Well Hung

by Lauren Blakely

  Charlotte: So no bigamy case can be made, then. Check that off. Were either of you unable to have sexual intercourse at the time of the marriage?

  Natalie: Very funny. We were the opposite. Apparently that’s all we were able to do.

  Charlotte: I thought so :) And were either of you incurably insane for five or more years?

  Natalie: Definitely for the entire night. Does that count?

  Charlotte: Doesn’t quite add up to five years, I’m afraid. So, as you can see, New York is a wee bit complicated when it comes to granting annulments. Weirdly, divorce is easier in NY. At least, an uncontested divorce is. I vote for that.

  Natalie: Great. Now I’ll be a divorced woman. It’ll be this black mark.

  Charlotte: They don’t brand divorced people, Nat. Or make you get a tattoo.

  Natalie: I know there’s no shame in divorcing for real. But this isn’t a real divorce. It’s dumbass divorce, born from vodka, hormones, and stupidity. I was such an idiot.

  Charlotte: You were just having fun.

  Natalie: In my case, fun = idiocy

  Charlotte: Stop beating yourself up. Just do what you need to do.

  Natalie: I will . . . I’m just so . . . I can’t focus . . . My videos suck . . . This whole situation is getting me down.

  Charlotte: Why?

  Natalie: You know why

  Charlotte: Because of how you feel?

  Natalie: I HATE FEELINGS. MAKE THEM STOP.

  Charlotte: Poof. Done.

  Natalie: I love you. Thank you. I’m better now.

  Charlotte: Come over later, and we’ll cuddle. For now, I’m emailing you all the details of what to do next.

  At four o’clock, I cross the sidewalk to my truck, loading the tools in the cab. A dude with a scraggly beard and a filthy jacket wanders past me. He stops, turns around, and gives me a thumbs-up. “Hey, man, don’t know why you threw out that sandwich this morning, but I’m glad you did. It was awesome.”

  My face is blank for a few seconds, then it dawns on me. He survived the turkey ambush. Which means not only did I not become an accessory to murder, Natalie didn’t try to off me with a ciabatta.

  Of course she didn’t, you idiot. You jumped to conclusions. You assumed the worst. You lumped her in with all the others. You should have known better.

  When I return to the office, she’s placing the pages she just printed on her desk. I set down the tools, walk over to her, and park my hands on her shoulders.

  She blinks, surprised I’m so close.

  Chase’s advice resonates.

  Do the opposite.

  22

  If my instinct has been to assume she wanted me terminated via turkey, I’m going to do the opposite. “The sandwich was to die for,” I tell her, privately enjoying my inside joke. I wrap my arms around her in a hug.

  I can feel her smile against my shoulder. “It was just a sandwich, but you’re welcome.”

  When we separate, our eyes meet, and my gratitude disappears. So does my stupidity. In its place is only desire. I brush her hair from her cheek, run my thumb along her jawline, and bring my forehead to hers. “I want you so fucking much,” I tell her, because it’s not only the truth—it’s the opposite of what I wanted to say to her this morning.

  She grips my shirt and her eyes darken. “I want you so much it drives me crazy.”

  A lusty sort of relief floods me. Cupping her cheeks in my hands, I gaze into her eyes, and the fire inside me intensifies. What flickered earlier is now blazing. I slant my mouth to hers, and the second our lips touch, all these warring emotions settle, replaced by only the absolute rightness of what I feel for her.

  Her lips part, and I slide my tongue inside her mouth. My head spins, and my heart slams against my chest. I’ve missed this. I’ve craved this. I’ve needed this. I kiss her like there’s nothing else in the world I’d rather do. My body aligns with her, my erection against her hip, and she moans lightly, pulling me closer as she backs up. Her ass hits the metal desk, then she scoots up on it. My eyes snap open to see papers sliding behind her, then to the floor. She perches on the desk, opening her legs to draw me against her.

  I’m there, wedged between her thighs, my throbbing erection pressed hard against her skin. Where it belongs. Jesus Christ. This is where I want to be. Here with her. Ready for me.

  I break the kiss, dragging my rough hands down her bare arms. She shudders as I touch her, and wraps her legs more tightly around me.

  “I can’t stop thinking about fucking you again, Nat. About touching you again,” I say, bringing my mouth to her ear. “And tasting you.”

  She trembles as a soft gasp falls from her lips.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I pull her earlobe between my teeth and nip the flesh. “I bet you’d like my face between your legs.”

  Her answer sounds wanton as she moans yes.

  And that’s how I find myself pushing her down on the desk, hiking up her knees so her high heels hook over the edge, and spreading those strong, toned legs. I push her skirt to her waist, tug her panties to the side, and then kiss her hot, wet pussy.

  She tastes like heaven on my tongue, and a rumble works its way up my chest. She’s so slick, and there’s nothing better than knowing the woman you want is this hot for you. The caveman in me wants to go wild on her, to kiss her pussy in a relentless devouring. But I’ve got to get her there first. Can’t just start at sixty miles an hour. I pace myself, flicking my tongue over the rise of her clit.

  “Oh my God,” she moans, and I smile as all the memories of her sexy sounds return. I love how loud she is, the noises she makes, the things she says. “I’ve been fantasizing . . . Your lips are just . . .” Her words are broken by her panting breaths, as I suck her clit into my mouth in a way that makes her writhe.

  “Yeah? You’ve been wanting me to eat you?” I raise my face and grab her pink panties, pulling them off in one smooth motion.

  “So much, so much,” she says, lifting up her hips like a fucking invitation, like she needs this as desperately as I do.

  I kiss the top of her mound then whisper, “Show me that it’s all you’ve been thinking about.”

  I return to the glorious land between her legs. Her pussy glistens with her arousal, so wet and shiny that I half want to admire the sight of her slick pink flesh, but I wholly want to consume it and be consumed by her. Pressing my hands to her legs, I spread her open again and lick, a long, lush stroke all the way up, spearing my tongue against her throbbing clit at the top.

  She cries out my name.

  My tongue goes in reverse, trailing down.

  She moans God’s name.

  And I go to town, lapping her wetness. Sucking her sweetness. Devouring her until she’s panting and writhing and saying Jesus’s name this time. Maybe I can get her to call out all the saints, too.

  Her hands seek my hair, grabbing, clamping down. Her hips lift, matching my moves as I kiss her pussy the way I’ve kissed her lips. Hungrily. Like I can’t get enough to eat.

  “It’s so good, it’s so good, it’s so good,” she moans, tugging on my hair, pulling my face closer, even though, trust me, I’m buried in her right now. There’s no place I’d rather be. My hard-on wages a battle to escape from my jeans. I want her more than I’ve ever wanted any woman.

  Her hips grind against my face, her nails dig into my skull, and she rocks into my mouth, driven by a need I’m sure only I can quench. I lick faster, kiss her more greedily, flick my tongue against her sweet clit until she’s locked her legs around my head. “Oh God, don’t stop, I’m coming, don’t stop, I’m coming,” she cries out.

  I want to tell her I’d never stop, but I can barely breathe, because she’s coming all over my lips, my chin, my face. She sings my name as her orgasm blasts through her until she shudders and shakes, panting “oh God” in a softer voice as she comes down from the high.

  As I straighten up and wipe my hand over my mouth, I take in the sight in front of me. N
atalie’s on her desk, her legs wide open, her beautiful face colored with pure satisfaction, her blond hair a wild tumble.

  Bliss. Fucking bliss.

  She blinks open her eyes, and it’s as if she’s waking up after a dream. When her gaze finds mine she smiles, and it’s a new one—a dopey grin that somehow turns me on even more.

  Impossibly, the spark in me shoots higher when she raises her arm, reaching for me. I take her hand, tug her closer, and help her off the desk. I figure she’ll smooth her skirt, fluff her hair, something like that.

  Instead, she turns around, bends over, and places her palms on the desk.

  An offering.

  She doesn’t need to ask twice. I unzip my jeans, pull down my briefs, and rub the head of my cock against all that wetness. Pride surges in me. She’s soaked because of me. She’s dripping because I made her come so fucking hard.

  Then sanity comes to roost. “I should grab a condom,” I mutter.

  She shakes her head. “We’re fine. As long as you haven’t been with anyone since—”

  “Fuck no.”

  “Then give me your dick, Wyatt,” she says with a dirty little wink.

  “Take it, sweetheart. Fucking take it,” I growl, as I rub the head between her legs and shove inside.

  She gasps, and just like that, I’m fully nestled in the woman who’s still my wife. Though something is terribly wrong about that little situation, it feels strangely right at this moment, too. But I can’t dwell on titles or labels when I’ve got my woman to fuck. My hands grip her hips, and I raise her ass up a bit, finding the perfect angle.

  It’s so fucking good as I fill her, as I pull back, as I drive deep inside. She’s with me every second, and we move in a kind of fevered unison. Fast, hard strokes. Deep, powerful thrusts. Groans and grunts that layer on top of each other. I roll my hips and drive in, and she rocks with me, giving me her body for our pleasure.

  Within minutes, she’s returned to the edge. She grips the sides of the desk and calls out my name. “Oh God, Wyatt. Oh my fucking God,” she screams, and the sound of my name on her lips makes my balls tighten. Pleasure climbs in me, reaching a peak as I fuck her through her second climax, her orgasm coating my dick.

  As she shudders beneath me, I erupt. “Fuck, Nat. Gonna come so hard.”

  “Yes,” she urges, and I move my hands to her shoulders, holding her in place.

  “So. Hard,” I groan as I thrust. My body burns white-hot, and an orgasm barrels through me, torching me with pure, carnal pleasure as I come inside her with a loud, “Fucking love it.”

  “Me, too. Oh God, me too.”

  I collapse on her, my chest on her back, crushing her. She murmurs softly, a sweet hum that tells me she likes my body on hers, so I stay. I kiss her cheek then brush a soft caress on her lips. “I’ve wanted to do that again ever since I woke up in Las Vegas with you.”

  She sounds surprised when she says, “You have?”

  I nod against her. “So much. It’s ridiculous how much.”

  “Same here. Every time you’re near me, I want to touch you, kiss you, feel you again.”

  I smile against my better judgment. “I swear it’s even better sober than drunk.”

  “It’s intoxicating in a whole new way,” she says.

  “Couldn’t agree more.” I dust a kiss on her cheek then sigh happily. Because I am happy. I’m hopped up on endorphins right now. I run my nose through her hair. Inhaling her. I can’t get enough. “How was your day?”

  “It was good. It’s much better now, though.”

  “Everything good at the office?” I ask playfully.

  “Everything is great at the office, especially after hours.”

  I rap my knuckles against her desk. “This is a most excellent desk. Be sure to tell your boss he did a fantastic job picking it out.”

  She jabs her elbow back into my chest. “I picked it out.”

  “Hmm. Well, then,” I say, dropping another kiss to her forehead. “You have excellent taste in office furniture.”

  But after the bedroom talk ends and we clean up, I’m not sure where we go from here. The matter is solved for me when Natalie says in her most business-like voice, “Want to go over how to get an uncontested divorce in New York?”

  And man, nothing sobers you up faster than that.

  23

  A siren blares.

  As the red fire truck barrels up Central Park West on Saturday morning, the tan Chihuahua I’m walking along the inside path points his snout in the air.

  I lift a hand to my forehead like a batter waiting to see if the ball soars out of the ballpark. “And it’s heading for the bleachers! Almost there!”

  The dog’s mouth is closed but his nose is poised, and anticipation winds through me with the possibility that I might win big in the dog bingo game we play. Because when a dog you’re walking erupts in a howl, you get all the points.

  I stare at the seven-pounder trotting by my side, waiting, waiting, waiting for the hound to cry out.

  Nick is next to me, his hand wrapped around the leather leash of a Jack Russell Terrier, who’s making a temporary home at the Little Friends rescue where we volunteer. He smirks as his dog emits a soft whine. “Maybe you’ll win, or maybe I’ll school you,” he says, just before his dog unleashes the most epic howl I’ve ever heard.

  His white and brown beast proceeds to imitate a wild animal for the next thirty seconds, sounding thoroughly adorable until the fire truck’s siren begins to fade in the distance.

  “Man,” I say, dejected, as the dogs resume their usual sniff-and-trot pace. “I’m having the worst luck this week.”

  First, there was the knee whack, then my dumbass disposal of a delicious sandwich, and on top of that is my zombie of a marriage. I just can’t kill the undead union with ordinary weapons. I’m going to have to go The Walking Dead style and take it down at the brain stem with a full-scale divorce attack.

  It’s like a hangover that won’t quit.

  But the really bad luck is Natalie’s 180-degree turn after our glorious office sexcapades. No more workplace vixen. Instead, she’s Miss Prim and Proper, zoned in on the most mind-numbing, soul-stealing thing ever . . . paperwork.

  “Rough week?” Nick asks, clapping me on the back. “Did you get friend-zoned by a hooker again?”

  “Yeah. The one I’m taking to your wedding,” I say, giving it right back at him.

  “Ouch.” As we near Little Friends, Nick clears his throat. “Speaking of my nuptials . . .”

  “Let me guess. You want me to become an officiant so I can pronounce you man and wife.”

  “Wow, no,” he says, shaking his head adamantly. “Like, never ever.”

  “Your loss. I’d be good with that,” I say, then my mind races back to Vegas, grabbing at bits and pieces of my wedding with no real luck. It’s still just Elvis, sideburns, and I do.

  “I was actually hoping you’d be my best man.”

  I stop in my tracks, strangely surprised that Nick asked me. “I thought you’d want Spencer to be your best man.”

  My twin brother shrugs. “Yeah, but you’re stuck sharing DNA with me, so there’s that.”

  I wipe a nonexistent tear from my eye. “Wow, that was heartfelt. So touching.”

  “Seriously, though. I mean it, Wyatt. No joking now. You helped me realize how much Harper meant to me. You gave it to me straight and helped me see that my feelings for her were real. Hell, you’re my brother no matter what. But you also gave me a kick in the ass when I needed one.”

  I lift my foot and pretend to whack his butt outside Central Park. “I’m excellent at administering ass-kickings.”

  “I have no idea how this happened, but you give weirdly good advice when it comes to women. And I want you to be the one standing with me when we tie the knot.”

  I clap him on the back. “Hey, giving advice about you and Harper was easy. You guys are two peas in a pod. You’re like gibbons.”

  He arches an eyeb
row in question.

  “Did you know that along with termites, bald eagles, swans, and beavers, they’re one of the rare pairs of animals that mate for life?”

  “I did not know that about gibbons. But now my brain has been expanded.”

  “I could tell as soon as I saw the way you looked at her that she was your gibbon,” I say, and hold up a fist for knocking. “Better than a termite.”

  He laughs. “Harper is definitely my gibbon. And way cooler than a termite.”

  “Also, let me just add that I look really fucking good in a tux.” I make like I’m adjusting a bowtie as we wait at the crosswalk.

  Nick gestures from him to me and back. “We’re both handsome devils, even if I’m handsomer.”

  “Hey, King of Words, you do know that handsomer is not a word people use?”

  “But they should, when it comes to you and me,” he says, and as we cross the street, I reflect on Nick’s comment about good advice. I can recall precisely what I said to him about Harper—how he needed to man up and face his feelings for her. The question dangles before me—since I gave my brother that sage advice, what would I tell myself? How would I advise me to handle my situation with Natalie? But I draw a blank.

  “It’d be an honor to be your best man,” I tell Nick, since at least I have an answer to his request. “Especially since you’re definitely stuck with me. I’m like a dog howl. I’m contagious.” That gives me an idea. “Hey, what if I howled? Are there points for that?” I raise my chin to the skies and do my best wolf call.

  And my Chihuahua goes ape-shit.

  “Better late than never,” I say to the pooch.

  At Little Friends, we return the dogs to the rescue manager, a cute brunette named Penny. Her hair is swept up in a high ponytail, and she has a tattoo of some kind of flower on the top of her shoulder blade, one I haven’t seen on her before.