by Monroe, Max
I’d felt affection and like, and I’ve cared about another person.
But in this moment, with her beneath me, I know I have never actually felt the undeniable, emotional pull with someone until right now. Until her.
The realization steals my fucking breath, and all I can do is lean forward and take her mouth again, kissing her like a man starved.
More like a man in fucking love.
That single thought hits me straight in the gut, but when Maybe moans again and her fingers grip my shirt, that thought flies out the window and my need for her moves to the forefront of my mind.
God, I want her.
Her fingers move to my jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping with fumbling fingers until she reaches into my boxer briefs and pulls out my cock.
Fuck. I groan.
She grips me and strokes me, and I start to lose sight of everything but how goddamn good it all feels. How good she feels.
“I want you inside me,” she whispers and inches my cock toward her entrance. “I don’t want to be a virgin anymore, Milo. I want to know what sex feels like.”
Her words hit me like a fucking truck.
She doesn’t want to be a virgin anymore.
She wants to know what sex feels like.
Son of a bitch, I don’t like it. Her first time shouldn’t be because she merely wants to know what sex feels like or because she thinks she doesn’t want to be a virgin anymore.
Her first time should be because she wants to give herself to someone. Because what she’s feeling is too intense not to give in to the desire to connect with someone in the most intimate way.
It should be soft and slow and motivated by love.
No matter how badly I want her, I can’t bring myself to do anything but put on the brakes. I can’t bring myself to do anything but end this before it goes too far.
I want Maybe more than my next fucking breath, but I can’t make her mine; I can’t slide my cock inside her unless it’s for the right reasons.
Unless real feelings are involved.
More like, unless she feels the way you feel…
Holy shit. I am in way deeper with her than I even realized…
Yeah, you bastard. You’re pretty much in as deep as one person can go at this point.
Ah fuck. I shut my eyes briefly and look away from her, and when I open them, the very last thing I would ever want to see stares back at me from across the room.
A picture of Maybe with Evan.
My best friend. Her brother.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Something that feels a lot like freaking out starts to take over, and I try to breathe through it. But when I move my eyes back to Maybe, I can’t stop myself from feeling like the biggest asshole that’s ever lived.
I am in love with her. My best friend’s sister.
And I am the only one who knows it.
Even though it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, I press one final kiss to Maybe’s lips and stand up from the bed.
“W-what are you doing?” she asks, her eyes searching mine in confusion. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t,” I whisper back. “I just can’t.”
Immediately, I start to doubt myself. I start to wonder if it’s all in my head.
“You can’t what?” Maybe pushes herself up on her elbows. “You can’t have s-sex with me? You can’t fuck me?”
I cringe at her last question, and it solidifies my decision.
Her first time shouldn’t involve the word fuck at all.
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head, and I feel my lips turn down at the corners. “I can’t.”
You could never be a simple fuck. You mean too much to me for that.
I open my mouth to try to verbalize how I’m feeling, but I don’t have a fucking clue what to say. How can I tell her how I’m feeling when I’m just now starting to understand it?
“Wow. Okay,” she mutters. “Well, then, I guess you can just go.”
Shit. Say something. “Maybe, it’s not—” I start to say, but she cuts me off at the fucking legs.
“I’m not going to ask you again.”
“Maybe—”
“I said, leave!”
Fuck, this isn’t how I pictured this night ending.
Maybe
Something is ringing, and I hate it.
I groan and pull the comforter back over my head and shut my eyes tighter.
But it’s no use. Someone is calling me, and they evidently don’t know I’ve decided to spend the rest of my life in bed. Well, not the rest of my life, but more like until I have to wake up and head to Wendy’s Bridal to meet my mom and Sadie and the rest of the bridesmaids for our final fittings.
Another stupid ring fills my ears, and I blink open my eyes and reach out from beneath my blankets to snag my phone from the nightstand.
Still under the covers, I squint to check the caller, but my vision is too damn blurry to make out what’s on the screen. From what I can see, it’s just a bunch of damn numbers.
I make a mental note to change my ring tone because it’s quite possibly the most annoying sound that’s ever existed and hit accept on the caller, fully expecting some asshole telemarketer to be on the other end of the line.
“Hello?” I grumble and shut my eyes again.
“Hi, is this Maybe Willis?”
“Yep. You got her.” And I guarantee I don’t want whatever shit you’re peddling.
“Oh hello, Maybe,” the man greets in a friendly voice. “This is Taylor McHough.”
That name has me sitting straight up in my bed.
“Taylor McHough?” I question and blink my eyes several times. “With Beacon House?”
“That’s me. Did I interrupt something?”
“Uh…no…no, not all,” I stammer.
“Well, I apologize for calling you on a Saturday, but I didn’t want to wait until Monday,” he continues. “I really enjoyed our chat yesterday, and after speaking with a few of the editors on my team, we’ve all come to the conclusion that you would be a fantastic asset at Beacon House.”
“I would?”
“You definitely would,” he responds, and I can hear a hint of a smile in his voice. “So, Maybe Willis, consider this an official job offer.”
“You’re offering me the job?”
“I am,” he answers.
“Holy sh—Oh God. I mean, wow. Okay. Wow.”
“I take it you’re a little surprised?”
“Uh…yeah, just a teensy bit.” An embarrassed laugh leaves my throat. “I thought you still had more candidates to interview and that I wouldn’t hear from you until next week…”
“After interviewing you, I decided it wasn’t necessary. I know you’ll be a perfect fit.”
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
“I don’t even know what to say.” I lift my hand to cover my mouth.
“Well, I’m hoping you’ll say you accept.”
“Of course, I accept!” I exclaim a little too loudly, and I cringe. “Ugh. Sorry. I’m a little excited, but I promise I’ll work on my volume control before my first day at the office.”
He chuckles softly. “I don’t consider that a bad thing, Ms. Willis. And let me be the first person to welcome you aboard. I have a feeling you’re going to do great things here.”
By the time we end the call, I know I’ll be starting with the next round of orientees next month, and that a woman by the name of Ruth in HR will be sending a whole packet of information to my apartment in the next week or so.
I also know that I got the fucking job. At Beacon House.
Oh. My. Gawd!
I toss my phone down onto my mattress, jump off my bed, and dance around my bedroom in my underwear. Booty-shaking. Twerking. The robot. I’m doing all of the moves.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” My voice bounces off the walls, and I throw myself back onto my bed and squeal. “I don’t have to work with Bruce anymore!”
I feel exhilarated and insane and, hell,
I need to tell someone!
I snag my phone back off the bed, and without even thinking, I find Milo’s name in my text message inbox.
With one tap of my finger, I pull up our most recent conversation and, just as I start to type out a message to tell him the good news, the reality of our situation crashes down on my shoulders and ties a firm knot inside my chest.
Fuck.
I reread his message from earlier this morning, the one that asked me if he could come over and talk.
I reread my brush-off of a response.
And then, the memories of last night flood into my mind.
It was quite possibly the worst night of my life.
And, yeah, that’s one of those things people tend to use in dramatic generalizations.
Flat tire on the way home from work? Worst night of my life.
My DVR didn’t record the Project Runway Finale? Worst night of my life.
Those Taco Bell chalupas gave me the shits? Worst night of my life.
I can attest to experiencing at least two of the above.
But I can also guarantee that last night was, in fact, The. Worst. Night. Of. My. Life.
A girl doesn’t get naked, throw herself at the man she’s in love with, beg him to take her virginity, and then, have said man tell her he “can’t do it” without it actually being an experience she wishes a lobotomy could cure.
I don’t know where it all went wrong.
We danced. We kissed like teenagers. I got naked. We kissed some more. I touched Milo’s penis. Then, boom. Things took a turn. One minute we were full throttle, and the next he was standing across the room, tucking his cock back into his jeans, and apologizing for not being able to have sex with me.
“I’m sorry” is the very last thing you want to hear when you’re ready to turn in your V-card to the man of your dreams. The man you are head over heels in love with.
Apparently, my biggest fear was actually my reality.
What I’m feeling is one-sided. I’m both feet, all in, ready to take the next step, and Milo’s had one foot out the door the entire time.
The mere thought of him and what happened and the awful realization that you can’t just fall out of love with someone even if they don’t love you back has tears filling my eyes.
Now, I remember why I wanted to stay in bed all the livelong day.
But when I spot the time on my phone, I realize I have to get it together. I have to swallow back all of my emotions and get ready to head to Wendy’s Bridal.
Today isn’t about me. Or my fucking feelings.
It’s about Sadie. Evan’s fiancée. My soon-to-be sister-in-law.
It’s about watching her slip on her wedding dress one last time before her big day.
With a deep, cavernous breath, I force some much-needed oxygen in and out of my lungs and command myself to walk into the bathroom and hop in the shower.
I will not screw up this day for her.
I repeat that mantra during my shower and when I’m blow-drying my hair and even when I’m getting myself dressed.
I repeat it for the entire six blocks it takes me to reach the bridal shop.
And I repeat it two more times before I wrap my fingers around the chrome of the entrance doorknob and step inside.
“Maybe!” My mom greets me with a giant grin, wrapping her arms around me and squeezing me so tight, I fear she might crack a rib. Luckily, though, she lets go before internal damage sets in. “I can’t believe the big day is almost here!” she squeals.
“It’s hard to believe,” I say, trying like hell to remove the sadness from my voice and end up sounding like I’m in a damn musical. “But so very ex-cit-ing!”
My mom tilts her head to the side. “Are you feeling okay?”
Whoops. Guess I overcompensated a bit there.
“Of course.” I clear my throat. “I’m just so happy that Sadie is going to officially take Evan off our hands.”
“Now, be careful what you say. There’s still time for me to back out.” Sadie’s laughter fills my ears, and I turn to find her stepping out of one of the dressing rooms.
My amusement gets caught in my throat when I take in the beauty that is Sadie Cleary—soon-to-be Sadie Willis—in her wedding dress.
“Oh my gosh.” I put a hand to my lips. “You look so beautiful that I literally might cry.”
“Yeah?” she asks and steps up onto the elevated platform in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
“Yes. You are perfect,” I say, and I sincerely mean it. “Evan is going to die when he sees you.”
“Well, Lord Almighty, I hope that’s not the case. It’d be awful to have to plan a funeral the day after my wedding.” She grins and I giggle.
“You know what I mean.”
“It’s good to see you, Maybe.”
I step past my mom and the bridesmaids and Sadie’s mom and the bridal shop attendants seeing to her train. Carefully, I wrap my arms around my future sister-in-law’s shoulders and give her a gentle hug. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.”
I lean back, keeping her hands locked in mine, and take another look at her dress.
Creamy white with lace and exquisite beading and the kind of ideal mermaid fit that shows off all of her fabulous curves, this dress couldn’t be any more perfect if she’d dreamed it up.
“Beautiful,” I whisper. “You truly make a stunning bride.”
Tears fill her eyes and a smile lifts her lips. “Aw, Maybe, you’re gonna make me cry!”
“Too late for that!” my mom says behind us. I turn to find her, along with three other women in our party, dabbing tissues beneath their eyes.
I shrug and smile, and for a little while, I actually forget about the emotional Milo baggage hanging heavy on my shoulders.
I laugh with my mom and Sadie’s bridesmaids over embarrassing stories about Evan.
I tell Sadie how gorgeous she looks in her veil.
I try on my pale-pink bridesmaid’s dress and pick out the perfect pair of nude heels to go with it.
I even hug and joke around with ole Bruce when he stops by to say hello.
But when the afternoon is done and I’m back in my apartment, my brain fixates back on Milo. Racing thoughts of rejection and confusion and the horrible realization that a broken heart is one of the most painful things I’ve ever felt consume me.
I can’t even walk into my bedroom without remembering the look on his face when he backed away from me. Or the way he sounded when he said, “I can’t.”
I only manage to sit in my apartment for a whole hour before the walls close in on me and I need to step outside and get some fresh air.
I walk around my neighborhood, my mind a million miles away as I move past my fellow pedestrians and my favorite Chelsea shops.
It doesn’t take long before I’m standing in front of Jovial Grinds.
Desperate to talk to the one and only person who might be able to help me sort this whole mess out.
The instant I step inside the front doors, Lena looks up from a display of bagels and meets my eyes. Between one blink and the next, her face goes from carefree to concerned.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” she asks, and the worry in her voice is the last emotional straw.
The dam breaks, and I just start sobbing right there, in the middle of the damn coffee shop.
Without hesitation, Lena moves around the counter, wraps me up in a giant hug, and gently guides me toward the back, far away from the customers.
Surely, no one can enjoy their coffee with a woman bawling her eyes out in the middle of the café.
Once we’re behind a closed door, she sits me down in a chair, and I look around the room to find a fridge and a table and a few small lockers against the wall.
“Is this the break room?”
“Yep.”
“This isn’t at all how I pictured it.”
“Girl, focus,” she says on a sigh. “What is going on?”
“Well…” I pause and my lip trembles, but the emotion lodged in my throat doesn’t stop me from word-vomiting pretty much everything that’s inside my head. “Apparently, this virgin is still a virgin because no one wants to have sex with her. Oh, and I’m in love with Milo, but he doesn’t love me back. Like, at all. Honestly, it’s quite possible that the thought of me naked is repulsive to him.”
Her mouth goes unhinged. “What?”
“Last night, after we left the club,” I start to explain. “We went back to my apartment and things were getting kind of hot and heavy, and I decided to go for it, you know? I decided to just put myself out there. So, I got naked and I tried to seduce him into having sex with me, but when I asked him to, you know, have sex with me…he got all weird and got off the bed and then…” I pause as tears start to slip from behind my lids. “He said he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t have sex with me.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“Well, shit,” she mutters, and her face morphs into utter shock. “I didn’t expect that to happen.”
“Yeah.” I half snort, half cry and bury my face into my hands. “Join the damn club.”
She stays quiet for a long moment, and eventually, I lift my head and search her eyes.
“What?” I question through a sniffle. “What does that expression on your face mean?”
“I’m just trying to wrap my mind around it all,” she says and reaches out to brush a lock of hair behind my ear.
“Well, there isn’t anything to wrap your mind around,” I grumble. “Milo isn’t into me like you thought he was.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“How is that bullshit?” I question with a little too much annoyance. “I basically threw myself at him last night, and he told me he couldn’t do it. He left my apartment while I was still naked on my damn bed, Lena. It’s not bullshit. It’s reality.”
“Did he leave because he wanted to, or did you ask him to leave?”
“What does it matter?” I spit. “He left. End of story.”
“Actually, it matters a lot, honey.” Her voice is soft and caressing, and it only enrages me more.
“I know you think you know everything there is to know about men, but I’m telling you, when it comes to Milo, you were dead wrong.”