Listening to him talk about engineering feats of daring keeps me in the right zone.
The no-thinking-about-sex zone.
The conversation is solely on work, and it helps. After a few miles, he’s done. “I’ll catch you next time,” he says. “And I promise I’ll regale you with exciting details on how to make a ride go upside down.”
I give him a quick tip of the cap. “The regaling is on the calendar.”
I continue without him, because my mission requires extra.
Extra running.
Extra focus.
A lot of extra miles to get out of the sex-centric zone I’ve been living in. It’s a proven medical fact that men require at least a half dozen miles of hard running or several hours on the StairMaster before the constant thought of sex vacates the brain for even a few minutes.
Over the river and through the woods I go, putting distance between the swirl of dirty thoughts and my stark reality. I pass seven miles, then hit eight, adding a long workout at the gym with weights. As I lower the barbell on my final set, I’ve slipped into a blissful, blank mind-set.
There’s one more thing I need to seal the deal and live in this state a little longer.
Seeing my parents.
There is no bigger sex buzzkill than a visit with Mom and Dad, so I pop by for a little breakfast. My mom whips up some spectacular scrambled eggs with provolone cheese and mushrooms, and my father’s coffee ought to be worshipped by baristas the world over.
As I chew, Mom chats about how my sister, Kim, is doing with her third pregnancy, how big her belly is, and how awful she’s feeling trying to move.
Yup.
All the details of Kim waddling around are adding up to a blank sex slate upstairs, and I couldn’t be happier.
By the time I return home, tired from the run, stuffed from breakfast, and filled with images of my basketball-belly sister, I can’t escape the no-sex zone.
This is not an easy state for a man to achieve. We can only successfully reach this sexual tabula rasa, say, 1 percent of the day.
Wait. That’s far too generous.
More like 0.2 percent.
But when you’re there, you feel like you can master string theory and write a symphony.
I hum a few notes from Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy,” since that’s about the only classical music I know, and damn, that shit is good. Beethoven could write some badass melodies.
Since I’m all about expanding my mind for the precious few minutes that it’s uncluttered by sex thoughts, I decide I ought to try to learn quantum physics. I down a huge glass of water, grab my phone, and find a podcast on the topic. I sync my phone to my speaker and head into the bathroom, strip out of my clothes, and turn on the hot water.
I close the shower door, stepping under the stream, zoning in on the podcaster as he talks of atoms and electrons. I run the soap over my body, letting my brain be a sponge soaking up all this new information.
“. . . added wave crests result in brighter light,” the voice says, and my mind hiccups on that word—crest.
It reminds me of something else. Something a woman’s pleasure might do.
Stop.
Stay focused.
I square my shoulders and train my ears on the podcast host as I run shampoo through my hair.
“. . . objects exist in a haze of probability.”
Haze.
Like how Arden would look in a sex-drenched—
No. Don’t go there.
As he drones on about the size and speed of moving objects, I’m not sure I can hold onto this rarefied state. I’m slipping, falling, flailing back to the 99 percent land.
All these words make me think of her.
Of toys.
Of shopping.
Of orgasms cresting. Of the hazy look in her eyes. And her list. Dear God, her fucking list. All the things on that list I don’t want to mime.
I want to do.
As I run the soap over my body, my hand strays down my stomach, lower still, and I take my dick in my palm.
I give in to the material world of pleasure and sex, back where I, evidently, belong.
Gripping my shaft, I run through Arden’s wish list, item by item, as if I’m considering every dish at a rich and scrumptious buffet. My fist shuttles up and down my cock, the soap slicking its path.
She wants me to ring the doorbell so she can answer it in an apron and nothing else.
I suck in a harsh breath imagining where that moment might lead. Undoing the strap, exposing her tits, letting the fabric fall to the floor.
A shudder slams into my body, and my cock hardens even more, doing a most excellent impression of an iron spike. My fist grips it tighter, racing up and down my length.
My mind becomes a flip book of images. Her practicing a striptease. Pushing me down on the couch, grinding against me, rubbing what I bet is a fantastic ass into my lap.
My balls tighten as I picture how good that ass would feel.
Then I switch the scene to her bedroom. She’s stripped to nothing but her own raw desire. Lights dimmed. Legs spread. Fingers flying furiously.
What is she picturing?
Pleasure rattles through me, rolls down my spine as I try to imagine what she’s getting off to.
I want it to be me.
I want her wild with pleasure, riding the edge.
I want to discover her like that, put her on all fours, slide into her and send her soaring.
I want to make her come so fucking hard. Just like she’s doing to me right now. My orgasm barrels through me, rushing under my skin until I shoot.
I breathe out roughly, cursing.
It’s not the first time I’ve pictured her, but it’s the first time I’ve let myself finish to her.
As I rinse off, I learn that if an object is heated sufficiently, it starts to emit light at the red end of the spectrum as it becomes red-hot.
Red-hot. Sounds about right.
Maybe I did learn something after all.
I turn off the podcast and head to meet Arden.
19
Arden
I scurry through the bustling shop on a Sunday afternoon, adding a few last-minute additions to the travel shelves and helping a pair of lovely ladies find just the right book on raising an adopted baby.
“This one looks perfect,” says the gal with the long braid slinking down her back as she clutches the book to her chest.
“You’ll love it. I’ve sent many soon-to-be adoptive parents home with it,” I tell them.
The other woman drapes an arm around her and squeezes, then meets my gaze. “Thanks for your time.”
“No problem.”
This is why I love what I do. Books aren’t simply a door to another world. They truly help people. They are wonderful treasures to guide individuals, couples, and families through new life situations, and they’re also the best form of travel I’ve ever known. Because I read, I’ve visited India, I’ve knelt at the feet of kings, I’ve battled dragons, and I’ve learned new words and worlds.
Books led me to the world I’m visiting later today. They’ve made me curious about the landscape of sex, and the cities on the map of pleasure I’ve completely missed. I want to embark on uncharted trails, discover a new country, a place where I’m free to explore. Good thing I have a Sherpa.
As the ladies leave the store, I grab my bag and make my way to the door then remember an order that’s due tomorrow. “Madeline,” I call out. “We’re expecting the new coffee-table books tomorrow morning. Did you—?”
She points to the door like a drill sergeant, searing me with her eyes. “It’s your day off, boss lady. Go.”
“But . . .”
She shakes her head. “I already checked the tracking order, and it’s all set. On its way.”
I breathe a big sigh of relief. “Stop being so damn good at your job.”
She nods solemnly. “I’ll try to steal from the till and rip the pages out of books later. Now go, or
I will spread a rumor that you’ve never read The Time Traveler’s Wife and you named the cats Henry and Clare simply from the movie.”
“Lies. Vicious lies.” I make my way to the door, crossing the threshold, then I pop my head back in. “One more thing.”
Madeline crosses her arms and shakes her head. “Goodbye, Arden. It’s called Sunday.”
I heed her advice and step outside, bumping into a woman from the book club—Sara, the patron saint of car blow jobs and spankings.
“Hi, Sara.”
Her laugh lines crinkle when she smiles. “Arden, I was hoping to find you. I need to know what kind of wine goes with the new Jandy Nelson book. “
“Her writing is sublime, isn’t it?”
Sara brings her hands to her chest. “It is absolutely incandescent.”
“It’s like she has access to another dictionary, to a whole new palette of words and colors. Everything is vibrant, and that means you need a sauvignon blanc when you read Jandy Nelson. That wine is bursting with vibrant, fresh flavors.”
Sara’s eyes sparkle. “That sounds perfect. I’m going to spend the afternoon getting lost in a good book with a delicious wine. You’re a wine and book matchmaker.”
I smile and say goodbye as Sara heads into the store. Madeline can handle the rest of Sara’s reading needs. After all, both of these ladies know how to speak for themselves. Madeline talked herself into a weekend job in my store and has refused to leave ever since, going from strength to strength to become the right-hand woman I now can’t be without, adding more responsibility every month. And Sara? Well, Sara craves giving blow jobs on deserted roads and isn’t afraid to ask for it but also enjoys her best life reading award-winning literature, drinking fine vintages, and spending her time with an amazing group of friends.
People are so much more than we see on the surface. David only saw me as a nice, vanilla, bookish girl. But beneath the cover, there’s more to me, and I want to know what’s written on all my pages.
As I walk down the block, I check out my reflection in the window of a black BMW. A peach tank top, a black lacy skirt, and cute sandals. Looks like date attire. I talk sternly back to my reflection. “It’s only an outing. You’ve been on a million of them with Gabe.”
Yet it’s a little different this time, and different isn’t a bad thing, I’m realizing. I like the little bubbles of anticipation that float around inside me. I like the heady feeling under my skin. I enjoy that I’m going to learn something new.
As I turn onto my block, Gabe is pulling up, cutting the engine on his truck. He strides up to me on the sidewalk, that easy grin on his face, the sun glinting off his aviator shades. He takes them off, and I’m speechless for a moment.
Because I know new things about my good friend.
Gabe thinks I should be kissed into blissful oblivion.
So do I.
Gabe likes dirty talk.
I think I might too.
I’ve been talking dirty in my head for longer than I think I knew. I’ve been saying naughty words to myself when I’m alone and imagining the kind of man who’d want to explore my body the way I want to be discovered.
Gabe believes a striptease would be mighty hot.
I feel hot, so damn hot.
My skin heats, and a flush crawls up my chest.
I tell myself it’s from the summer day.
But that’s a lie. Suddenly, I’m thinking about Gabe in a whole new way.
A way I shouldn’t allow.
20
Arden
Keep it light, keep it friendly.
“Hey there, Coach.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Coach. I like it. Are you ready for a shopping spree, my new sex athlete? Sex-thlete.”
“Do I need my platinum card, Coach?”
“Depends how many orgasms you want.”
“Hmmm. Preferably multiple.” Damn, it is fun to talk about sex so freely with a guy.
“That’s definitely the best kind.” He heads to the passenger door, and I follow. “Let’s find a dolphin for your clitorisaurus.”
A laugh bursts from my throat. “Did you really just say what I think you said?”
He swivels around, wearing a stoic expression. “It’s the scientific term.”
“Then I would presume a cock ring would be used on your cock-o-rex?”
I mentally high-five myself for saying cock so easily. It’s like the word has been set free after saying it out loud last night for one of the first times in my life.
Cock. Cock. Cock. Cock-a-doodle-doo, indeed.
Gabe raises an appreciative brow. “No more blushing when you dirty talk, I see.”
“Cock.” I smile, showing off my skills.
“Speaking of, mine’s not of the cock-o-rex species. That variety has tiny little balls,” he says, wiggling his arms like a Tyrannosaurus rex’s little limbs.
“Perhaps it would work on your shaftceratops.”
Hot damn. I’m getting good.
His lips curve up in a playful grin. “Or maybe we could stick with names from actual dinosaurs. In that case, Giganotosaurus would be the way to go. Because . . . giant.”
I tsk-tsk him. “Are you forgetting there was a Megalosaurus once upon a time?”
“Dammit. You’re right. Mega is bigger. But my Diplodocus isn’t the star of the show today,” he says, tossing out one more actual dinosaur name. “Let’s go shop for you.”
He opens the door to his truck, and I slide inside. He joins me, turning the key.
“Hey, Gabe?”
“Yeah?”
“I know we’re not even at the sex toy shop, but you made it really easy already with the jokes.” Maybe that’s why I can rattle off these words with such ease.
He flashes me a grin. “Humor is my favorite lubricant.”
“I’m serious,” I say firmly.
“So am I.” He pulls away from the curb. “Also, I’m glad you’re feeling comfortable.”
“Me too.” I shoot him a friendly smile, my reassurance that I know the score. “How was your morning?”
“Good. Saw my mom and dad. Went for a run. Learned some quantum physics.”
That piques my interest. “Ooh, what did you learn?”
“That some things make other things move fast and hot.”
I laugh again. “Sounds like it stuck with you.”
“What did you do this morning?” He flicks on the turn signal at the end of my block.
“Perri and Vanessa held me hostage so I could be thoroughly tortured by the Pilates instructor. Those machines are insane.”
He shudders. “I don’t understand how anybody chooses to exercise on that crazy contraption. It’s like a modern-day torture rack. One time, we were called to a Pilates studio because someone was actually injured on the bench.”
I thrust my arms in the air. “That is literally all I needed to know. I’m going to share that with Vanessa and Perri, because I would do anything to get out of that class.”
“You need to be careful. Those places are like death traps.”
“What actually happened on the call?”
“Did you eat breakfast today?”
“Yes. Why?”
He turns down Main Street. “I can’t tell you because I just had the dashboard cleaned.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“No. Yes. Maybe. Look, I’ve seen injuries from sex, and I won’t tell you to stay away from that type of exercise.”
I laugh at his designation of sex as exercise. “Pilates does make you flexible,” I add, a little flirty since that’s the name of the game today.
“How long have you been doing it?”
“Couple years.”
“Forget what I said. It’s not dangerous at all. Keep doing it. It’ll give you great flexibility in your sex life for years to come.” He winks at me.
“You’re so thoughtful. Looking out for my sex-leticism down the road.”
“Like a good coach.”
/> I raise an eyebrow. “And is running good for your sex life?”
He nods proudly. “Stamina, baby.”
And now I wonder how Gabe’s is in bed.
Stop. Just stop.
“How many miles did you run?”
“Eight.”
Oh God, he must have great stamina.
“That’s good cardio,” I say, deadpan.
“And I have great stamina.”
And I’m getting hot and bothered.
“And I’m flexible,” I add, and now this is it—I have to stop flirting. “But running. That’s basically a modern form of hell.”
“But how else am I going to burn off those coconut bars you’re making me?” He swings the truck to the right, and we head down a long stretch of road that’ll take us away from Lucky Falls.
“I’m making you coconut bars?”
“You didn’t think you were the only one getting something out of this? I’m happy to teach you, but I’m going to require some payment in the form of food.”
I laugh, only too happy to provide for him in that department. “How about some coconut bars and dinner sometime this week?”
“It’s a deal if it includes the striptease.”
Ohhhh. I picture undressing in front of Gabe, and it terrifies me. “Are you serious?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Are you?”
Am I? I let the scene play out, returning to the image of stripping down to my sexiest La Perla panties and bra, and I no longer feel terror. I feel thrills. Or perhaps I feel both, and I like the cocktail, thank you very much. “Yes. I think I am.”
A grin that reaches halfway to Naughty Town spreads across his face. “You’ve got yourself a deal. But aside from the torture rack, did you enjoy your time with your girls?”
I love that he calls them that. Vanessa and Perri are most definitely my girls. “I always love seeing them. Is that kind of crazy? I’ve known them since we were five, but we still have something to talk about every single time.”
“It’s like that with great friends, isn’t it?”
I nod as we cruise past lush green hills rich with grapevines and billboards beckoning travelers to stop for wine tastings and to sample all sorts of grapes. “We’re like sisters. We went on a trip when we were younger—we were thirteen, and our parents sent us to visit Vanessa’s grandparents on their horse ranch for two weeks during the summer—and the security guard at the airport asked if we were triplets.”
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