by Sara Ney
“…and he confessed he’d fallen in love. He forfeited the bet, lost his family’s season tickets to the Jags.”
“How romantic!” My chest constricts with the idea of a man giving up material possessions for love. I clutch my hand to my heart and add an, “Aww.”
“Brooks was the first to fall, so then it was Blaine and me.”
“Wait, can I quickly ask—did y’all actually make him give you his baseball tickets?”
“Fuck yeah, they’re incredible seats.”
Men.
No girl would do that to her friend. They would romanticize the situation and disband the club, but nope—not these bastards.
“So then what happened?” I’m on the edge of my seat. How does this relate to me?
“I’m getting there. Hold your horses.”
“Sorry.” I slide my pinched fingers across my lips.
“I’m apologizing because you saw messages that obviously weren’t intended for you—the club was never intended to hurt anyone.”
“Except Bambi,” I mumble sarcastically.
He silences me with a bemused glance, beginning to pace briskly in my small living room. “I’m sorry about those fucking messages. I know most of them were from my buddies, but it still made me feel like shit that you had to see them.”
They certainly made me feel like shit.
“And I know we technically just met, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about you nonstop. I haven’t slept since Tuesday. I wonder what movies you like and if you like vacations. Do you love road trips or flying? Margarita or Bloody Mary? What scares you? Movies at home or in the theater?”
He volleys question after question as if on autopilot, as if he’s been making mental lists and memorizing them.
In five long strides, he’s in the kitchen and back, clutching the pink box.
Stands in front of me, drops one knee down to the carpet. “Spencer, in the five days I’ve known you, I’ve never been more frustrated or embarrassed in my entire life. I’ve also never laughed so hard, and you’re the reason why. I want to start over—minus the part where you witness me throwing up in a garbage can—and get to know you.”
Phillip hesitates dramatically, popping the top of the pink bakery box.
“Spencer Standish from the marketing department, would you make me the happiest purchasing manager in the company and consider dating me?”
I glance down.
Pink box. Pink cake. Pink frosting with the words:
I LIKE YOU. AND NAPS.
Stop it. Stop it right now, this is the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.
My insides melt.
“When did you have time to make this?” I tease, biting my bottom lip. If I don’t, I’ll grin myself stupid, cheeks already aching.
“I ran and got it this morning, had the girl behind the counter add the words. I know you like cake.”
I do. Cake and kisses.
I lean forward and plant one on the tip of his nose. Mmm.
“It’s to replace the one you threw in the trash,” he explains. “The one we didn’t get to eat because you’re stubborn as fuck.”
“Oh my God.” My hand flies to my mouth to stifle a giggle, but deep down inside, I don’t care. He one hundred percent deserved to have that glorious cake tossed in the garbage. “Please, let’s just acknowledge that whole situation wasn’t your finest moment and move on.”
“Agree. But I still can’t believe you wasted a perfectly good cake.”
“Can I confess something to you?”
“Of course.”
“After you left the office, I dug the cake out of the trash and ate half of it.” I laugh, remembering how jacked up the cake was, frosting staining my shirtsleeve after I fished it out of the bin. “So delicious.”
“You ate cake from the garbage,” he deadpans.
“Uh, hi—it was a twenty-five-dollar cake.” My chin tilts defiantly. “I’d do it again. With or without a fork.”
“You are really something.”
“I take that as a compliment, thank you.”
“You’re so fucking cute.” He meets me halfway for another kiss—a real one this time, on the mouth.
I reach between us and dip the tip of my finger in the cake. Swipe up a dollop of frosting and lick it.
Our mouths meet again, sugary sweet, and Phillip moans. “God you taste good.”
“I like cake and naps.” I groan when he deepens the kiss. “And nerds from the purchasing department who are good at math.”
“I am really good at math, and measuring and stuff.”
Sexy talk.
Suddenly, a thought occurs to me, and I pull back to look at him. “Phillip—you want to date me, but it’s against club rules. Does that mean…” My voice trails off and I want to squash the hope in my tone.
“I forfeited? Yeah.”
“You did not.” I couldn’t stop my heart from racing at this information if my nerves put up a roadblock.
“I did.”
“Why?! You literally just met me—are you crazy?” But if it’s true, this is absolutely the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.
We’ve only known each other five days.
When you know, you know, my gran used to say. I never knew what she meant until this exact moment, staring down at Phillip as he kneels on my living room rug. With a cake.
“I might be. Every ounce of common sense I possess tells me this is illogical, and forfeiting is a huge gamble—next week we may decide we can’t stand each other and I’m out everything. But what if one week turns into a month and a month turns into a year?”
My heart.
It’s. Going. To. Burst.
“Yeah?” I can scarcely get the word out, so breathless.
“Yeah.” He wiggles the cake cover. “What do you think, Spencer? Do you want to give it a go?”
Do I give in this easily, or should I make him work harder for it? I’m a sucker for men who humble themselves—and pretending I don’t want to date him would be a lie.
God he turns me on.
Yes I want to give it a go. “Okay, Phillip. Let’s date.”
“Let’s date the shit out of each other. Nothing half-assed.”
Well then.
Never one to shy away from physical touch, I pucker my lips as an invitation—best he learns now to lavish me with affection.
Best learn now that I’m a bit bossy.
“Do we want to cut the cake? I can grab forks…”
He gives me a look. “You just got done telling me you ate cake out of the trash—want to just use our fingers?”
“That could get…dirty.” I wiggle my eyebrows in a creepy way, hoping he’ll read it as sexual. Not that I want him to get the wrong idea about me and my morals, but—
I’m a sure thing.
We kiss again, tongues sweet from the frosting on my finger, and it occurs to me that I could kiss him forever, he tastes that good. Smells amazing. His hands? Magic.
Big, strong, and capable, Phillip’s hands stroke my shoulders, then my arms, lazily moving up and down, then up again. Stroke my neck. Brush through my hair.
They slide to my face, cupping my cheeks gently as his mouth expertly moves over mine.
I squirm, desperate to feel more than just his hands in my hair, on my face, on my arms. I want to feel his hands on my boobs, between my legs.
Giving him a gentle push, I move to join him on the floor, cake still in its box, resting beside us. I swipe more frosting onto my thumb, brush it across his bottom lip.
Lean in and suck it off. “You know what else I can do with this frosting?” I whisper into his ear, licking the outer shell.
“What?” he croaks.
“Mmm,” is my only answer, hungry for dessert before the main course. Greedy fingers move to the front of Phillip’s jeans.
“God yes,” he groans as I fumble for the button and tug, dragging down his zipper. “Too fast? I don’t want to rush y
ou.”
“Too slow.”
I want to do this, have wanted to since he strolled inside my apartment, unsure, and pleaded his case. Said all those soulful, beautiful words. Got down on bended knee to ask for permission to date me.
While I work his pants, Phillip works my shirt, tugging the hem up, and I thank God I’m wearing pretty underwear and a cute bra. Because a few of my panties? Hideous.
Somehow we end up lying on my carpet, methodically stripping down to nothing. Skin and heat, this new boyfriend of mine. His body is glorious. Hot flesh, just the right amount of hair and muscle. Not too hard but not too soft.
Imperfectly perfect, just like me.
My right hand glides down his chest, over his beautiful abs. Pelvis. I eye his erection with a watering mouth, frost my index finger and run it down the length of his cock.
He inhales, holding his breath, one hand rubbing my back.
I maneuver my body over his, lower my head, hair brushing over his thick thighs before my mouth captures the hot part of him I want inside me.
I suck.
Suck the frosting off, licking his dick clean. Bob my head up and down like a pro, with plenty of saliva involved and zero teeth.
Phillip’s fists attempt to grip the carpet. Reach for my hair, pulling it back so he can watch.
“Fuck, Spencer. I don’t want to come like this.”
I lift my head to look at his face; it’s red, desire in his glassy eyes.
“What do you want?”
“I want to fuck you.”
Okay then.
“Are you on the pill?”
“Yes.” Thank God. And I’m getting my period any day now.
“Do you…”
“Want you to fuck me right now? Yes.” I readjust on the floor, lying so we’re missionary. “If I have rug burn after this, I’m going to kill you.”
“Baby, you’re definitely going to have rug burn, but I’ll rub cream on it for you.”
He’s over me now and it feels familiar. Right. Not at all strange or self-conscious like I’ve felt with previous partners, partners I’d known longer before climbing into bed with them.
Or—spreading my legs on the living room floor.
Hard as a rock, Phillip mimics my earlier movements, sliding his hand between my legs, stroking. Finger expertly finding that nub, circling it. Pressing down, hitting that spot only I’ve been able to find.
One hand on my clit, the other resting on the floor, supporting him while he lavishes my body with kisses. Sucking on my nipples then blowing. I’m so hot, so burning hot.
On f-f-fire.
My hands bury themselves in his hair while he sucks on my breasts, driving me crazier with every heartbeat, learning the quickness of my breath and silent communication, the same way I will do with him.
Finally, finally he’s hovering above me in a play that’s as old as time. Kissing my mouth as he lines himself up, we make out like two teenagers hiding in the basement after prom so they’re not discovered. It feels naughty and somewhat sinful to be banging on my living room floor, and I wonder if I’ll sit on the couch tonight staring at this spot where my ass is reliving this encounter.
Probably.
Sex in the bedroom would be better—or sex on the table—but I’ll have to settle for rug burn during this spur-of-the-moment sexcapade.
Phillip’s dick is average and eases in slowly, no theatrics or ill-fitting shafts to ruin the moment—whoever said bigger is better hasn’t met Joe Average. Watching his face is glorious; the range of emotions that pass over it. Euphoria. Rapture. Pleasure.
That sharp intake of breath as he slides in as deep as he can go.
He’s not the only one gasping; my breath is labored from the very start, my head tipped back against the floor as he begins rotating his hips, pressing into my pelvis with his.
Deeper.
More. “More.”
I’m not usually a talker, but I have faith in this budding new relationship. Miranda is going to die when I tell her how Phillip showed up at my door with a cake, got down on one knee, and proposed. She. Will. Die.
Just like I’m going to die if he doesn’t go harder.
“Yeah, like that,” I encourage, lifting my hips off the rug so his dick hits me where I want it most.
“You like that?” He moans, voice dipping low into my ear, through my cerebellum, straight to my pussy. Huge turn-on. Huge lady boner. “You’re so tight.”
If I were a peacock—and if I weren’t being thoroughly fucked—I’d parade back and forth in the room, showing off, the compliment spurring me on. Filling me with pride.
I have a tight pussy?
Best compliment ever.
It makes me feel as if I’ve never had previous sexual partners and Phillip is the only one—because he is. He’s the only one who matters, anyway.
He thrusts. I push on his ass, drawing him in closer. Boobs and chest pressed together, sweat touching skin. Breath. Chest hair. Fingers stroking in tandem. Need, want, desperation.
We dirty-talk the shit out of each other until the nerves inside my P give the telltale signs of an impending orgasm. It excites me knowing it’s coming—and, desperate for it, I spread my legs wider. Hands grip Phillip’s ass firmly.
“Oh shit…” he groans. “Oh f-fuck…”
Yes, yes.
“Come inside me, baby,” I urge, egging him on, not wanting him to pull out. If he pulls out, I won’t come. Or, I will, but it won’t be the same, then I’ll probably whine from post-orgasm letdown. That moment you orgasm but it’s ruined? Knowing it could have felt fantastic but didn’t?
God, what am I saying?
“Are you sure?”
Bad, bad girl, living on the edge.
“Yes, fuck yes, I’m coming too.” Oh God, I can feel it, I can feel it, I can feel it.
“The mouth on you,” are the last words he says before I feel him come, throbbing. Pulsing. Warm and wet.
We breathe heavy, Phillip falling onto me—I plant my hands against his chest to prevent him from crushing me.
“That was amazing,” he murmurs into my shoulder.
It was.
20
Phillip
“I’m going to miss you at work.” Spencer pushes out her bottom lip as I trace a finger down her sternum, all the way to her belly button. Move it down between our bodies, to her smooth happy trail that flirts with the neatly trimmed patch between her thighs. “You’re so annoying, yet so entertaining.”
I’m annoying? Me?
Was that a compliment wrapped in an insult? It’s hard to tell; she delivers it with a straight face, hand brushing the stubble on my cheek lovingly.
“Same goes for you,” I remind her. “When you were eating chips that first day I was in your office, I wanted to freaking strangle you. You don’t even know how bad.”
“Oh, I have a feeling I know how bad—the noise of that damn pencil was driving me insane.” Spencer pauses, hand flopping back to the ground, and I watch her, body still splayed sexily on her beige living room floor. Her stomach growls. “Know what I want right now?”
My heads lift a fraction of an inch and I look at her. Place a kiss on the lower corner of her mouth. “Round two?”
“God no.” She laughs. “More cake.” I move to give her room, and she sits up. “While I’m washing up, do you want to find some plates? We can eat in bed.”
Uh, no. “We are not eating in bed.”
“But it’s my bed! And I need a nap! It says so right on the cake—cake and naps.”
She is so stubborn; I hope it’s not the death of me.
“Spencer, do not tell me you’re the type of girl who eats chips and crackers in the bedroom.”
I earn a diminutive shrug. “All I said was, I’m hungry and would it kill you to spoon-feed me while I leisurely lie back like an Egyptian princess sprawled out in my domain?”
“Grapes—yes. Cake—no. God, just the thought of rolling onto crumbs makes my
skin crawl,” I declare. But while we’re on the subject of dirty things in or on or around the bed… “How do you feel about dogs on the bed?”
She doesn’t blink. “Hard no.”
This shocks me. She loves Humphrey! “Why?”
Spencer rises, naked as the day she was born, dimples on her ass winking at me. Waddling in the direction of the bathroom, she glances over her shoulder. “Are you telling me that dog of yours can jump onto your bed? Do you have a mattress on the floor you’re not telling me about?”
“He can’t jump up, no.”
“Do you lift him up?” Her head peeks around a doorframe. “Or do you have one of those pet staircases next to your bed?”
“I have to lift him—if I’m feeling generous enough to let him up.” He’s a beggar and those brown eyes are impossible to resist about sixty percent of the time.
“That dog’s belly scrapes the ground and you let him on the bed? Ew, Phillip,” she calls from the bathroom.
I’m already up and in the kitchen with the cake, digging for forks. Chances are, we won’t finish it anyway, so—might as well fork the damn thing.
Naked, I pad around the space, swiping two paper towels off the roll, and pull up a chair. Sit and wait, silver fork already buried in frosting.
Spencer reappears a few minutes later with her hair in a sleek ponytail, wearing pink boy short underwear and a faded gray T-shirt. She stops short, gawking.
“Please tell me your balls are not on my chair.”
I stick a forkful of cake in my gullet and talk with my mouth full. “My balls are not on your chair.”
She plunks down beside me, face flushed. Grabs the other fork I’ve laid out across from me. “No dicks on the furniture! I eat breakfast there!”
“Is that a house rule? Because it should be.”
“Rules get you into trouble—are you sure you want to venture into that territory?” She punctuates this statement by plopping a tiny piece of cake corner onto her tongue then biting down, frosting escaping from the side of her mouth. Like drool.
Jeez. It’s a good thing I already like her, and that she’s seen me at my worst—puking in the trash. I suppose I can’t fault her for the slobber.
Humphrey slobbers and I still love and adore him.
