The Lucky in Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  “Pilates is good for you. It helps me chase down bad guys in a single bound,” Perri says.

  I shake my head. “Grapefruit is good for you too, but I’m not scarfing down that citrus at six a.m. on a Sunday.”

  Vanessa points at me. “That’s the irony of your grumbly face. You don’t hate exercise. You just hate mornings.”

  “Call me Garfield,” I grumble. “Seriously, why do you insist on morning exercise? And if you do, why aren’t we taking a class in sleep? I heard there’s a gym that offers a class in napping."

  Perri stares at me with saucer-wide eyes. “Please tell me that’s not a thing.”

  Vanessa chimes in. “I’ve heard that too. It’s like a class for new parents who are really tired and don't have a chance to nap. They go to a gym and get sleep masks and cozy beds, and they nap in a class.”

  Perri scoffs. “That is the height of a first-world offering. It’s like taking a class in cuddling. Or hugging.”

  Vanessa shakes her head. “Disagree. Have you ever hugged someone who didn’t know how to hug? It can be very unpleasant. Vise-like, clammy, or flaccid hugs should be outlawed.”

  “No, the word ‘flaccid’ should be outlawed,” I offer, gesturing for them to come inside.

  “You hate the word ‘flaccid’?” Perri asks as I shut the door behind them.

  “I hate the idea of flaccid. So the word might as well go away too. Am I right or am I right?”

  “Darling, don’t we all want to eliminate flaccidness from the world,” Vanessa says, and I offer a palm to high-five.

  Vanessa smacks back, and so does Perri. Then my redhead friend grabs my arms, spins me around, and points me upstairs. “Go get your sexy little yoga pants on, Garfield. It’s Pilates or bust, and no nap for you.”

  Harrumphing loudly for effect, I head upstairs, splash some cold water on my face, then yank my hair back in a tight ponytail. I stare at my reflection, and a devilish little smirk appears on my face as I recall last night. It was crazy, maybe even daring to ask Gabe for guidance. Yet it worked. It truly seemed helpful to chat with him.

  I already feel more informed and a little more empowered. I’m excited about seeing him today for our mission.

  So excited it gives me a huge blast of energy—something I didn’t expect to feel at the torturous hour of six in the morning. I make a quick change into workout clothes and return downstairs with a peppy smile. “Okay, let's go, girls.”

  “Whoa. Did you have a personality transplant with a happy puppy upstairs?”

  “Can’t a girl be full of energy in the morning?” I ask as we leave my house and walk to the Pilates studio in the middle of town.

  “Not you. You look like you have a dirty little secret. Did you have a man hidden away in your bathroom who gave you a quickie while we waited down below?”

  “Please.” I glance around, then lower my voice to a whisper. “But I did decide to take the bull by the horns.”

  Vanessa mimes riding a bull. “Tell me more, cowgirl.”

  “Yes, that exactly. Reverse cowgirl. Well, sort of. I’m going to experiment a little. Learn some more about what I might like.” I don’t keep secrets from Perri and Vanessa, dirty or otherwise. These ladies are like sisters. I’m an only child, but we grew up together, and I’ve known them my whole life. My best friends are my family.

  “I’ve decided I’m done with being too vanilla. I asked Gabe to help me.”

  Vanessa stops in her tracks, slamming an arm against my chest. “Oh no, you didn’t? Like you’re going to do a let’s get it on tutorial?”

  “Please, no. This won’t be hands-on. More like mouths-on.” But that’s not the best analogy either. I backpedal. “I mean, we’re going to talk through some stuff. Go over a bunch of different options. Discuss what I might like and how to ask for it. It’s going to work out so perfectly. It’s like a dress rehearsal before a big show.”

  Perri clears her throat loudly. Deliberately. “You do know that a dress rehearsal means you go on stage and put on your costumes and go through all the motions?”

  “I do know that.” I smack her butt. “See? Isn't it better that I practice with him rather than you?”

  She jumps away and gives me the side-eye. “Yeah, I don’t want you to spank me, sweetie. Unless you’re six two, inked, and built like a Greek god.”

  “And if you find that man, please share him,” Vanessa adds, but I flash back to last night and wonder if it’s a Greek god she wants or someone else—namely Perri’s brother.

  “How exactly does your sex school start?”

  “Last night we talked through things on my list, so that was essentially the first lesson.”

  “What’s the next lesson?” Perri asks.

  I tell them what Gabe and I have planned for this afternoon.

  “We've done that with you before,” Vanessa points out.

  “I know, but it will be interesting to go with a man and get the guy’s perspective.”

  “I bet perspective’s not the only thing Gabe wants to give you,” Vanessa says in a low voice.

  But she’s wrong. I’m not his type. That’s why I chose perfectly. This will be one week of learning, with no risk of crossing into the romance zone. We can safely stay friends and focus on my new sex-education syllabus.

  And I’m as ready as I’ll ever be for lesson number two.

  18

  Gabe

  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

  But now?

  Now I think I’m going to require a longer-than-usual run if I expect to survive sex toy shopping with Arden.

  I hate shopping.

  Wait, hate is too strong a word.

  I don’t detest anything.

  Except for drunk drivers, arsonists, and the designated hitter rule.

  Also, littering and broccoli.

  But those are all reasonable hates.

  Shopping is more like something I strive to avoid the same way I aim to dodge day-old bagels, warm beer, and community pools.

  But when you’re shopping for sex toys with a woman you want to screw, well, that requires a whole new approach.

  That’s why I run this morning alongside my cousin. I meet up with Tom, who recently moved to the neighboring town with his new woman, Finley. Tom’s a brainiac and a roller-coaster designer, so I ask him to tell me about his new projects.

  Listening to him talk about engineering feats of daring keeps me in the right zone.

  The no-thinking-about-sex zone.

  The conversation is solely on work, and it helps. After a few miles, he’s done. “I’ll catch you next time,” he says. “And I promise I’ll regale you with exciting details on how to make a ride go upside down.”

  I give him a quick tip of the cap. “The regaling is on the calendar.”

  I continue without him, because my mission requires extra.

  Extra running.

  Extra focus.

  A lot of extra miles to get out of the sex-centric zone I’ve been living in. It’s a proven medical fact that men require at least a half dozen miles of hard running or several hours on the StairMaster before the constant thought of sex vacates the brain for even a few minutes.

  Over the river and through the woods I go, putting distance between the swirl of dirty thoughts and my stark reality. I pass seven miles, then hit eight, adding a long workout at the gym with weights. As I lower the barbell on my final set, I’ve slipped into a blissful, blank mind-set.

  There’s one more thing I need to seal the deal and live in this state a little longer.

  Seeing my parents.

  There is no bigger sex buzzkill than a visit with Mom and Dad, so I pop by for a little breakfast. My mom whips up some spectacular scrambled eggs with provolone cheese and mushrooms, and my father’s coffee ought to be worshipped by baristas the world over.

  As I chew, Mom chats about how my sister, Kim, is doing with her third pregnancy, how big her belly is, and how awful she’s feeling trying to mo
ve.

  Yup.

  All the details of Kim waddling around are adding up to a blank sex slate upstairs, and I couldn’t be happier.

  By the time I return home, tired from the run, stuffed from breakfast, and filled with images of my basketball-belly sister, I can’t escape the no-sex zone.

  This is not an easy state for a man to achieve. We can only successfully reach this sexual tabula rasa, say, 1 percent of the day.

  Wait. That’s far too generous.

  More like 0.2 percent.

  But when you’re there, you feel like you can master string theory and write a symphony.

  I hum a few notes from Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy,” since that’s about the only classical music I know, and damn, that shit is good. Beethoven could write some badass melodies.

  Since I’m all about expanding my mind for the precious few minutes that it’s uncluttered by sex thoughts, I decide I ought to try to learn quantum physics. I down a huge glass of water, grab my phone, and find a podcast on the topic. I sync my phone to my speaker and head into the bathroom, strip out of my clothes, and turn on the hot water.

  I close the shower door, stepping under the stream, zoning in on the podcaster as he talks of atoms and electrons. I run the soap over my body, letting my brain be a sponge soaking up all this new information.

  “. . . added wave crests result in brighter light,” the voice says, and my mind hiccups on that word—crest.

  It reminds me of something else. Something a woman’s pleasure might do.

  Stop.

  Stay focused.

  I square my shoulders and train my ears on the podcast host as I run shampoo through my hair.

  “. . . objects exist in a haze of probability.”

  Haze.

  Like how Arden would look in a sex-drenched—

  No. Don’t go there.

  As he drones on about the size and speed of moving objects, I’m not sure I can hold onto this rarefied state. I’m slipping, falling, flailing back to the 99 percent land.

  All these words make me think of her.

  Of toys.

  Of shopping.

  Of orgasms cresting. Of the hazy look in her eyes. And her list. Dear God, her fucking list. All the things on that list I don’t want to mime.

  I want to do.

  As I run the soap over my body, my hand strays down my stomach, lower still, and I take my dick in my palm.

  I give in to the material world of pleasure and sex, back where I, evidently, belong.

  Gripping my shaft, I run through Arden’s wish list, item by item, as if I’m considering every dish at a rich and scrumptious buffet. My fist shuttles up and down my cock, the soap slicking its path.

  She wants me to ring the doorbell so she can answer it in an apron and nothing else.

  I suck in a harsh breath imagining where that moment might lead. Undoing the strap, exposing her tits, letting the fabric fall to the floor.

  A shudder slams into my body, and my cock hardens even more, doing a most excellent impression of an iron spike. My fist grips it tighter, racing up and down my length.

  My mind becomes a flip book of images. Her practicing a striptease. Pushing me down on the couch, grinding against me, rubbing what I bet is a fantastic ass into my lap.

  My balls tighten as I picture how good that ass would feel.

  Then I switch the scene to her bedroom. She’s stripped to nothing but her own raw desire. Lights dimmed. Legs spread. Fingers flying furiously.

  What is she picturing?

  Pleasure rattles through me, rolls down my spine as I try to imagine what she’s getting off to.

  I want it to be me.

  I want her wild with pleasure, riding the edge.

  I want to discover her like that, put her on all fours, slide into her and send her soaring.

  I want to make her come so fucking hard. Just like she’s doing to me right now. My orgasm barrels through me, rushing under my skin until I shoot.

  I breathe out roughly, cursing.

  It’s not the first time I’ve pictured her, but it’s the first time I’ve let myself finish to her.

  As I rinse off, I learn that if an object is heated sufficiently, it starts to emit light at the red end of the spectrum as it becomes red-hot.

  Red-hot. Sounds about right.

  Maybe I did learn something after all.

  I turn off the podcast and head to meet Arden.

  19

  Arden

  I scurry through the bustling shop on a Sunday afternoon, adding a few last-minute additions to the travel shelves and helping a pair of lovely ladies find just the right book on raising an adopted baby.

  “This one looks perfect,” says the gal with the long braid slinking down her back as she clutches the book to her chest.

  “You’ll love it. I’ve sent many soon-to-be adoptive parents home with it,” I tell them.

  The other woman drapes an arm around her and squeezes, then meets my gaze. “Thanks for your time.”

  “No problem.”

  This is why I love what I do. Books aren’t simply a door to another world. They truly help people. They are wonderful treasures to guide individuals, couples, and families through new life situations, and they’re also the best form of travel I’ve ever known. Because I read, I’ve visited India, I’ve knelt at the feet of kings, I’ve battled dragons, and I’ve learned new words and worlds.

  Books led me to the world I’m visiting later today. They’ve made me curious about the landscape of sex, and the cities on the map of pleasure I’ve completely missed. I want to embark on uncharted trails, discover a new country, a place where I’m free to explore. Good thing I have a Sherpa.

  As the ladies leave the store, I grab my bag and make my way to the door then remember an order that’s due tomorrow. “Madeline,” I call out. “We’re expecting the new coffee-table books tomorrow morning. Did you—?”

  She points to the door like a drill sergeant, searing me with her eyes. “It’s your day off, boss lady. Go.”

  “But . . .”

  She shakes her head. “I already checked the tracking order, and it’s all set. On its way.”

  I breathe a big sigh of relief. “Stop being so damn good at your job.”

  She nods solemnly. “I’ll try to steal from the till and rip the pages out of books later. Now go, or I will spread a rumor that you’ve never read The Time Traveler’s Wife and you named the cats Henry and Clare simply from the movie.”

  “Lies. Vicious lies.” I make my way to the door, crossing the threshold, then I pop my head back in. “One more thing.”

  Madeline crosses her arms and shakes her head. “Goodbye, Arden. It’s called Sunday.”

  I heed her advice and step outside, bumping into a woman from the book club—Sara, the patron saint of car blow jobs and spankings.

  “Hi, Sara.”

  Her laugh lines crinkle when she smiles. “Arden, I was hoping to find you. I need to know what kind of wine goes with the new Jandy Nelson book. “

  “Her writing is sublime, isn’t it?”

  Sara brings her hands to her chest. “It is absolutely incandescent.”

  “It’s like she has access to another dictionary, to a whole new palette of words and colors. Everything is vibrant, and that means you need a sauvignon blanc when you read Jandy Nelson. That wine is bursting with vibrant, fresh flavors.”

  Sara’s eyes sparkle. “That sounds perfect. I’m going to spend the afternoon getting lost in a good book with a delicious wine. You’re a wine and book matchmaker.”

  I smile and say goodbye as Sara heads into the store. Madeline can handle the rest of Sara’s reading needs. After all, both of these ladies know how to speak for themselves. Madeline talked herself into a weekend job in my store and has refused to leave ever since, going from strength to strength to become the right-hand woman I now can’t be without, adding more responsibility every month. And Sara? Well, Sara craves giving blow jobs on deserted
roads and isn’t afraid to ask for it but also enjoys her best life reading award-winning literature, drinking fine vintages, and spending her time with an amazing group of friends.

  People are so much more than we see on the surface. David only saw me as a nice, vanilla, bookish girl. But beneath the cover, there’s more to me, and I want to know what’s written on all my pages.

  As I walk down the block, I check out my reflection in the window of a black BMW. A peach tank top, a black lacy skirt, and cute sandals. Looks like date attire. I talk sternly back to my reflection. “It’s only an outing. You’ve been on a million of them with Gabe.”

  Yet it’s a little different this time, and different isn’t a bad thing, I’m realizing. I like the little bubbles of anticipation that float around inside me. I like the heady feeling under my skin. I enjoy that I’m going to learn something new.

  As I turn onto my block, Gabe is pulling up, cutting the engine on his truck. He strides up to me on the sidewalk, that easy grin on his face, the sun glinting off his aviator shades. He takes them off, and I’m speechless for a moment.

  Because I know new things about my good friend.

  Gabe thinks I should be kissed into blissful oblivion.

  So do I.

  Gabe likes dirty talk.

  I think I might too.

  I’ve been talking dirty in my head for longer than I think I knew. I’ve been saying naughty words to myself when I’m alone and imagining the kind of man who’d want to explore my body the way I want to be discovered.

  Gabe believes a striptease would be mighty hot.

  I feel hot, so damn hot.

  My skin heats, and a flush crawls up my chest.

  I tell myself it’s from the summer day.

  But that’s a lie. Suddenly, I’m thinking about Gabe in a whole new way.

  A way I shouldn’t allow.

  20

  Arden

  Keep it light, keep it friendly.

  “Hey there, Coach.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “Coach. I like it. Are you ready for a shopping spree, my new sex athlete? Sex-thlete.”