Once Upon A Wild Fling

by Lauren Blakely

  I want him to covet me—all of me. This second, though, I ache for him. I need him in the center of my being.

  “Miles, please, please,” I beg, bowing my back, inviting him in.

  “Please what?” he teases, as he rubs the head of his cock between my legs.

  “Fuck me. Take me. Have me.”

  “Watch me,” he answers in a growl, and I do, gazing at him in the mirror as he grips my hips and slides between my legs. In one deliciously mind-bending move, he sinks inside me.

  I swear I’m going to set a world record for coming quickly because this is a whole new land of sensations.

  Him deep in me.

  Filling me.

  Fucking me.

  Cherishing me.

  And watching me.

  My breasts are heavy, and my nipples tingle as he sets a pace, finding a rhythm quickly, and I push back against him.

  “Sweetheart,” he groans as he goes deep. “It’s fucking better.”

  “I know,” I pant, and my hold on reality unravels. Pleasure climbs through my body.

  “It’s so much better than I imagined. You’re so fucking wet for me.”

  “Because I want you so much.” I’ve been untethered, and I can’t stop telling him that, can’t stop moaning and groaning and letting him know how much I crave him. How much I need us.

  I want us over and over.

  I want the sex, of course, but I also want him having me like this. Wanting me like this. Loving me like this. Because that’s how it feels when he drives into me, his hand sliding between my legs, slicking over my most sensitive spot, his erotic gaze on my face in the mirror.

  “You,” he groans as he slides over the rise of my clit, and I shake.

  “You,” he says again, somehow going deeper.

  And I lose my hold on the world as pleasure blurs everything but his sounds, his groans, my pants, and then my own cry of ecstasy as I call out his name.

  Coming hard. Coming endlessly. Coming for him.

  I’m far gone in this bliss, but not so far that I can’t watch him. I want to see the look on his face as he lets go. In the mirror, I never lose track of his reflection, of the strain of his jaw, the clench of his muscles, or the grit of his teeth. I don’t miss the way his neck tenses as his lips part and he groans my name.

  It’s how he treats me after that grips my heart. It’s the warm washcloth. It’s the soft touch. It’s the way he curls me into his arms and kisses my neck and my hair.

  And it’s his hands on my belly as he pulls me against him.

  I don’t know how to not want this.

  I don’t know how to move beyond this.

  I want everything with him.

  For tonight, I pretend he’s mine, and my baby is his, and we can all be together.

  27

  Roxy

  In the morning, he makes me a breakfast of eggs and potatoes, and I moan as I eat.

  “You can’t make those sounds. They’re too sexy,” he warns me at the island counter.

  “Have you tried your rosemary potatoes?” I ask, waving a forkful. “They’re heaven on my tongue.”

  He spears one from his plate, pops it in his mouth, and smiles as he chews. “You’re heaven on my tongue. Do you have any idea how good you taste?”

  I laugh and roll my eyes. “I have no idea how I taste and don’t need to know.”

  He kisses my jaw. “You taste ridiculously arousing.” He takes my hand and places it on the bulge in his boxer shorts.

  “Does that mean your potatoes turned you on?”

  “It was either you or the potatoes.”

  “Let’s see who can go the distance.” I point to the couch, giving him an order. “Sit down, Miles.”

  He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

  He parks himself on his couch, and I get down on my knees, taking him between my lips for the first time. He’s even better than his breakfast—thick and hard and pulsing in my mouth. I suck him deep, gripping the base as I go, dragging my nails along his thighs and driving him wild.

  Like this, with me on the floor and him grunting and growling, I feel empowered. I feel wildly alive and incredibly happy, even though I’m on my knees. This man did out-of-this-world things to my body last night, making me feel adored, and now it’s my turn to make him the center of attention. My tongue and my lips and my mouth show him how much I love making him cry out in pleasure too. Because soon, that’s where he is, thrusting and groaning and coming. I drink him down, swallowing the taste of him. When I stand, he’s slouched on the cushions, his eyes glossy, his smile dopey.

  I run my fingers down his bare chest. “Say it. Say I turn you on more than potatoes.”

  Laughing, he brings me next to him, wraps his arms around my waist, and buries his face in my neck. “I didn’t think this was even possible. But you turn me on more than breakfast.”

  I laugh, and he nuzzles me.

  I think—no, I’m sure—I could do this for a long, long time.

  After breakfast and a shower, I’m tempted to ask where we’re going and what he wants beyond one night, but a decade of dead-end relationships keeps my mouth closed. Instead, as I dry off, I chew on the thought and somehow manage to bite off a small portion of it.

  “So is this a one-time thing, or are we thinking it could be multiples?” The words come out equally sassy and clunky. But I feel neither sassy nor clunky about the prospect of more time with him. The question is terrifying because I want this to be an all-time thing.

  I want us.

  I try again, tacking on an addendum.

  “You know, more than once and all,” I say awkwardly, because there is literally no graceful way to ask a man’s intentions. I punctuate my sentence with a too-bright smile since, when in doubt of your reception, act happy. “Because last night was so good. And I thought, yeah, maybe more.”

  Is there an escape hatch anywhere near me? I sound like I’ve taken a master class in inserting my foot into my mouth.

  “I mean, if you want more with me.” A relationship. A family. A team.

  I practically squeak out the question, wishing the floor would swallow me up and spit me out with a do-over card I can cash in.

  Miles narrows his brows, turning to meet my gaze. The look in his eyes is thoughtful, curious. He seems to study my face, as if he’s searching for something—perhaps why I’ve morphed into a complete and absolute dork.

  His tone is introspective as he asks, “What do you want it to be, Roxy?”

  Not a question. That’s what I want.

  I want us to be unquestionable. I want you to take the baton and fix my botched attempts to ask you to be mine.

  But his question-for-an-answer is enough for me to backpedal and try to laugh it off. “It’s hard for my plus-one brain to think straight with all these orgasms you’ve given me.”

  He doesn’t say anything at first, his expression remaining stony. Then he brings me in close, grinning as he wraps his arms around me. “I can give you more if you’d like.”

  That’s my answer. That’s unquestionable. This is sex. My heart plummets, crashing to the floor in a sputtering puddle of emotions. A sob crawls up my throat, trying to fight its way out, but I shove it back down.

  These are just pregnancy emotions.

  Just hormones.

  There is no need to be upset.

  He has his life, I have mine, and we’ve always been clear on where we stand.

  Even if the organ in my chest has been julienned by a Cuisinart, my mind understands.

  Sex is clear. Sex fits our expectations. We can do sex.

  And we do, and when we’re done with a morning round, I ask if he wants to come back with me to see the place later today. “Plus-one and all,” I add, since I want him to know I understand him.

  He glances at the time. It’s nearly noon. “I need to pick up Ben and take him to a swim class. Can we check it out along the way?”

  Ev
en better. We’re back to being our little team. And our little team knows how to operate.

  “Sounds perfect.”

  Even though there’s something else that would have been even more perfect. But that’s not in the cards.

  28

  Miles

  Orgasms.

  Fucking hell.

  Why did I bring her question back to the basest of answers?

  I had the chance to level up. To tell her I want more than one song. I want a whole album with her. I want all the albums.

  And that means I want the sleepless nights, the three a.m. wake-up screams, the need for endless caffeine.

  Most of all, I want the chance to do that as a team, and to have her be a team with my boy and me too. To take him to his first day of school together, to the museum, to art class.

  I. Want. It. All.

  And I didn’t tell her.

  Roxy heads home to change clothes, and I groan as I catch a subway to Campbell’s to pick up Ben since he spent the night there. Raking a hand through my hair, I replay my words. I can give you more if you like.

  I’d like to smack the me of two hours ago upside the head. Grab a time-turner, rewind it one hundred twenty minutes, and zip back to the moment when she asked her question—is this a one-time thing or are we thinking it could be multiples?

  Fine, maybe she was talking about sex, but I had an opening. I had an opportunity to see if her interest in multiples extended beyond orgasms. Maybe it wasn’t the time to blurt out, “Let’s be a family.” But it was a chance to see if she was thinking the same way.

  But nope. I blurted out a sex-drenched answer.

  I could shake a fist at the sky. Sex and music are literally the two greatest things ever invented, but sex can kill brain cells faster than booze. Good thing music is reliable. I pop in my earbuds and play some Otis Redding until I reach Campbell’s building in Murray Hill.

  When Campbell opens the door, he gives me a quick once-over. “And how was your night?” His question is full of hidden meaning.

  “It was good.”

  Biggest euphemism ever. It was one of the greatest nights of my life.

  He peers behind him, and I hear Sam reading a Percy Jackson book to Ben. Campbell points to the hallway and steps outside, letting the door fall shut behind him.

  “How’s Roxy?”

  I consider lying, acting like I didn’t spend the night with her. But he knows we went out together. “She’s great. Completely, absolutely perfect for me.”

  A smile seems to tug at the corner of his lips. “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And what happens next?”

  I heave a sigh. “Hell if I know.”

  “You have feelings for her though?”

  “Yeah. I do. Big feelings.” There’s no point pretending with him. There is no brotherly ribbing right now, only talking.

  He hums. “What are you going to do about that?”

  “No clue. How’d you sort it all out with Mackenzie?”

  He laughs lightly. “It wasn’t easy. Figuring out the kid situation took some time. But it’s doable, Miles.”

  “Yeah?” I ask hopefully. Because I hope she wants the same things I do—to figure out how to mix her and me and all the fantastic baggage we both bring to the table.

  He claps my shoulder. “Try talking it out. See where she’s at.”

  “You think we can do that?” I ask, feeling a little lighter. Maybe I can fix this. Revisit the topic and see if she wants just more sex, or sex and more.

  “How big are these feelings?”

  “Scale of one to ten?”

  “Sure.”

  But before I can answer with fifty, I hear the door snap open. “Daddy! Why are you hiding from me?”

  Ben throws his arms around me, and I scoop him up and give him a kiss on the forehead. “Isn’t it time to play hide and seek?”

  His eyes light up. “I know a great place to hide in Campbell’s house. Under the sink. Don’t look there.”

  We both laugh, and Campbell gives me a wave. “You’ll work it out. Love you, bro.”

  “Love you too.”

  Ben and I take off. “What would you say to meeting Roxy for a few minutes to check out her new apartment?” I ask as we reach the street.

  “Will her cats be there?”

  I shake my head. “Not yet.”

  He shrugs. “That’s okay. I like Roxy. Even if she doesn’t have cats with her right now, I still like her.”

  “So do I,” I say, hopeful that I can try to talk to her again.

  He smacks his forehead. “I’m wrong, Daddy.”

  “What are you wrong about?”

  “I don’t like Roxy. I love Roxy.” He takes my hand and swings our arms together, but that hopeful feeling unspools, and inside my head, I hear the fresh new clang of warning bells.

  Trouble is, I’m not sure why they’re sounding.

  “And this will be where Alan terrorizes Gloria during the day and cuddles with her at night,” Roxy says to Ben, gesturing to the window that overlooks the bustling avenue below.

  “Why does he terrorize her?” Ben asks.

  Roxy shrugs. “Because he’s a cat. In fact, you’ll find that’s the answer for nearly everything a cat does.”

  “Like the answer to why they chase mice?”

  “And why they knock mugs off counters.”

  “And why they sit on boxes?”

  “And why they stare at things we can’t see. They do it because they’re cats.”

  Ben laughs, clearly loving the way Roxy talks to him. “Can I give that as an answer next time my dad asks why I did something? Because I’m a boy?”

  Roxy meets my gaze, a smile in her hazel eyes. “I think that’s pretty spot-on.” She squeezes his cheek. “Or you could say, ‘Because I’m six.’”

  I love the way Roxy talks to him.

  That’s part of the problem, and that’s why I’m mostly quiet as Roxy shows us more of her place. Even though the apartment is small, the tour is thorough. “And this obviously is the kitchen,” she says. “I’m sure I’ll do lots of ordering takeout and eating at odd hours in here because of the baby.”

  I key in on her words and how she phrases things, mentally cataloging it all.

  She gestures to the living room. “Call me crazy, but I’m picturing I’ll put a couch right there.”

  “Crazy,” I say, forcing out a laugh even as I analyze those words too. I’ll put a couch right there.

  Roxy turns and runs her hand through her hair, and I picture my hands in her hair twelve hours ago. I can’t look at her without thinking of my hands all over her. My hands traveled everywhere; they mapped nearly every inch of her skin. They itch to touch her. She’s as gorgeous now in a sundress as she was in her evening dress last night, and I want to slide in next to her, plant a kiss on her cheek, and tell her how beautiful she looks. I want to take the three of us out to lunch, hold her hand at the table, drape an arm around her when we go to the playground with Ben.

  I’m standing here with my son, wanting to scoop Roxy into my arms for a kiss and tell her I want it all. But how the hell do I balance being Ben’s father and being head over heels for this woman who’s not interested in getting serious? She’s planning a new house, all on her own. Her actions say she wants just more sex, not sex and more.

  “Can I see the bedrooms?” Ben asks.

  “Of course,” Roxy answers, taking his hand and heading down the hallway, once again forming a tableau of what I can’t have. I follow behind, wishing the image in front of me could be a regular thing.

  But with each second of this tour, her intentions become crisper.

  Ben skips ahead and runs to the first doorway in the hall. “Ooh, will this be Sarah’s room?”

  Roxy jerks her gaze to him. “Sarah?”

  He pats her belly. “I decided her name is Sarah.” That’s all he says, then he pops into the baby’s room and says, “Yup, Sarah will love this.”<
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  Roxy turns to me, her eyes wide, asking some kind of question.

  My stomach twists, because I don’t know the answer. I don’t know what Ben is stating. And I definitely don’t know why he named the baby, except . . . because he’s six.

  When he emerges, he points his thumb at the empty room then at the master bedroom. “But if that’s Sarah’s room, and that’s your room, where’s my room?”

  Roxy opens her mouth to speak but says only, “Um.” She nibbles on her lip, passing the ball to me.

  I don’t catch it though. It bounces then rolls off the court because I have nothing to contribute. My brain is tripping over its own feet. Roxy is living on her own, by herself, and I hate that, and I have no right to hate that, so I have nothing to say.

  Ben shrugs and devises his own answer. “We can share a room for a little bit. Or maybe she can stay in your room, and I can have this room.”

  I stare at Roxy, and she stares at me, her eyes shouting intervene, but I’ve no clue what to say. I don’t know how to phrase the truth. We’re not having that kind of relationship. I want to, I really fucking want to, but she doesn’t, and we can’t. And I’m sorry if that hurts you like it hurts me.

  Roxy picks up the figurative ball from the sidelines. “I think this will probably be the baby’s room and that will be my room,” she says, and that “my” is a blade slicing my organs in two. “But what would you think about having a super-cool air mattress? Or wait. What if we shopped for a new couch, and that way any time you slept over, you could have the couch you chose?”

  Hers, hers, hers. Everything here is hers. I knew that, but I didn’t feel it till now. I feel it, and it’s a cruel cut down my chest.

  Ben smiles. “I guess that’ll work for now.”

  For now.

  But what happens later? When this unwinds? How long can we truly play the plus-one game? What if Roxy meets some guy at pre-school or the dog salon? She’s made her position clear, and her position doesn’t leave room for me to stupidly fall in love with her.