by Elle Kennedy
Say Yes
Elle Kennedy
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Other Titles by Elle Kennedy
About the Author
Prologue
1
Emilia
* * *
Tom, 29
Interests: the gym, hiking, basketball, beers with the boys
* * *
Fine, so any man who lists “beers with the boys” as an “interest” probably isn’t a viable long-term partner.
But who says I’m looking for one of those?
Tom’s online profile might lean toward the douche side, but it doesn’t stop me from swiping through his pictures. He likes the gym, all right—I find three gym-mirror selfies, one in which he’s holding a dumbbell to show off his very defined biceps. Then we have the token shirtless shots, two on the beach, one at a swim-up pool bar with a bunch of guys who I’m assuming are “the boys.” But where’s the shirtless, bathroom-mirror selfie? There’s always at least one of—there it is. Right on cue.
Tom has a pretty-boy face and an honest-to-God twelve-pack. Seriously, I can’t even count the number of horizontal ripples slashing his tight abdomen.
The only problem is, he’s glistening. I don’t know if it’s sweat or tanning oil, but his skin looks wet in every photograph.
As much as I’m hoping to score a fun hook-up for the night, I don’t know if I would enjoy Tom dripping all over me.
I swipe left.
* * *
Bradley, 25
* * *
Ugh, I should probably change my age settings. Twenty-five is too young for me. But even if I had been able to ignore the age difference, there’s no way I can overlook Bradley’s teeny-tiny doll hands. In my experience, that old saying about a man's hands is one-hundred-percent true, and I have no desire to find myself in another awkward micropenis situation.
I swipe left.
And keep swiping left.
One left after the other.
Dammit. Where are all the hot men who are DTF? I swear, it’s getting harder and harder to find an actual hook-up partner on this app. It’s like all the men on here actually want to . . . shudder . . . date.
Don't get me wrong, being part of a couple can be awesome. I’ve done it a few times. Cuddling and farmers’ markets? Sign me up. I was with my college boyfriend for three and a half years, my longest relationship. My most recent was a six-month fling with a firefighter named John, but the spark fizzled out—no pun intended—about seven months ago.
I enjoy being single, though. It means I can starfish in my bed every night without worrying about some snoring jackass hogging the blanket. I can watch whatever I want on Netflix, listen to my music in the car. It’s nice.
But I’m still a red-blooded woman who needs to get laid sometimes. And this is the perfect opportunity for a no-strings, anonymous hook-up. I checked into the Blue Valley Lodge a day early for this precise reason, since I knew that once all the wedding chaos began, I wouldn’t have time to indulge. I’m the maid of honor, so I anticipate the next three days will involve doting hand and foot on Marcy, the bride.
Confession: I’m still a bit shocked she even asked me to be the maid of honor. I haven’t exactly been the most available friend lately. New apartment, huge promotion at work, more hours and responsibilities . . . I could probably list more excuses, but they’d be just that—excuses. It takes zero effort to send a quick text, even if you’re the busiest person on the planet.
Marcy and I were inseparable in middle school. Her mom called us Siamese twins because we were glued at the hip. In high school, our paths began to veer; I attended a private arts academy and she went to public school. We still spoke, but it wasn’t the same as seeing each other every single day, and eventually even our weekend plans became few and far between. After college we’d reached the point of a phone call once a month, and when she asked me to be her maid of honor a few months ago, we hadn’t spoken in nearly two years. There’ve been some social media likes and brief texts, but nothing substantial.
Hence the confusion. But I guess Marcy still considers me her friend despite my absence of late, and there was no way I could say no when she asked. This was Marcy, my Siamese twin. Of course I said yes, and now here I am in Colorado, staying at this gorgeous chalet-style hotel in the mountains—and not an eligible bachelor to be found.
“Another drink?” the young, dark-haired waiter asks.
My head lifts abruptly. I’m holed up in the corner of the lounge, with its wood-burning fireplaces and mahogany-paneled walls. It’s so cozy I keep forgetting I’m in public. I feel like I’m in a log cabin.
I glance at my empty Cosmo. “Yes, one more, please. But make sure to cut me off after that.” I’m a two-drinks kind of girl. Anything more and I get a bit . . . wobbly.
“No problem.” He grins before wandering off.
I return my attention to the app, rapidly swiping left on three guys who look like actual lumberjacks, flannel and all.
But the man that comes next . . .
Oh my.
Vivid gray eyes and a strong jaw peer up at me from his profile photo. A snug black T-shirt hugs a very defined chest. It’s not a Tom twelve-pack, but equally appealing, and at least it doesn’t look like he bathes in a vat of oil.
* * *
Dirk, 32
* * *
Okay, not the most attractive of names, but he’s age-appropriate. I just turned thirty-one last week. His interests aren’t filled out, but his mini bio definitely sparks my attention.
Only in town for a few days. Looking for someone to have a good time with.
I respect the honesty. But in the end, it’s not even our perfectly aligned motives that win me over—it’s his top song on Spotify.
“Always On My Mind.” The Willie Nelson version.
AKA my all-time favorite song.
Everybody I know prefers the Elvis version. Everyone. But not Dirk. Dirk likes Willie.
Clearly we’re soul mates.
My heartbeat speeds up. This is the nerve-wracking part. The moment that could potentially suck: when you actually like somebody, so you swipe right . . . and nothing happens.
I want the “It's a Match!” screen to pop up and confirm that Dirk—he really doesn’t look like a Dirk—likes me, too. I want to meet him and find out if we have any chemistry. I mean, he’s hot, looking for a good time, and only here for a few days? He’s perfect.
It occurs to me that maybe he’s here for Marcy’s wedding, too, but that’s fine, I suppose. If the chemistry’s there, maybe a weekend fling is in store for us. I’m even willing to overlook the fact that his name is Dirk.
So I swipe right.
I hold my breath and bite my lip and then my heart skips a beat because there it is.
It’s a Match!
2
Him: Hello gorgeous . . .
It’s not the most original opening message, but it’s about the level of originality I’d expect from someone named Dirk.
I snicker to myself, just as the waiter returns with my second Cosmo. “Funny meme?” he prompts, gesturing to my phone.
“Sort of.” I pick up the glass and take a dainty sip. “Ooh, this is great. Thank you.”
“Glad to hear it. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Will do.” Once he’s gone, I focus on the message thread on my phone, deciding to play along.
Me: Hi handsome . . .
Three dots appear to indica
te that he’s typing.
Him: Are you a Colorado native?
* * *
Me: Nope, just here for the weekend visiting some friends.
My instincts tell me not to mention the wedding. The W-word tends to freak some guys out, the ones who operate under the assumption that me watching a couple swear their undying love to each other means I’m desperate for the same thing.
Me: How about you? You’re from Blue Valley?
His current location is the same as mine—this gorgeous little mountain town that apparently has a population of eight hundred or so.
Him: No, here for a work thing.
Okay. Vague. But I just lied about my reason for being here, so I can’t exactly judge.
Him: Where are you from originally, then?
* * *
Me: D.C. Our nation’s capital.
We make some more chitchat for a few minutes. To be honest, it starts to drag, and boredom slowly creeps over me. Mutual Willie Nelson love or not, I’m about to declare this an unsuccessful match when Dirk throws me a curveball that makes me smile.
Him: What are we doing here, gorgeous?
* * *
Me: What do you mean?
* * *
Him: I mean, this isn’t eHarmony or Match.com. We both know what this particular app is for, and we’re both on it at . . . hmmm, 11:18 pm, which is well into booty call territory. So what do you say we cut the small talk and tell each other what we really want?
His forthrightness triggers a tingle between my legs. Yes, he still comes off as kind of douchey, but he writes in full sentences with perfect grammar, his pictures are hot, and he's right—we’re both on here for the same reason.
Me: Okay. Tell me what you want.
* * *
Him: I want to put my mouth all over you. In real life. I’m not into sexting.
* * *
Me: Me neither.
* * *
Him: So let’s meet up. I’m staying at the Blue Valley Lodge.
A surprised squeak flies out of my mouth. We’re at the same hotel?
Him: But I suppose you won’t want to go to a strange man's hotel, so how about I come to wherever you are?
I find myself hurriedly scanning the lounge. I thought it was occupied mostly by older couples, but a sweep of the dimly lit room reveals a sole patron in a shadowy corner of the room. His back is turned to me, so all I glimpse is dark hair and the hint of wide shoulders.
Is that him?
My pulse takes off. On a whim, I type out a quick message.
Me: Describe what you’re looking at right now.
The brief delay tells me I’ve confused him.
Him: A roaring fireplace. Wood-paneled walls. A leather chair beneath my ass, a tumbler of scotch in my hand.
Holy. Shit.
Me: Turn around.
The stranger swivels his head. Our eyes lock from across the room. I hold my phone up, a bit sheepishly, and husky laughter wafts in my direction.
Him: You’ve gotta be kidding me.
I don’t bother responding, because Dirk, in all his real-life glory, is already striding toward my nook. As he walks, he tucks his phone in the pocket of his jeans. They’re dark blue, and he’s paired them with a gray sweater that stretches across impossibly broad shoulders. He’s even better looking in person, and I wish I knew what he did for a living. Is he an athlete? Because he sure as hell is built like one. I swear I see his muscles flexing beneath his sweater every time he moves.
“Emilia,” he drawls.
“Dirk,” I drawl back.
“What are the chances? One would think the universe wants us to get together tonight.”
“One would think.”
“May I join you?” He gestures to the empty armchair
“Of course.”
He sits down and sets his tumbler on his left knee. His gaze wastes no time studying me. Thoroughly.
I’m caught off-guard, because I hadn’t anticipated meeting him right this second. I thought I would have time to go upstairs, freshen up. I feel less than sexy in my bulky cable-knit sweater, leggings, and my hair thrown up in a messy bun.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re incredibly sexy?”
Huh. I guess he likes the disheveled look. “Thank you.” I can’t help but narrow my eyes. “Are you really staying at this hotel?”
He grins. “Well, I don’t make a habit of hanging out in hotel bars for no reason.”
“Hey, you never know. This could be your hook-up hunting ground.”
“Could be yours,” he counters.
“True.” I point to the keycard sitting on the table. “I’m a guest here, too.”
We observe each other over the rims of our respective drinks. Aw man, he's got a dimple that I just want to lick. And the stubble sweeping his jaw begs for my fingers to stroke it. Heat unfurls in my body. It’s been a long time since I’ve experienced such an instant attraction to somebody, and I don’t think I can blame it entirely on my seven-month sexual drought. That thing he said about putting his mouth all over me? I want to do the same thing to him.
“You’re looking at me like you want to eat me alive,” he remarks.
“That’s because I do.”
He looks amused. “That’s honest.”
“Honesty’s my middle name.”
“Is that so?”
“Yup. Well, no, my middle name’s Natasha. But I think honesty is my best trait. My dad thinks it’s my biggest flaw.” I roll my eyes. “But that’s probably because he doesn’t like my brand of honesty. He’s got five divorces under his belt and doesn’t enjoy hearing that he’s a marital fuck-up.” Ugh, and dammit, why am I talking about my father with the guy I’m potentially going to have sex with?
He doesn’t seem to mind, though. “Yeah, I can see how he might not like the reminder.”
“Then he should really stop getting married every other day.”
Dirk laughs.
I hate that his name is Dirk. It’s such a terrible, terrible name.
“So . . .” He of the unfortunate name takes the last sip of his scotch and puts the glass down. “We’re doing the small-talk thing again, Emilia.”
A smile tickles my lips. “Yes. We are.”
He raises a dark-brown eyebrow. “Are you nervous about going upstairs with me?”
“Who says I’m going upstairs with you?”
His lips curve in response. “Oh, I see. We’re playing hard to get now.”
“Nope, I’m still sussing out the situation. Deciding if you’re worthy of going upstairs with me.”
“Worthy, huh?” He smiles wider, flashing me a set of perfect white teeth.
Maybe he’s not an athlete but a male model. Because he’s so insanely sexy. The smile, the body, the silver eyes gleaming with heat. This man is sex on a stick.
“I feel like we’re in negotiations,” I admit with a sigh. “Like we’re setting up rules for potentially banging each other’s brains out.”
“Rules?” Dirk winks. “I don’t play by the rules, gorgeous. If you want to lay some down, though, I’m all ears.”
“I only have one.” My tone becomes firm. “This is only going to be a one-night thing, so you’re not allowed to fall in love with me.”
He chuckles. “I think I already am.”
“Funny.” I stick my hand in my purse, fish out a twenty-dollar bill, and drop it on the table to cover my two cosmos, plus five extra for the waiter. Then I rise to my feet. “Come on, handsome. Let’s go.”
With another blindingly sexy smile, Dirk follows me out of the lounge.
3
His tongue is between my legs. Greedy, wet, demanding.
He knows exactly what he’s doing, and holy hell it’s fantastic. He makes out with my pussy instead of resorting to the trademark move I’ve gotten from other men—when they flick their tongue super fast over my clit like a tiny little jackhammer. It’s really not pleasant, especially when they lead with that move. My puss
y needs to be seduced. I want soft kisses and long licks from a man. I want husky moans from him. I want to look down, like I’m looking down now, and see his dick straining against the front of his pants. I want to know that he loves what he’s doing and that it’s making him hard.
And this guy, Dirk, he of the unfortunate name, does not disappoint. He had me on the bed, flat on my back with my leggings off, before I could even blink. He hasn’t even kissed me yet; he’s too busy creating the most delicious sensations in my body. Shivers of pleasure dance through me, and my clit is throbbing beneath his lips. Release isn’t far away and he’s only been doing this for a couple of minutes.
Somebody give Dirk a gold star.
“Oh, fuck,” I whisper.
This is no joke. My knees are wobbly, and my body feels as if it’s sinking into the mattress. This jelly stage usually means orgasm is imminent.
“Don’t tell me you’re close,” he teases, then kisses his way toward my inner thigh and gives it a light nibble.