The Sex Bucket List

by Lane, Prescott

  When I’m completely done, when I have nothing left, I fire up my laptop and look up sex toys that mimic oral sex. I also check out how to give yourself a vaginal steaming at home. These are whole new worlds to explore. Smiling, I drift off to sleep, planning out the next time the kids will be gone, so I can do this all over again.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SEX WITH AN EX

  “Mom!” I hear three different voices calling out to me. My eyes open, and I fly out of bed, looking at the clock. It’s apparently noon already, and the kids are back from a week away. Stretching, I glance around to make sure all the evidence of my night of passion for one is stowed away. Then I start towards the door, met by my youngest in a huge hug.

  Kissing Conner, I walk towards the foyer, passing Jacob and Ava both heading up the stairs. “Hey, hey,” I say. “Haven’t seen you in forever. Where’s my kiss?”

  Ava leans over the banister, rolling her eyes, but kisses me with a smile. Jacob just leans his head down so I can kiss him. Then they fly up to their rooms. Since we split time, there’s not much exchange of stuff, except for the kids’ school bags, which Ryan drops by the front door.

  “Mommy, are you sick?” Connor asks. “Why were you still in bed?”

  I know I blush, and I know Ryan catches it. “I’m fine, baby,” I say. “I was just having a lazy morning.” He gives me one more big squeeze then runs off.

  But Ryan doesn’t leave. Usually he doesn’t linger. At most, we’ll talk kids’ schedules, but that’s it. He’s not saying anything now, though, just glaring at me. He hasn’t looked at me like this since I told him about the kiss. “What?” I ask.

  “Are you not alone?” he snaps.

  “Huh?”

  “You find out I’m seeing someone, and now you’ve got some guy hiding in your bedroom?”

  “I do not!”

  He steps a little closer and lowers his voice. “We were married close to twenty years. I know what you look like after you’ve come.”

  I put my finger on his chest. “And how do I look?”

  “Like you do now.” Ryan waves his hand over me. “Your shirt is on backwards. Your hair is all crazy. You’re glowing.”

  I try not to smile, picturing my vagina glowing like your skin after a facial. “Ryan, I promise there isn’t a man in my bedroom—or anywhere in the house.”

  “Did he go out the back when he heard the kids?”

  “No!” I snap. “And what business is it of yours anyway? You have no say in who I sleep with!”

  His lips crash into mine, forcing me up against the foyer wall. I’m a little in shock, but I don’t resist, not one bit. My knees go weak, having forgotten how well this man can kiss. Neither one of us seems to care that the kids are home, that it’s the middle of the day, or that we’re divorced.

  Still kissing me, he starts to move. And before I know it, we are way beyond his invisible barrier of the foyer. And his hands are way beyond the safe zones, tugging and ripping at both our clothes, until we reach my bedroom, our bedroom. He kicks the door closed, locking it, as we shed what’s left of our clothes. Panting, his eyes lower to the bare flesh between my legs.

  “I did it for me,” I say quietly, unsure why I’m explaining myself. “Trying to make myself feel desirable again.”

  “Christ, Emerson,” he says, taking me down to the bed.

  Suddenly, I realize what’s happening, and how confusing this will be for the kids if they find out, and how confusing it is for me. “Ryan, the kids are here.”

  “Don’t make me stop,” he says. “I just want to feel you trembling under me.”

  Maybe I should stop it, but I don’t. Despite all my pleasure last night, there’s nothing like the real thing. Telling myself it doesn’t have to mean anything, I grind against him. We never had one last romp in the hay, never had the infamous goodbye sex. So I’m just going to enjoy this for what it is, even though sex with an ex isn’t on my list.

  It’s torture not to be able to breathe heavy, to scream out. But something about having to maintain control makes my body even needier. And I want this to be special, memorable. I always wished I could remember the last time we had sex. If this is going to be it, I want to remember. I want to give him every last drop of me. I look down at his hard dick, rubbing up against me.

  “I’m not on birth control,” I say, which slows him down. “But I have a condom,” I add, which makes him stop completely.

  “You have condoms?”

  “Poppy,” I say, and it only takes that one name for him to understand. I reach towards my purse, knowing how thrilled she’ll be we used hers. Ryan’s eyes are glued on me as I find a condom and place it in his hand.

  He seems impressed. Being prepared is sexy. My legs shaking, he buries himself deep between my thighs.

  “Don’t you dare hold back on me,” he says. “I want all of it.”

  Oh God, I always did love his dick. It’s the perfect length and width, and my body molds around him perfectly. He pulls my nipple between his teeth, sucking, then thrusts in and out of me, hard and quick.

  I place my hands on his hips to slow him down, knowing I won’t get off this way. He slips out, and yanks me to the edge of the bed. I can’t help but smile, remembering when we bought our first mattress together, and his only concern was it was the right height for him to fuck me this way—nothing else mattered in the purchase. The little grin on his face tells me he remembers that day, too.

  Standing, he glides himself back inside me, slowly, letting my body enjoy every inch of him, making sure I feel him. His hands caress my breasts, my stomach—all the parts I’m insecure about—but he’s seen them a thousand times before. But at this point, there’s only one part I want him to get to. Ladies, do we need to make a big X marks the spot? Maybe it confused the whole male species when they heard the term G-spot or the big O?

  After almost twenty years of marriage, how can the man not know what I need? The waiting, the teasing is almost too much, too intense. I can tell he’s getting close. To fake it or not? That is the question. I faked orgasming as much as I faked being happy the last couple years of our marriage, which was a huge mistake. Basically, I taught him to be lazy. At the time, I thought I was sparing his feelings—at the expense of my own. I won’t do that anymore.

  Right as I gain the courage to tell him what I need, he groans and falls down on me, burying his head in my neck, muffling the string of orgasmic curse words. To see him during the day, you’d never think he’s dirty in bed. He’s always so professional. He’s a college professor, for goodness sake. We lay together for a minute, our bodies stuck from a thin sheet of sweat.

  “I really needed that,” he says, panting.

  Ugh, this is the worst feeling in the world, with so many emotions and questions swirling in my body. I’m reminded of loving him. I’m reminded of him loving me. I wish I hadn’t messed things up. I wish we hadn’t gotten to the point where I was in a position to mess things up. And now, what are we going to say to each other? How are we going to act going forward? Is this a one-time deal? Should I ask him if the condom was as good as advertised? On top of all these issues, I’m full on sexually frustrated, completely horny and unsatisfied.

  Ryan gives me one long, deep kiss before slipping out of me. Then he gets up and takes off the condom. Usually this is the part I hate about condoms—they totally mess up the mood. That brief loss of contact dampens the cuddling after.

  But today I’m grateful when he disappears into the bathroom. It gives me a minute to get myself off. Lucky for me, it only takes about thirty seconds. I’m quite the expert after last night. Why can I give myself an orgasm so quickly and Ryan can’t do it after twenty years of practice?

  * * *

  I stick my head out of my bedroom door and see that the coast is clear. I walk Ryan to the front door when Connor pops out of the kitchen. “Dad, you’re still here?”

  “Um, yeah, your mom needed a little help with something in the bedroom,” Ry
an says.

  I almost die laughing—I helped myself, thank you very much. “I’ll be right back, Connor. Just let me walk your dad out.”

  We step out onto the front porch into the harsh light of day, of what we just did. It took us well over a year to untangle our lives, and now in a few short minutes, we just wrapped ourselves back up into each other like a tangled ball of Christmas lights.

  “Emerson,” he says, regret thick in his voice.

  Eyes closed, I shake my head. “You don’t need to say anything.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  POLE DANCING 101

  Having unsatisfying sex with my ex wasn’t on my list of sexual adventures. And rightfully so—it was a mistake. Since then, the only communication I’ve had with Ryan is by text; he hasn’t come inside the house at all. I know it shouldn’t, but it’s taken some steam out of my sex bucket list challenge. It’s been two weeks, and I can’t shake the funk it put me in.

  Poppy doesn’t seem to be feeling any better than I am. And the color of her hair proves it. When she came to work for us, Gage wrote in her contract she couldn’t have “crazy” colors. She’s been good about it. I’m not sure if it’s the job or the fact that she’s been in a stable relationship with Dash.

  But all bets are off today. She walked in the office with extensions down to her butt, and I can tell she tried to hide the color. The under-hair is dyed a royal blue, so you only see it when her hair moves a certain way. I need to check on her.

  Walking down the hallway to her office, I see Mateo heading towards me. His head is down, looking at some papers, giving me a second to admire the way he fills out his suit. Hell, the man fills up the entire space. He glances up, and I’m not sure who smiles first. “Good morning,” I say.

  In one long stride, he’s in front of me. “Everything alright?” he asks.

  The first words in my head are, “No, I slept with Ryan a few weeks back and am a mess for it,” but the ones out of my mouth are much safer. “Of course, just going to see Poppy.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “I saw the hair.”

  “I’m on it.”

  The corner of his mouth turns up slightly, and his eyes brighten. “I knew you would be.”

  “Poppy’s my friend.”

  His smile grows. “Yeah, but you take care of everyone all the time.”

  “I do not.” I shut my mouth because the lies I’m about to spew would burn my tongue.

  “You keep Gage’s head on straight. You organize office parties for birthdays. You send flowers, gifts. You call when someone has a relative die. You bring people lunch when they are really busy. Hell, you even wash the coffee pot when you’re in the kitchen. You take care of everyone.”

  “You notice all that?”

  He inches closer, looking down at me, and my heart pumps hard. “I notice everything about you.”

  Oh my God, my heart’s about to pump out of my chest. But I tell myself maybe he just means it’s his job as head of security to pay attention, to be observant. But maybe not—after all, he sure is standing close to me. And he looks and smells fantastic. Powered by my list, I place a hand on my hip, and in my sassiest tone, say, “Are you wondering what it’d be like for me to take care of you?”

  His head lowers to my ear, his warm breath sending shivers over my skin. “I’m wondering if you’ll ever let me take care of you.”

  That’s the sweetest thing a man’s said to me in a long time.

  I want to say something sexy back like, “Which parts do you have in mind?” But my brain isn’t functioning. All my energy is solely focused on the pulsing between my legs. That’s the only thing functioning. He pulls back slightly, locking eyes with me. The way he’s looking at me, I’m certain he could take care of every inch of me.

  A slamming door forces us each to take a huge step back, and we turn to see Dash storming out of Poppy’s office. I wonder why he’s here. It’s rare for a pilot to be in the corporate office. I really hope they aren’t breaking up. Dash spots Mateo and me in the hallway, but I don’t think he picked up on anything, too caught up in his own drama. I flash a look to Mateo, urging him silently to talk Dash off the ledge.

  I head into Poppy’s office, and she starts yapping right away, talking a mile a minute. “Dash is driving me nuts,” she says. “On top of lots of sex, I’ve given him like twenty blowjobs the past week. I’ve been an excellent girlfriend like that.” She goes on for about ten minutes, describing the locations of the blowjobs, different techniques she’s used, and so on.

  I listen until she’s quiet, until her battery is dead. “So what’s the problem?”

  “He’s all pissy because I got my period now,” she says.

  “Never thought that would stop you guys,” I say, wondering how Mateo feels about period sex. Ryan was adamantly opposed.

  “It’s not that,” Poppy says. “I was a couple days late. Stress, I think. Dash got his hopes up.”

  She keeps talking, but my mind is stuck on her period being late. Poppy, Layla, and I generally run on the same cycle—freaky, but true. I know it’s rude—I’m supposed to be focused on her—but I pull out my phone. I mark my calendar when my period starts every month.

  Counting the days, my skin starts to sweat, my heart thumping like a freight train. “Emerson, you alright? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

  “This is your fault!” I cry out, jumping to my feet.

  “Huh? What are you talking about?”

  “I had sex!”

  “You did? I’m so happy! But how is that my fault?”

  “You gave me the condoms!” I say. “One time! I did it one time with the condoms you gave me—and now I’m late.”

  Poppy flings open the door to her office and finds Mateo talking to Dash in the hallway. “Dash,” she screams so loudly I swear the building shakes, “did you poke holes in the condoms to get me pregnant?”

  Left and right, employees begin to pop out of their cubicles and offices, taking in the free show.

  “Are you insane?” Dash asks. “Men don’t do that shit! That’s shit women do.”

  “You think I did it?” she snaps back. “You accusing me? Why would I do that? I didn’t poke a hole in them!”

  “What are we even talking about?” Dash asks. “Are there holes in them? Are you pregnant?”

  “No!” Poppy barks. “You know I’m on my period!”

  “I know! So I don’t even know what we’re talking about!”

  “I gave some of the condoms to Emerson!”

  Poppy says it so loudly I think all of Atlanta hears. Mateo seems to have a slight grin on his face, but I’m fully mortified with all the employees around, and I’d like to just crawl under a desk and die. My mind quickly wanders to things outside the office—Ryan will think I got pregnant on purpose to get him back. Holy hell, I’ve really got myself freaked the fuck out now, and I start to pace. Every other time I’ve been pregnant, it had been planned, thought out, like everything else in my life. Ryan and I had talked about it. I had cute ways of telling him. It was never a surprise, never a shock. I tell myself over and over again there’s no way I could be pregnant. I’m supposed to be working on my sex bucket list, not a baby registry.

  Poppy tells everyone to get back to work, and then she pulls me and Dash into her office and closes the door. She grabs my arms to calm me, and I reward her with my word vomit. “I didn’t poke a hole in your condom,” I pant out.

  “Of course you didn’t, honey,” Poppy says. “And I didn’t. And Dash didn’t, either. So everything should be good?”

  “I don’t know. I’m late. I doubt Ryan will think everything’s good.”

  “Who gives a fuck about him?” Poppy asks.

  “We slept together,” I say, “with your condom.”

  “Oh,” Poppy says, and her eyes flash to Dash, her silent order to keep his mouth shut.

  “I need to go,” I say.

  “You’re shaking. You need to calm down.”

 
; “I can’t be forty-something and pregnant,” I cry, pulling away. “No, no, no, I can’t be unmarried and pregnant. I mean, I preach to Ava and Jacob all day long about waiting until you’re married. They will know what we did. Oh God, Connor! He thinks you can get pregnant only when you’re married.”

  She grabs both my arms and motions with her head for Dash to leave. “Maybe it’s early menopause.”

  “You did not just say that!” I cry out.

  She laughs so hard that she actually snorts like a pig. “What’s so wrong with menopause? I’m looking forward to it.” She nudges me, but I don’t crack a smile. I’m in no mood.

  I tell her I need to be alone and walk out of her office.

  * * *

  In the movies, when someone’s life is upside down, they often end up at a bar. But given my potentially delicate condition, I can’t really go tie one on. So instead of drowning my sorrows in a bottle of whiskey, I decide to get drunk on carbs and make a beeline for my favorite Italian restaurant. That seems a sensible thing to do right now, and I have a few hours to kill before my flight back home to Savannah.

  I polish off a pile of breadsticks while I wait for my spaghetti then push the basket to the side of the table and tell the waiter, “Keep ’em coming. I don’t want to see the bottom.” He raises an eyebrow like I’ve lost my mind. “Don’t judge me,” I say.

  He laughs, leaving a bottle of olive oil for me to dip. Good man. I know there are all kinds of diets that tout giving up carbs, but for the life of me, I don’t know how in the hell they do it. I saw one diet that called for eating fewer than twenty-five grams of carbs each day. How is that possible? I eat a banana every morning, and that would be enough for one day. No way. Besides, bananas are healthy, and I need my potassium. At least that’s what I tell myself. They say drinking alone is a sign you’re an alcoholic, so I guess stuffing my face at a table for one makes me a carboholic. I’ll be in a food coma tomorrow, but that’s okay. It’s worth it.