass high in the air?

  My senses crackle as I grip harder, stroke faster, a movie reel of all the ways I want to touch her, taste her, have her racing before my eyes.

  I want to worship her body with my tongue. Kiss her everywhere. Touch her all over. Slide into her. Feel her clench around me.

  Pleasure jolts down my spine, sharp and hot.

  My hand shuttles in a blur. Seconds later, I grunt, coming hard, picturing the woman I should stay away from and knowing there’s not a chance in hell that I will.

  22

  The next morning

  * * *

  From the Woman Power Trio, aka the text messages of London and her two besties, Olive and Emery

  * * *

  London: All I’m going to say is you’re both wrong. Absolutely incredibly wrong.

  * * *

  Emery: *sits up in bed* *puts glasses on* *perks ears*

  * * *

  Olive: Yes, we want to hear what you’ve learned about good guys. So please serve up all the salacious details, like the heroine does in a sexy romance novel when she gabs with her besties.

  * * *

  London: Because you love dirty details served in your earbuds.

  * * *