Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend

by Lauren Blakely

  Proof.

  But I’m not trying to prove anything. What drives me is pure and simple want.

  It’s too strong to fight. It’s overwhelming. It’s fierce and dangerous, like a wild animal finally set free.

  Part of me thinks it’s for the best that she’s not on the same page. That it’s safer.

  And this may be simply an experiment for her, but she seems to be enjoying every second of our lab test. She arches her hips, such a desperate thing.

  And it’s so arousing that my dick throbs insistently.

  “I will make sure beyond any reasonable doubt that you come hard for a second time, maybe even a third. Sound about right?”

  She moans. “Sounds perfect.”

  Getting on the bed, I wrap my hands around her ankles, opening her legs.

  But she shakes her head. “Let me be on top.”

  “What the lady wants.” I flop onto the mattress as she shifts, straddling me. I reach for the condom, open the packet, then roll it down my length.

  With avid eyes, she watches me, a wild sort of hunger in her gaze. It’s something I’ve never seen there before. Something I never expected from her.

  But it’s incredibly erotic to experience her like this.

  To see my friend come alive in a whole new way in the bedroom.

  As she settles her knees on either side of me, I don’t need any proof to know I want so much more than one time with her.

  Because I’ve been wanting her for a long, long time.

  How did I not realize it sooner? I’ve been craving this, denying this. Moments over the last few years flash before me. Snapshots of the flush on her chest, my gaze on her lips, our bodies nearly touching.

  The way I felt.

  How I reacted.

  I shoved all those wants away each time, ignoring, denying.

  Pretending.

  That was where I was truly faking it.

  Now, here I am with her for real, and I’m pretty sure my want is so much more than physical.

  It’s hitting me in a much deeper way.

  And evidently, like a stupid idiot, it took me getting naked with her to learn I really, really like her.

  On a whole lot of levels.

  Even if she’s only feeling it on one level.

  I’ll have to take what I can get.

  27

  Summer

  I hardly feel like me.

  Gone is the outgoing, upbeat, peppy, positive Summer.

  I’m suddenly this wildly different woman.

  I’m lust-drenched and dipped in desire, rolled in it from head to toe like a sugar coating.

  As Oliver sheathes himself, I’m vibrating with desire.

  I’m enrobed in lust.

  I can’t entirely believe I’m doing this.

  I’m about to fuck my best friend, and a part of me wonders why we waited so long to cross this line.

  Here in my room, everything about us together feels . . . undeniable, like maybe all our touches, all our teasing, and all our kissing was always pointing right to this.

  He grips my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh as I position myself over him. I take his cock in my hand, and I breathe out, hard. It’s a relief and a thrill all at once to touch him at last. To touch the man I’ve been crushing on for years.

  And the only way—literally the only way—I can get through the sheer intensity of this moment is to act like it’s just a game, an experiment.

  But it’s so much more.

  It’s a deep and potent longing to know him like this when I’ve craved it for so long.

  As I curl a fist around his length, I’m lit up, because this is heady, this is real, this is me touching my best friend and knowing he wants me the same way I want him.

  And I want us to feel everything together. I rub the head against my wetness, my eyes squeezing shut at the first enticing feel of his cock against me.

  Then I rise up, and I slide down onto Oliver Harris, the boy who took me to prom, the man who I’m taking to bed, the person I enjoy the most in this world.

  “Oh God. Oh my God,” I groan as I sink down, settling onto his shaft.

  He growls, a long, carnal hum of approval. “Summer. You feel fucking incredible.”

  “God, so do you.” It’s all I can say, all I can feel as I adjust to his delicious length, to the feel of him pulsing inside me.

  If I say anything more, I’ll say too much.

  I’ll tell him I’ve wanted this for reasons that go beyond his beautiful face, his carved body. For reasons that live inside me. Because he’s the person I’ve laughed with, depended on, turned to.

  And he’s this beautiful man beneath me in bed.

  A friend and now, for the most unexpected of reasons, a lover.

  Those roles are supposed to be separate. Opposite sides of the ring. But they’re crashing into each other and doing crazy, dangerous things to my heart.

  It’s hammering. It’s expanding. It’s reaching for him.

  Focus on the physical.

  Yes, that’s what I need to do.

  I start to move, to seek a rhythm, find a pace.

  Moving my hips, I roll back and forth, up and down, taking him in, out.

  I plant my palms on his chest, and he guides me with his strong hands.

  “That’s right, cupcake. Use my cock. Use it to make yourself feel so fucking good.”

  Sparks race across my skin. He’s a dirty talker, and I love it. Love discovering this side of him.

  “More. Give me more dirty words,” I pant. His voice sends shivers across my skin, hot, decadent tingles that feel so damn good.

  “Fuck me hard, cupcake. Like you know you want to,” he urges, moving me up and down on his thick, hard cock.

  Sparks of pleasure ignite in my core, fireworks exploding into the night sky as I rock my hips against him. “I do. I do want it hard. I do want it good.”

  I’ve never spoken like this during sex.

  I’ve never wanted to. Never tried.

  But it’s heady and thrilling to say out loud all the filthy things I feel.

  “Then that’s how you’ll get it. You are going to get it so hard and deep you’ll be feeling me tomorrow. Now let me see those beautiful tits bounce up and down,” he says, rocking under me, fucking me from below. He pistons his hips, driving into me and consuming me with pleasure. I can’t stop moaning, because the threat of bliss is close, so deliciously close.

  Oliver slides a hand across my waist, down my belly, heading straight for my clit. The second he touches me there, I cry out. I toss my head back, yelling his name.

  “Oliver, God, Oliver! Yes, yes, yes.” His name is hard to say during sex. All those syllables. But I want to feel it on my tongue. I want the reminder that he’s doing this to me. My friend, my rock, my confidante. That even if this is a game, a slipup, a moment in our pretend love affair, I want it to feel as real as I’ve imagined it.

  So many times.

  Countless times.

  And now, as I’m chasing the edge, I start to understand why.

  As he pumps into me, my belly tightens, a swirl of pleasure coiling inward, gathering strength, and then, out of nowhere or out of everywhere, the pleasure in me shatters into a thousand diamonds as I detonate.

  I shake as ecstasy rattles through me, expanding, crashing over me, into me, under me as I call out his name again.

  The second I come down from the high, he pulls out, flips me to my back, and hikes up my legs on his shoulders.

  Oh my God. I can’t move. I don’t want to move. I want to be owned.

  He’s fucking me so good.

  Such a hard, wild fucking.

  And I love it. I love watching him take me. Feeling him ride me to the edge, my legs hooked over his shoulders as he pumps hard, fast, deep.

  “You’re so fucking wet. So fucking sexy. Love the way you grip my cock. Love the way you feel. It’s so fucking good.”

  “It is. It’s so good.”

&
nbsp; “So sexy. So goddamn sexy. Come again for me. Want you to come again.”

  As he drives into me more furiously, his moves send me soaring over another cliff, and I come hard for the third time. I cry out, then I beg, “I want you to come.”

  But I don’t really have to ask. His body stiffens, and then he grunts, “Coming,” and collapses onto me.

  He’s panting, moaning, and saying my name over and over. Whispering it. Then my new nickname, spoken quietly in my ear. “Cupcake.”

  It’s a slow, soft murmur.

  Like he’s delighting in it.

  And I am too, as aftershocks reverberate in me while Oliver kisses my neck. “That was so much more than being good in bed,” he whispers.

  I know, I know.

  My throat tightens, and I press my lips together because I don’t dare let a true word escape. That this was so much more than a test, a theory. That it was so much more than sex.

  But if I admit any of that, I might lose my heart to him, and if I lose my heart, I could lose him.

  The person I depend on, turn to, need.

  So I say something else that’s true. “It was. You broke all the laws, Oliver.”

  28

  Summer

  This isn’t the first time we’ve spent the night. There was that Saturday a few years ago when we were all up late—Stella, Henry, Oliver, and me—playing Would You Rather and showing off our drink-mixing and drink-downing prowess. My grandma was out of town, and we all crashed in the living room in an epic late-night fiesta of drinks, food, and fun that made us feel like we were in college again.

  Another time, I was at his apartment, binge-watching Friends from College on Netflix—or cringe-watching, really, since that show is like a train wreck you can’t turn away from—and I conked out five minutes into the final episode.

  I woke the next morning covered in a navy-blue blanket, one arm hanging over the side of his couch. We finished the episode over coffee and bagels, lamenting the show’s cancellation.

  But this is not that.

  This is not either of those.

  This is something else entirely.

  I’m not even sure how he or we made the decision for him to stay over last night, only that there was yawning and stretching, and a great many I’m so tireds involved.

  Now, it’s Saturday morning, and he’s sound asleep on his stomach, the sheets riding low on his waist.

  His back is exposed, and as I push up on my elbows, I’m tempted to trace long, lazy lines down his spine to where the curves of his perfect, round butt cheeks peek above the sheets.

  Dear sexy ex-boyfriend indeed.

  He’s the sexiest.

  And the riskiest. Because my heart clutches as I gaze at him, swelling with new emotions.

  Or maybe not so new ones.

  Maybe ones that have been present for years and became even stronger last night, activated by touch.

  Or maybe activated by new moments too.

  I flash back on last night outside the jewelry store, the way he apologized, then later at the game as we talked about our families.

  Those moments brought me closer to him.

  Made me feel more connected to my best friend.

  I lift my hand, running it through the air as if I’m touching him. The desire storming inside me is so much more than physical.

  It’s not only coming from my body—it’s coming from my heart, my mind.

  And that’s why I have to get out of bed, have to get away from him.

  If I stay here, I’ll pepper him with kisses. I’ll run my fingers across his warm skin. I’ll try to cuddle him.

  My God, if I cuddle him, I’ll give away all this aching in my heart.

  And I can’t.

  Just can’t.

  Last night has to be just sex.

  Because I remember how he looked at me in the diner yesterday after we broke the kiss.

  Like he’d already lost something.

  I remember what he said later when he apologized.

  I left because I didn’t think I could stop kissing you if I stayed, and I care about you too deeply to jeopardize our friendship.

  The memory singes me, and I bolt out of bed, grabbing jeans, panties, a bra, and a shirt. Like my hair is on fire, I rush to the bathroom, take a quick shower, brush my teeth, and get dressed. I can’t risk our friendship. I can’t hurt it.

  Ten minutes later, I’m out of there, heading into the kitchen to start some coffee.

  I’m not a yoga person, and I don’t meditate. But I know the value of breathing, so I practice my breaths, telling myself that nothing can jeopardize the years of depending on each other.

  Because I won’t let it.

  As the life-giving beverage brews, I hear sheets rustling and feet padding on the floor. Then the toilet flushes, a sink runs, and a door opens.

  Clad in only jeans, Oliver walks into the kitchen with gorgeous bed head and a happy grin.

  My heart trips on itself, wanting to run to him and fling itself at his feet.

  Must. Calm. Down.

  “Good morning,” I say, all cheery and full of zest.

  I’m not Summer the Sex Vixen anymore. I’m the cheery, sarcastic friend. I draw a circle in the air to encompass him, especially the hair. “I’m entering you in The Best Bed Head Ever competition. Because that all-the-strands-sticking-up look is adorable.”

  I fix on a smile.

  There. I sound like a sassy friend, not a lovestruck lover.

  With a what can you do shrug, he drags a hand through his tousled hair, strides over to me, and drops a kiss onto my cheek. The minty scent of his breath drifts past my nostrils. He must have found my extra toothbrush and brushed his teeth when he woke up. Another point in his favor.

  He lifts his face. “Morning.”

  Gah.

  Even the way he says Morning is making my heart do handsprings. What is wrong with me?

  I straighten my spine and gesture to the coffee. “Want a cup?”

  “There is only one correct answer to that question.”

  I smile and pour him a mug, looking away and focusing on the role I’m playing. That role means steering the ship of us back into Buddy Harbor.

  “So,” I begin, drawing a deep breath. “The verdict is in.” I spin around and hand him his coffee.

  He arches a brow in question. “It is?”

  I nod fiercely, making a big deal of this moment. Because friendships cannot be jeopardized with things like epic, earth-shattering, soul-searing sex.

  “Good-looking men are not selfish lovers. Law abolished.” I make a big sweeping gesture with my free hand, like I’m striking down a statute.

  He blinks, his brow furrowing. He takes a drink of his coffee, the crease in his forehead still present. “Oh, right,” he says. Then his expression shifts, like he’s clearing something up in his head. When he looks at me, he flashes that fabulous, famous smile—the one that melts hearts and panties, and might very well be doing a number on both those things of mine right now.

  Damn him for being so damn pretty.

  And kind.

  And funny.

  And caring.

  Because that was what I saw last night. For all his cocksure charm, all his jokes about sizes, he’s the same guy in bed that he is out of it.

  A good man.

  He blows out a long stream of air, like he’s relieved too. “Glad to hear that. That law. Super important to strike it down.”

  “Right?” I force out a laugh. “I couldn’t have Stella bad-mouthing your abilities. I had to know for sure, though, since she wouldn’t take my word for it.”

  “Right, right,” he says, nodding as he drinks again. “Wouldn’t want that.” His voice tightens, goes a little crisper. “Maybe it’s time to let Twitter know too. I’m sure they’d be delighted to learn that I’m not only a spectacular kisser, but that I’m great in bed as well.”

  My brow knits. Is he mad?

  He sets the cup on the table
and turns to head for the bedroom. In my alarm and confusion, I grab his arm. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it.”

  He laughs, but it sounds bitter. “Nor did I. Hell, it’s great news. Let’s host a parade. Let’s tell everyone that the guy you all thought would be rubbish in the sack is a stellar shag.”

  “Oliver,” I say, turning desperate. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m not posting anything on Twitter. I was just . . .”

  I was just covering up how I feel for you.

  He waves a hand. “Whatever. It’s fine. I love being judged for completely unimportant shit.”

  He doesn’t add like how I look, because that would be cocky.

  And right now, he’s not cocky.

  But he has been judged—unfairly—and that’s partly my fault.

  I don’t let go of his arm, squeezing tightly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to judge you. I think you’re amazing. As a person, as a friend, as a . . .” I flap my hand in the direction of the bedroom.

  A small smile plays on his lips. “Thanks.”

  “And I would never say something online about . . .” I don’t finish that sentence either—how good you are in bed. That seems trivial, and this moment feels bigger, more important.

  So I do the thing I ought to do—apologize again. “I’m sorry for judging you on your looks. You’re gorgeous, and I maybe assumed something that was stupid to assume.”

  He laughs, and it sounds self-deprecating. “I sound like a total arse now. It’s all good. We’re good, I swear. I didn’t mean to get cranky.” He takes a beat. “But would you tell Stella your grade for me?”

  The question comes out almost sheepish, like he’s embarrassed to ask.

  I want to tell him the truth. That I would tell Stella as my friend. That I would tell her because she’s the only person to see through this facade of mine. Because she knows how I feel for Oliver.

  Oh, how I want to find her, flop onto a couch, clutch my heart, and say it was amazing because it was him.

  But I can’t, and I won’t.

  “No,” I say. “It’s private.”

  He shakes his head, like he’s clearing it. “Shit. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I said any of that about judgments and whatnot. I didn’t mean anything bad by it.”