Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend

by Lauren Blakely

  “To be good in bed. Look, it’s a law like gravity. It’s not your fault. You were blessed with extraordinary genes, and now you have to live with the consequences.”

  I wave a nothing to see here hand, my chest tight as we edge closer to a place I don’t want to travel. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  Oliver swings his gaze my way. “Nor do you. You haven’t taken this car out for a proper drive. We’ve only kissed. And you said I was a great kisser.” His eyes narrow. “Or were you just taking the piss out of me?”

  My eyes go wide, and I shake my head. “No. That was true. You kiss extremely well.”

  Oliver raises his chin at Stella and clears his throat. “See? She vouched for me.”

  “She’s never slept with you though. Good-looking men can still be great kissers, because that’s an entry point. But beyond that, women fall at their feet, and the hotties never have to work for it.” She stretches an arm across the table and ruffles his hair. “Look, Oliver, I hate to break it to you. But there’s no way you can be anything but bad in bed.”

  “And you will never know that I’m an Olympic-caliber fucker.”

  I try to suppress a laugh, but the chuckle bursts from me. I can’t help it. “Oliver, are you a gold-medal fucker?”

  He crosses his arms in something pretty close to a sulk. “Maybe you should find out and then vouch for me.”

  Stella glances from Oliver to me and back. “Well, if you do, let me know. But my money is on bad in bed.” With a wink, she rises, tosses some bills on the table, and gestures to the door as she yawns. She waves goodbye and takes off.

  Oliver points at her, stabbing the air. “She’s wrong. She’s completely wrong.”

  “Of course she’s wrong. I’m sure you’re great in bed. Fireworks, the whole nine yards.” I try not to blush, not to let on how much I’ve thought about what he’d be like between the sheets.

  How often I’ve wondered if her theory is true.

  How I’m wondering it right now. Because he’s looking at me with serious bedroom eyes.

  Sex is written across his green irises. It’s all he’s thinking about. He’s gazing at me like he wants to prove things to me.

  And his stare is making me hot.

  This is dangerous. Too dangerous.

  We agreed not to go there. Not to tango on the physical side.

  And there’s no need to now. Not for a stupid theory that’s just for fun. Not for a friend who’s giving him a hard time.

  But Oliver won’t leave the topic alone. He leans closer to me across the table. “Do you think I’d be bad in bed?”

  “Oliver, what does it matter? I already said you’re a good kisser. I can’t possibly know how you are in bed.”

  “But what do you think?”

  My chest heats. My cheeks are hot too. “Who cares what I think?”

  He grabs my arm, his fingers circling my wrist, sending a ribbon of fire through my body. “I care.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not lazy. I work hard. I want to please the woman I’m with. I want her to feel good. I want her to feel fucking fantastic.”

  Dear God, I already do. His words send sparks sweeping across my skin, leaving a pulse beating between my legs.

  Defuse the situation, I tell myself. “I need to go.”

  He pays the bill, and we make our way outside, where there’s an awkward moment again. We stand on the street, phones in hand. This is where we call separate Lyfts.

  He lives on the East Side.

  I’m on the West.

  There is no reason for us to share a car. There is no reason for us to spend any more time together.

  Except he’s not moving to go.

  Neither am I.

  “I’m not that tired,” he says, his eyes still searching mine for something. Permission? An answer? An invitation?

  “Nor am I,” I say, a little breathy as I wait for something too. Maybe I’m the one wanting an invitation.

  “We could work on that list of dates for the article. Do some research.”

  A smile pulls at my lips. “We could.”

  “Go to a diner. Or a coffee shop. Or back in the bar.”

  “Or you could come over,” I suggest. “We could go to my—”

  “Yes.”

  In seconds we’re in a Lyft, heading uptown to the home I share with my grandmother.

  This will be safe.

  Nothing dangerous will happen.

  I’m not going to jump him with Maggie in the house.

  We’re simply going to sit in the living room, have some popcorn, and plan some dates.

  Maggie might even help.

  But when we reach my place, a note from her on the kitchen table says she’s gone to Connecticut to visit a friend and won’t be home tonight.

  The air feels heavy.

  My skin tingles with possibility.

  With Oliver a few inches behind me, I set down the slip of paper, and say, “She’s not here tonight.”

  His fingers graze the back of my neck. “About that law . . .”

  26

  Oliver

  There are things you should do and things you shouldn’t do. And then there are things you quite simply have to do.

  This is the latter.

  Touching Summer is no longer optional.

  Because those ladies are wrong, and I’m going to prove it.

  I can’t let her think I’m some sort of conceited jackass in bed. That I don’t care about a woman’s pleasure. Hell, a woman’s pleasure is literally all I care about.

  Pretty much most of the time.

  Ninety-five percent of my brain is allocated to libido. To making a woman arch her back, curl her toes, grab the sheets.

  And that allocation is earmarked all for Summer now.

  As I stand behind her and run my fingers across her neck, my focus zeroes in on one thing only—showing her how good I can make her feel.

  Because I can’t stomach her thinking I’d do anything other than bring her uncommon bliss.

  “That law should be stricken from the books,” I say, as I gently move her blonde locks over her shoulder, revealing her neck, prime real estate for kisses that’ll drive her wild.

  “Is it unconstitutional?” Her voice is breathy, needy.

  “Yes. And I intend to show you why.” My fingers trail along her neck. Her gorgeous, enticing neck.

  “Tonight?” That one question seems to charge the ions between us, crackling with electricity.

  It reverberates in the silence, waiting for an answer.

  I am a man on a mission.

  I bend to her, brushing my lips across her skin, answering with a “Yes.”

  She shivers, emitting a sexy “Ohhh.”

  Grinding against her, I continue my travels, mapping her neck with my mouth. Kissing her shoulder. Dusting my lips across her exposed collarbone, a location on a woman’s body that doesn’t get the attention it deserves. “I think I’ll worship your collarbone for a little bit as I make my case,” I whisper, kissing her there, inhaling her scent—something sweet, maybe vanilla, maybe honey. I don’t know, but it goes to my head, making my mind hazy with desire.

  “You’re presenting some compelling evidence, counselor,” she whispers.

  “I’m only getting started. But here’s Exhibit A.” I run my fingers through her hair as I kiss her neck, running my other hand down her arm, sliding past the short sleeves of her blouse, traversing her skin as the little hairs on her arm stand on end. I inch closer, my chest to her back, as my hand glides down to hers, palm touching palm. There’s a hitch in her breath, and it sounds like an invitation. And it’s one I desperately want to accept. My body heat rises as I move in closer and thread our fingers together, clasping her hand. She clasps back, squeezing tightly.

  And that, right there, is another line.

  Or maybe everything is a line, and I’m hell-bent on vaulting each damn one.

  I kiss her neck h
arder, driven, determined to make her feel incredible.

  She’s trembling in my arms, and that’s what I want. I nip my teeth against the flesh of her neck, setting off a chain reaction. She groans, a rumbly, sexy sound that fills the silence, that hooks into my body and drives me on.

  I spin her around, grab her face, and drag her to me, pressing my hard-on against her body. “I know I said I shouldn’t kiss you again, but that was temporary insanity. I can’t not kiss you.”

  Her lips part, and her eyes spark with lust. “You’re right. But I’m not going to take your word for it.” She grabs at my shirt. “I want more hard evidence.”

  Oh hell, she is dirty, and I love it. “Then here’s Exhibit B.” I push against her, letting her feel the outline of my length.

  She moans, and her fingers tighten around the fabric of my T-shirt, twisting it as she rubs against me. “I need to know if that law should be overturned, overruled, whatever you lawyers call it. Show me.”

  “I’ve got quite a case to present,” I murmur as my hands loop through her hair, the lush, blonde strands sifting between my fingers. “Also, for the record, there was not a single chaste thing about kissing you. It was never pretending. It was always a turn-on.”

  “A rush, a total rush,” she whispers, barely a breath.

  Then I cross all the lines, crushing my mouth to hers and devouring her lips.

  Kissing her hard, possessively, like she belongs to me. My lips claim hers, my tongue flicking across her delicious mouth, the taste of her lip gloss so damn arousing. It’s understated and sexy, like everything about her. The sporty tomboy has turned out to be wildly feminine underneath, and the scent of her, the feel of her, sends a new wave of lust crashing over me.

  Because this kiss is different.

  It’s not our first. But it’s a whole new kind.

  We kissed in the park.

  We pecked at the wine tasting.

  We went at it in the diner.

  We made out for the Jumbotron.

  Every other time, there has been an audience. Every other time, we’ve pretended it was pretend.

  Now that it’s only us, I’m learning it was never pretend for me. That I was only fooling myself. Because every time, I felt something.

  Something unexpected.

  Something that surprised me.

  Maybe that something has always been there, and I had no clue until I touched her.

  I can’t say for certain. All I know is I’m kissing her for real now, kissing her like nothing else matters beyond these four walls. My hands tighten in her hair, and my tongue explores her mouth, and my body craves more and more contact with her. More closeness, more connection.

  Maybe their comments earlier about me being bad in bed flipped a switch. Maybe they drove me to break the promise I made to Summer outside the jewelry store. Or maybe they gave me the excuse I’d been looking for to get closer to her again.

  But they’re not the reason I’m kissing her.

  They aren’t why I’m scooping her up in my arms.

  And none of that spurs me into carrying her to her bedroom, kicking the door closed, and setting her on the edge of her bed.

  As my breath comes hard, I gaze at the woman I’ve known more than half my life.

  The woman I took to prom.

  The woman who’s been my rock.

  The person I’ve depended on.

  And holy shit, I really want to get naked with her all night long, damn the consequences.

  I don’t want to do it to prove a point. I want to do it because I want her.

  I want Summer Clarke so damn badly.

  I cup her cheek, meeting her gaze, ready to tell her that this thing between us—and I don’t want to define it—is so much more than a stupid point to prove.

  That it’s turning into a strange new sensation in my heart.

  But she speaks first while she’s tugging at my shirt, pulling it up, trailing her fingers against my abs.

  “Oliver, show me,” she whispers in the voice of a seductress. “Show me how good you are in bed, as good as I’ve imagined.”

  My brain short-circuits.

  All the wiring fries, and I can’t form coherent thoughts.

  Because she’s pictured this.

  Knowing that throws accelerant on a roaring fire.

  I ignite, and the flames lick through my body as I pull off my shirt the rest of the way, letting the corner of my lips curve up in a grin. “You’ve pictured me?”

  She nods, dancing her fingers down my stomach, over my abs. “I have. I shouldn’t, but I have, and every time, you’ve made me come.”

  Holy fuck.

  She is a goddess of dirty dreams.

  She’s a kitten and a vixen and a daring, bold woman all in one.

  She runs her fingers back up to my chest, making my brain pop. My skin sizzles.

  I don’t need to form intelligent thoughts after all. Telling her this isn’t about ego, that I’m not making a case—those protestations don’t fit in the heat of this moment.

  Not when she wants this purely physical connection.

  So I home in on that.

  I undo her blouse, slipping one button through its hole, then the next, then the next. Her shirt falls open, revealing soft, creamy skin and a pale-pink bra holding in those beauties. She shrugs off the shirt, letting it fall to the floor. We toe off shoes, and then I climb onto the bed with her, lying down, sliding under her so I can kiss her like that.

  It should be weird, kissing my best friend with her lying on top of me.

  Kissing in her bed, half-undressed, knowing everything’s coming off so very soon.

  But it’s not weird.

  It feels inevitable.

  It feels like it’s about damn time.

  And it’s utterly fantastic to finally give in.

  I’m not sure how long I’ve wanted her, whether these feelings are new or they’ve been there all along, just waiting.

  But I know, right now, my desire for her runs far and deep.

  I bring her close for another devouring kiss. She tastes sweet and sexy as our lips collide in a hungry, wild crush.

  My hands slide to the back of her bra, unhooking it. She sits up on me, lets the lingerie fall to the bed, and I stop everything because I have to look. I have to feel.

  My God, she’s spectacular.

  I cup her breasts, moaning my appreciation. “You are fucking beautiful.”

  She smiles, kind of shyly, as she arches her back. “So are you.”

  “But that’s the problem, isn’t it? You think I can’t make you feel good.” I tease her nipples, lifting my head up from the pillow to draw one delicious teardrop breast into my mouth, sucking on that diamond point.

  She gasps, and it turns into a long, lingering groan. “Oh God. That feels so good. You do make me feel good.”

  “Good. That’s what I want.”

  Except, for her, this might merely be an exploration. An exercise. A test.

  But as I flick my tongue across her nipple, I decide I can’t fucking care about the why right now. All I care about is that this doesn’t stop.

  I bite gently then switch to her other breast, lavishing attention on it too.

  She wriggles as I touch her, bowing her back, seeking out my mouth.

  I answer her movements, licking and sucking and kissing as the girl next door writhes on top of me. As I play with her breasts, she moves up my body, straddling me now, rocking her hips against the outline of my cock.

  “Oliver,” she whispers, a needy plea. “More, please, give me more.”

  I thrust up against her as I kiss her breasts, licking as she gasps, as she seems to chase her pleasure.

  And soon, her hips are rolling, her pelvis rocking, her tits bouncing in my face.

  Her breath comes in short, sharp bursts.

  “Don’t stop.”

  “I have no intention of stopping,” I murmur against her chest as my hands guide her, gripping her, working h
er over as she seeks her release.

  Because that’s what she’s doing.

  And this is a fucking revelation.

  Summer loves it when I kiss her breasts.

  Summer gets wildly aroused from me biting her nipples.

  Summer is so turned on, she’s panting, moaning, and riding me clothed, looking perilously close to climax.

  And then she does.

  Her mouth falls into an O.

  Her moan rises higher.

  Her body rocks, thrusts, then shudders.

  Beautifully.

  “Oh God, oh God,” she pants, then cries out, collapsing onto me. The sight of her coming is honestly the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

  So hot that I flip her to her back, strip off her jeans, then meet her gaze, my fingers stopping at her pale-pink knickers. “Summer,” I say.

  “Yes?” Her tone is feathery. She’s still floating on her orgasm, it seems.

  “I need these off. I need to be inside you. Tell me you need it too. Please fucking tell me you need it too. I’m desperate for you.”

  She nods, blinking, then sits up, grabbing at my jeans. “Take these off. Now.”

  Maybe we ought to be having a conversation about what this means, or what happens next, or how we navigate friendship and fucking.

  But I don’t want to ruin the moment.

  She yanks at the button on my jeans, and I fumble at the zipper, working it open. Before I push my pants down, I grab my wallet, fish out a condom, and set it on the bedside table. Then I shed my jeans as she helps us along by slipping off her pink lace.

  She’s naked, and she’s gorgeous.

  And I’m so damn hard. My cock throbs as I push down my boxer briefs, freeing my erection.

  She licks her lips, her eyes never straying from my dick.

  And hey, I don’t mind the eye-fucking.

  I don’t mind the ogling at all.

  I grip my cock, sliding a fist over it, showing her what she’s doing to me. “You are so fucking sexy.”

  “So are you,” she says, her eyes hooded, her tone so sensual. She moves her body like a cat stretching out, then she glides her hand down her pelvis. “I don’t think you’re bad in bed so far, but I think you should prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

  And there it is—I was right about what she’s after. Why she’s doing this.