How To Get Lucky

by Blakely, Lauren

  I’m the lucky recipient not only of a text from London, but a video file.

  Lifting my face to the sky, I offer a silent prayer to all the dirty gods and goddesses. Let this be a video of her stripping down to nothing . . .

  Wait. Nope. That’s so uncouth of me. Truth is, I’d be happy to watch a video of London brushing her teeth.

  As soon as that thought hits my brain, another one slams into it like one car rear-ending another.

  You’ve got it bad for this woman if you want to see her brushing her teeth.

  Shaking my head at my runaway thoughts, I mutter, “No shit, self. Also, fuck off—fresh breath is cool. Right, Bowie?”

  My furry friend tilts his head, his tongue lolling out.

  “Good,” I say as I make my way down the final bend in the trail, clicking open the video clip.

  And happy Sunday morning to me.

  This is way better than good dental hygiene.

  London: I’m in the studio this morning. Feeling all kinds of inspired. Here’s what I have so far for “Come as You Are.” What do you think?

  At the foot of the trail, I hit play.

  My. Jaw. Drops.

  London drags a hand down her chest.

  Pops her hip to the left.

  To the right.

  Lets her head fall back, her hair trailing down her back as she moves to the music.

  What do I think?

  I think I might come as I am.

  I reply.

  Teddy: Change nothing. Not a single fucking thing.

  Then I pat myself on the back because I’m so damn focused on this work project with her, and only on the work project.

  * * *

  Bloom’s nuptials are not my first wedding.

  I’ve spun at plenty before tonight. Not as many as I’d like—Edge keeps me pretty busy on the weekends, and those are the prime coupling days. A few months ago, though, I did get to deejay for some friends who were high school sweethearts and got hitched in their early twenties. Late last year I was in charge of the tunes at the reception for a couple of Sam’s buddies. My mom also hooked me up with one of her book club friends, who met the love of her life at her twenty-fifth high school reunion, and the sheer number of eighties songs to which they got their groove on made for a helluva night.

  What’s not to love about being at a wedding? An entire day devoted to celebrating love while surrounded by family and friends? An opportunity to meld two separate worlds into a larger, richer community? Sign me up.

  But this is the most fun wedding I’ve deejayed by far.

  Bloom’s friends love to dance. They shake and shimmy to every song, with Nate and London busting out the moves. But I haven’t seen her for the last hour. Not that I’m clock-watching. Besides, I’m in the zone, lasered in on spinning tunes and only on spinning tunes.

  The lady of the evening bounces over to the DJ booth. This is Bloom’s first break from the dance floor since she and her hubs cut the cake, and the bride is absolutely glowing.

  “Insomnia, you are a certified rock star and an official lifesaver. I’ve had more compliments on the music than I can count. I’m leaving you the best five-star review in the history of the internet.”

  “What more can a guy ask for?” Not much. Five-star reviews are up there with blow jobs and tacos. Not always in that order, of course. I’ve had some pretty righteous tacos.

  “Can I pass out a few of these?” Bloom asks, motioning toward a small stack of business cards on the table.

  “A few, a lot, all of them—whatever works for you. And thank you. I appreciate it.” I shoot her a huge grin, then throw on my headphones to fade to the next track. As a Michael Jackson number shifts into Tina Turner, I sneak a peek and find the other reason why I like this wedding.

  Fine, fine.

  I’ve been checking her out all night.

  But there’s nothing wrong with enjoying the view.

  Especially when the brunette beauty heads in my direction.

  She walks over to my deejay setup in perfect rhythm to Tina’s smoky wailing. God bless tight tops—London’s decked out in a light-blue dress with a scoop-neck thing that makes it impossible to look away from her tits, which are bouncing slightly with each step. The dress hits her knees, proper enough for a wedding, but sexy enough to absolutely drive me crazy wondering what she’s wearing underneath. Shaking away those thoughts of blue lingerie, white lingerie, red lingerie that matches her glasses—hell, any color lingerie—I shoot her a cocky glare. “You just can’t stay away from me,” I say, heat and challenge in my tone.

  “I know. It’s impossible. I tried.”

  “How hard? How hard did you try to stay away?”

  “So hard,” she teases. “I tried to go on ignoring you for the whole wedding, but I caved just now.”

  I laugh. “Glad you did. You having fun?”

  “I’m having a blast. But I had to duck out for the last hour. Nate and I both forgot to bring the wedding gift, so I just ran back to their place to grab it.”

  “That must’ve been a really important gift,” I say.

  She leans in closer and stage-whispers, “It’s an Instant Pot.” She sets the wrapped cube down on the edge of my table.

  “That is important. Some people think the rings make a marriage official . . .”

  “But it’s actually the Instant Pot,” London finishes my joke, and we share a flirty look.

  One that spurs me on. “London, why don’t you just admit you came to the wedding to see me?”

  She narrows her eyes, pointing at my chest. “You crashed the wedding,” she teases. “Nate asked me to be his date a week ago.”

  “If you say so,” I toss back.

  She crosses her arms. “Just admit you took the job so you could see me.”

  I laugh. “Fine, fine. I wanted to watch you dance. You caught me.”

  “Knew it,” she says. I shouldn’t like flirting with her, because of work, because of my past, because of her brother. But when I’m around London, she has a way of derailing all rational and irrational thought.

  I have a way of forgetting everything else.

  Like promises I made to myself.

  And if I stay in the flirting zone too long, I may lose higher brain function entirely, and I need that for work.

  Maybe she’s wary of the fine line between flirty and fun too, since she changes the topic to an innocuous one. “So, what’s your favorite wedding song ever?”

  I go with it, since I’m still on the clock.

  “‘Uptown Funk’ by Bruno Mars has to be a pretty strong contender. That always gets the people moving. But it’s also not a wedding without a little ‘Unchained Melody.’”

  “Mmm, the Righteous Brothers’ second-best song.”

  “True. What would Top Gun be, after all, without ‘You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’? But that’s probably not the best title for a wedding song.”

  “Maybe the worst title ever for a wedding song,” she says with a laugh. Music is great, but her laughter is quickly becoming my favorite sound. “How about if you had to dance to one song at a wedding? What would it be?”

  “What are we talking here? Slow dance? Fast dance? Group dance?”

  “Deejay’s choice,” she says.

  “Slow dance definitely goes to ‘At Last.’ Etta James classic.”

  “Mmm. And what if you wanted to speed it up a bit?”

  “Well, I have a confession to make. I’m an awful fast dancer,” I admit sheepishly.

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I love the fast tunes. If you throw on any Usher or Queen Bey, you can’t keep me off the dance floor,” she says, tossing her gaze toward the sway of bodies.

  But I barely notice the guests, because my head swims with memories of London dancing downtown the other day, and on my phone this morning. I can’t stop my eyes from traveling the length of her curvaceous body.

  I don’t want to sto
p them on their voyeuristic journey up her legs, around her hips, to the dangerous dip of her dress that exposes just a hint of freckles scattered across the top of her breasts.

  “That’s definitely something I would love to see, so have at it anytime.” I like the idea of dancing with her a lot, so I lean in closer and whisper, “I do kill it at the slow dancing though.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “I don’t mean to brag, but I was voted best male lead at cotillion in seventh and eighth grade, so . . .” I leave the sentence hanging with a smile.

  “In that case, I should probably check out this award-winning slow dancing. For the sake of hypotheses that need to be tested.”

  “Yes. You should conduct all the experiments. That is, if you insist.”

  She adopts a serious expression. “I do insist. I need to run my own research. Corruption in the cotillion circuit is well-documented.”

  I’m about to offer to spin her around on the dance floor for a number when a loud, bright voice hits my ears.

  “London!” Bloom exclaims as she makes her way to us, then tugs at London’s arm. “My bridesmaids are demanding an epic dancer, and you’re an epic dancer. So your presence is requested on the floor.”

  London’s smile takes over her face. “Then we must dance all night long.”

  Bloom glances my way, then at London, then at me again. Something sparks in her eyes. “But don’t you worry. I’ll let you return to flirting with this handsome musical Jedi very soon. Come dance.”

  With a sexy shrug that says she’s following the flirting orders from on high, London’s eyes travel in my direction.

  Exactly where I want them.

  I fade into Usher’s “Yeah!” and as the beat drops hard and fast, Bloom and London bound to the dance floor to a chorus of cheers from the other guests.

  As London dances, her eyes keep meeting mine.

  I know exactly what she’s thinking.

  Same thing I am.

  Looks like we both want to break the rogue-kissing pact.

  20

  Two hours of celebratory revelry later, London is still here with a few lingering guests. The crowd has thinned, and several centerpieces are conspicuously absent. Past a sea of half-empty champagne glasses and partially eaten cake slices, London stands at the edge of the dance floor, fingers toying with her bracelets, looking like the heroine at the end of a wedding sequence in a movie.

  Fade in on the candlelight from the tables flickering off her cheeks, the party lights sparkling through her wavy hair. Her soulful brown eyes lock right on me.

  She walks over to me. “All right, DJ. Let’s test those slow-dancing skills.”

  “All in the name of science,” I say a little huskily because my throat is dry from looking at her. I hit play on “End of the Road.” I’m a hopeful guy tonight, and I’ve had this track ready and waiting for London’s invitation. Boyz II Men floats across the warm evening air.

  I head in her direction and wrap my arms around this beautiful woman, bringing her close. Another couple sways together several feet away, but as far as I’m concerned, my whole world begins and ends on this tiny corner of the dance floor, this space where I have zero worries about work and career and a future.

  There is no room for anything here but her and me, and how we fit.

  “Did Nate leave?” I ask.

  “Yes. He went out with some friends.”

  That answer tells me everything.

  She’s not leaving with him.

  And my body replies—I want her to go home with me.

  London leans her head against my shoulder, and I catch a heady whiff of the citrusy scent that makes me dizzy with want. I breathe her in as our bodies come together, drawn closer by this night, this song. The rest of the guests, most long gone now, were drunk on prosecco and gin. I’m intoxicated by this woman.

  We don’t speak. This moment doesn’t need words. With the palm trees rustling from a soft evening breeze and the stage lights mingling with the starlight, we move together, her arms looped around my neck.

  Both my hands cup her sculpted ass—because where else would I rest my hands?—and I pull back slightly so I can look at her face. Hard to look anyplace else.

  “This must be my lucky day,” I say.

  “Why’s that?” she asks, her eyes all soft and glossy.

  “Accidentally booked a dream gig, the event went off without a hitch, and now I’m dancing with a gorgeous, clever, irresistible woman alone on the dance floor.”

  Furtively, London glances around, tipping her chin to the other couple enjoying the last song of the night. “Technically, we’re not alone, Teddy.”

  “You want to bust me on a technicality? Or should we consider it within the scientific margin of error or whatever you call it?”

  “Science and science geeks can only explain so much. Maybe I’m your lucky charm,” she whispers against my neck.

  Luck. Is this luck? Or is want making me reckless? The club, my relationship with my boss, my burgeoning business—all are at stake.

  And yet as I slide my hands up her back, the last thoughts of Archer and my career slink off into the night like the final note of a song fading to silence.

  I run my thumb across her cheek in a gentle caress.

  She gasps, and with that sexy sound, I give all the way in. I’m not immune to weddings, to slow songs, to flickering strands of lights and warm breezes.

  “Maybe you are a good luck charm,” I say. “I should call you Lucky.”

  A grin tugs at her lips. “Did I just get a nickname?”

  “Seems you did.”

  “Better seal it with a kiss.”

  And because that is the next step of this dance routine, we kiss.

  As my lips slide across hers, the moment becomes stronger than me, stronger than my desire to play by the rules and go by the book. Her body melts into mine, and her lips part for me, inviting me in to kiss deeper, harder.

  And for longer.

  But longer would be better someplace else.

  Once our lips separate and we lock eyes, I make a choice.

  A dangerous one, but a choice nonetheless.

  “About that hypothesis you mentioned last night,” I say.

  “What about it?” Her question comes out breathy.

  “I believe I’d like to take the good-guy challenge.”

  “Let’s take it. Let’s take it now.”

  Looks like we’re both ripping up the rogue-kissing pact. Fine by me. The good-guy challenge sounds a helluva lot more satisfying.

  * * *

  London helps with the lights and music breakdown, powered by that same fevered need that’s driving me, turned on beyond all reason.

  We load all the gear into my car then cruise to my condo, the traffic gods and goddesses gifting us green light after green light.

  “I only have thirty minutes,” she says in a rush as we get out. “Nate is out for a while, and Mr. Darcy turns into a barking pumpkin at midnight.”

  “Can he tell time?”

  “Yes. Breakfast time, dinnertime, and barking time, which he indulges in if he’s alone. Something I learned once when the neighbors complained when we were all out too late.”

  “Then we better be fast,” I say as we bound up the steps.

  With supersonic speed, we take Bowie and Vin Scully around the block—I’ll answer to Sherri’s arched eyebrows tomorrow—then return to my place.

  I lock the door, grateful that London still has that hungry look in her eyes.

  Pretty sure that look hasn’t left mine either.

  The energy and fire from the dance floor flicker across her irises. Though it’s more of a smolder now.

  But that’s okay. That gives me the chance to prove good guys have got it going on.

  I go for it. Not only for me, but hell—I have the honor of a lot of dudes to defend here.

  I finger the hem of her skirt. “So, this window before midnight. I bet we have just enou
gh time to run an experiment.”

  She taps her chin, playing along. “Gee. What kind of experiment?”

  My fingers thread through her hair. “I’d love to prove to you that good guys have what it takes to be great in the bedroom.”

  She laughs lightly, but her gaze is heated. “What if I don’t want to run this test in the bedroom?”

  “Living room. Kitchen. Bedroom. A proper experiment requires a variety of controls and variables.”

  “And testing locations, it seems.” She swallows, lifting her chin. “So, what do you have in mind for the next thirty minutes? Or twenty-five, I should say.”

  I brush featherlight kisses along her neck, making her shiver as I work my way up to her ear. “Preliminary tests.”

  “Ohhh,” she says, a little shuddery, suggesting she likes where we’re going. “But we can do subsequent tests too?” she asks with a hint of sadness in her voice, and I mentally grin at her disappointment that we’re not sleeping together tonight.

  “We can do all the tests,” I say, and I slam my lips to hers, savoring her taste.

  We kiss hot and deep for several delicious seconds as I guide her back to the couch, sinking into it, pulling her on top of me. In a practiced move, she takes off her glasses and sets them on the table.

  My hands roam over her flat stomach, her back bowing as I touch her. Following her cues, I glide my hands beneath her dress, and in one swift motion, I tug it off, tossing it onto the floor.

  There is only one thing to do now—enjoy the view.

  I savor every inch of her.

  The curves of her tits in her lacy blue bra, the freckles splashed across the valley between them, the soft skin of her stomach. And her legs straddling mine, giving me a fantastic view of matching panties that drive me wild. I press my hard-on against her center, and desire spins wildly through me, racing faster as she grinds down on me.

  Our mouths connect again, tongues tangling together. We kiss harder, grinding together in a frenzy, a mad rush to get closer, to touch.

  Breaking the kiss, I run my lips over her chest, along the seam of her blue lace bra. Her skin pebbles at my stubbly caress, and she murmurs fantastic words like yes, more, again.