by Anna Todd
You manage to say, “Jamie, please . . .”
“Please what?” He sounds sadistic now, and you know why. Because playing this role comes naturally for him. Because he’s talented. You know this.
“You’re too good,” you moan as you push back against his body, desperate for his touch, feeling starved of him yet consumed by him. This has gone on too long now.
“I’m a work in progress.” He chuckles, and you feel his mouth on the crook of your shoulder, his tongue flicking and his lips sucking and nipping. When you feel his teeth bite at your skin, your legs weaken slightly.
“You really broke in through the window?” You want to laugh at the thought of that, but you don’t because it would ruin this . . . moment. As twisted as it might be, you’re enjoying it. As is he—the heat and hardness of his body confirm that. The room is filled with the scent of lavender and the spice of his cologne and the heat of both his and your desire.
You hear the smile in his voice as he says, “Nah, it was open,” and his hands travel up the back of your dress and under it. His fingers graze across the small of your back and the base of your spine, feather-light touches that you’d fantasized about as he followed you home.
This is supposed to feel wrong. This isn’t your husband.
“How long did you follow me for?” you ask, wondering only now if it had been before the train.
“After the massage.”
Your body tightens deliciously. “Then you’re very good at this. . . .”
You want to see him now, touch him now, and as you try to turn your body, you think for a moment that he isn’t going to let you, but then his grip loosens and he twists you around to face him. His eyes are dark with a desire you recognize, and he runs his tongue slowly over his bottom lip as he stares deep into your eyes.
“Christ . . . you’re so bloody beautiful,” he whispers.
You drop your eyes to his perfect pink mouth. “My husband will be home soon.” You purse your lips to hide a smile.
“You think I could take him?”
When you look up, the look in his eyes turns wicked.
You pretend to think about it. “Not sure, he’s strong and very protective, possessive too. He’d probably kill you for this.”
His gaze changes, softening slightly for a moment, but then the other look comes back across his eyes—dark and hot, and almost dangerous. Christ, he really is so good at this. Too good.
“Then we better be quick about it.” He smirks and lowers his gaze down your body.
As he does, you take in every inch of his face, the soft, unruly curls on his head, the light faded scar on his forehead that he picked up as a child, the long Grecian nose, twice broken, which now sits slightly to the right, the perfect cut of his beard that he says his face looks weird without.
As he walks you backward toward the bed and pushes you down onto it, he shakes his head. “This dress looks perfect from every angle, you know,” he tells you quietly as his hands come to the buckle of his jeans. As they do, the silver of his wedding band glints in the dim light of your bedroom.
The same wedding band that you’d put on his finger two years ago.
You smile. “Mmm . . . well, my husband likes it.”
Your Best Friend
Peyton Novak
Imagine . . .
There’s a steady knocking at your door, but instead of answering, you snuggle further into the warmth of your covers, the blankets twisting around your feet. You know who it is, but as the knocking persists, you cover your head with a pillow and groan in irritation. Just one more hour, you think. Last night you were up binge-watching Netflix, and the last thing you want is an early-morning wake-up call.
But you need to get up because you don’t get to see him a lot, and it’s been months since the last time you properly hung out. And besides, the last time you both were way too drunk to remember, and then way too hungover to function the next day. Slowly, you roll over and open your eyes, squinting against the bright morning light. The knock comes again, this time a little louder. With a sigh, you pull yourself out of bed and pad over to the door, the hardwood floor cold against your feet. Normally you wouldn’t have locked your bedroom door, but after a few rather chilling episodes of Criminal Minds you can’t help but want to feel as safe as possible, especially when living by yourself.
When you finally open the door, he’s waiting outside, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a box of your favorite chocolates in the other.
“Happy birthday!” he shouts, his familiar voice instantly bringing a smile to your face.
You don’t give him time to react as you throw your arms around him and pull him into a much-needed hug. After months of not seeing each other it feels amazing to have him here today, of all days. “I told you not to come, but now that you did, I’m rather happy,” you tell him with a laugh, pulling away to get a good look at his face.
The scruff on his chin is longer than usual, and his bright orange hair is just as messy as always. Although his eyes seem more gray than blue today, he still looks like the same boy you grew up beside. The same boy that you spent almost every single birthday with until he went on tour and left for months on end. The same boy you still call your best friend, even though you barely get to see him anymore.
“I couldn’t miss another birthday. I felt terrible last year, honest,” Ed tells you, his lips forming a small frown.
You were never mad at Ed for missing your birthday last year. He’s freaking Ed Sheeran, for God’s sake. He has better places to be. For as long as you’ve known him, his dream has been to perform and make people happy, so there’s no way you could ever be mad at him for missing your birthday to do what he loves. Of course it’s not the same without him, but you would never hold that against him.
“I think you can let go now, mate,” Ed says with a laugh, your arms loosening around his neck. “Anyway, we have a busy day, and if you stand here and hug me any longer, we won’t get much done.”
You finally release Ed, a permanent smile plastered across your face. As much as you didn’t want to wake up, now that you have, you’re happy.
He smiles. “Get ready and then we can get going.”
Nodding, you go back into your bedroom and get prepped for the day. You don’t know what’s in store, so you put on something casual and fuss with your hair just a little and brush your teeth. By the time you’re ready, Ed is in the kitchen cooking eggs and sausage, your favorite breakfast foods.
“So what’s on the agenda for today?” you ask, sitting down in front of a plate of steaming-hot food.
“Well, I was hoping we could have a little jam session before my show tonight.”
You know that he feels guilty about having a show on your birthday, but you couldn’t be happier. The last time you went to one of his shows you had a fantastic time, and since he’s playing in London, you won’t even have to go far. You nod to say yes and dig into the goodness, eating every last bite that Ed has prepared. Afterward, you lead him into the small room you’ve dedicated to your love of music.
Ed notices the dust that has started to collect on your favorite acoustic guitar—the one he got you for your sixteenth birthday. “You haven’t been in here for a while.” His fingers run over the strings, the noise echoing through the room.
“Nursing school keeps me busy.”
Over the past years you questioned why you’d chosen nursing school over music. As children, you and Ed were constantly singing or playing any kind of instrument you could get your hands on. Choir was never enough time to sing. Your parents would take turns having the two of you over because the constant stream of singing and music was enough to drive any parent crazy. Ed would write the songs because he was simply an incredible writer, and you would come up with the harmonies. You two were inseparable when it came to music, until Ed went off to London while you finished up with school.
You knew you wanted to help people, and nursing seemed like the safe route to go, but
music was just as important. It’s funny how you let some things drift away from your heart over time. It was hard to keep in touch with music without Ed’s constant presence. As soon as he left to pursue his dreams, you went off to university and packed away your guitars.
Ed picks up Nelly, your most recent purchase, and sits down. He starts to strum away, his fingers working their magic as they always do. You’re good at playing the guitar and singing, but Ed’s simply amazing. He’s a true performer, and when he plays, it’s like the music pours straight from his soul. You know you’ll never be at the same level as Ed, but playing along with him makes you feel like a better musician.
“When was the last time you played?” He watches you as you slowly pick up a guitar and sit down beside him.
“Maybe a few months,” you tell him truthfully, feeling a bit shameful. For Ed, music was life. He couldn’t go a day without it. You were like that once, but your free time slowly started to slip away from you.
Ed starts to pluck out a familiar song, one the two of you wrote when you were only thirteen. The music instantly relaxes your body, the song bringing back memory after memory. You suddenly remember the talent show you entered in eighth grade, and how you totally forgot the lyrics but Ed was there to cover for you. If it hadn’t been for him, you wouldn’t have won. He was always so natural onstage. It was like he was born to perform. For you there were always clammy hands and pre-performance jitters. Ed was always nervous, but it was the excited kind of nervous, something that made him an even better performer.
Taking a deep breath, you let your fingers start to dance over the strings. The feeling is familiar but odd at the same time, since it’s been so long since you’ve played. You fall into the rhythm of the song, your eyes closing as the music flows through you. Ed’s voice brings you back to all the times you locked yourselves in the music room at school during lunchtime. When the two of you weren’t goofing off or writing silly songs, you were creating real music that will forever be close to your heart.
“Play me one of your new songs,” you tell Ed.
Ed strums awhile before finally singing, his voice capturing you the instant he opens his mouth. Lyrics you’ve never heard before pour out of him like he’s possessed. His whole body is filled with the music; it gives him life. You watch as he falls deeper and deeper into the song, and you wish that you could be back in that place, that place where nothing but music mattered. After he finishes, you both play around, your instruments complementing each other. It’s just like old times, you tell yourself. And without even knowing it, hours have passed before Ed finally looks down at his phone.
“I think we may have lost track of time.” He laughs, stands up, and sets your guitar on its stand.
You look at the clock in the corner. “Bloody hell, your show is in two hours!”
You both go into panic mode, grabbing whatever you can and gathering your stuff up. Within a minute you’re out the front door and hailing a cab. Ed speaks with his manager on the phone as you tell the driver where to go. You can see the smile on Ed’s face as he closes his phone and sits back.
“What’s so funny?”
He smiles. “I have a cheeky joke.”
“Okay?”
“What do you call an elephant that doesn’t mean anything?”
From the smile on his face you know it’s something completely stupid, but you can’t come up with a good answer.
“Irrelephant,” he chokes out between laughter.
You feel your lips stretch into a smile at the sight of him laughing at his own silly joke. “How many people have you told that one to?”
“I was saving it for you. You know, I did have a lot more planned today. We were supposed to go to your favorite pastry shop and then—”
“Don’t worry about it,” you tell him. “I needed to get back into that room, anyway. Playing with you was a pretty good birthday present.”
“You don’t need me to play, you know.”
“I know,” you say.
But playing without him isn’t the same.
IT’S NOT LONG before you and Ed are backstage among the craziness that goes on prior to a show. You’ve been to a few of his gigs, but not the recent ones. Ed’s not the unknown artist he was a few years ago, and it makes you happy seeing how many people have filed into the stadium to see him. It’s amazing how much he’s blown up in the past two years, and you’re incredibly proud of your talented best friend.
“There’s a lot of people here for you,” you tell him as he stuffs his face with a specially made dish of bangers and mash. “You do know you’ve spilt sauce on your shirt, right?”
Ed looks down at his shirt and shakes his head with a little laugh. “Stuart told me to eat before I got dressed. I guess he was right.”
“I’ll grab you another one,” you tell him.
He has a few extra shirts in the suitcase he brought. You choose one you know will go with what he’s wearing. Ed likes to keep it simple on and off the stage, so you grab a black-and-white flannel.
“Thank you.” He pulls off his dirty shirt and replaces it with the new one. “What would I do without you?”
“Who knows?” you say with a teasing smile.
“Have you warmed up?” one of the backstage workers with a headset asks.
Ed looks at you with a cheeky grin. He’s maybe warmed up a little too much. The two of you played for hours on end before either of you realized the time. He might well have missed his own show entirely.
“Hey, what’s this?”
You look down at what’s in his hand, spotting your phone. The screen saver is an old pic of Ed shoving as many things in his mouth as possible. Besides music, that was one of his great talents. “Don’t you remember that?”
“I do, I just don’t know why it’s your screen saver. You’re gonna scare people with that picture.”
“Ed—you’re on in fifteen,” someone calls from the back, capturing our attention.
Ed hands the phone back. “All right, mate!”
The fifteen minutes go by in a blur, and before you know it, the crowd is screaming so loud it’s hard to hear people talking backstage.
Seconds before Ed goes on, he walks over with his favorite guitar in hand. “You remember that song we wrote when I came back for holiday, right? The one we wrote in my basement?”
You nod. How could you forget? “Of course. Why?”
He smiles. “Just making sure.”
Ed turns around to walk onstage, but before he goes, you pull him into a tight hug. “Good luck.”
As soon as he steps out onto the stage, the crowd goes absolutely wild. You watch with a smile as Ed plays with his pedal machine, looping his live music right in front of everyone’s eyes. It’s amazing how he doesn’t use a backing track when he performs. It makes his music even more incredible. After every song he replaces his guitar with another, the backstage crew working fast to remove strings and install new ones. He jams so hard that it’s impossible to make it through a song without breaking one. In all the crazy commotion, someone hands you a guitar. You look down at the strings, which are perfectly intact.
“Does he need this?” you ask over the roar of the crowd.
Before you know what’s happening, Ed stands before you, his face glistening with sweat. He looks down at the guitar in your hand and nods for you to join him onstage. You feel your whole body freeze at the thought of standing in front of thousands of people and give him a panicked look, your hands instantly starting to sweat.
Ed places a reassuring hand on your back and whispers a few words into you ears. You can’t hear what he says, but you know it must be reassuring, right? What else would he say if he was trying to get you onstage? Finally, with a deep breath, you take his hand and let him lead you out. You try to calm your breathing as he does, but the fans go absolutely crazy as soon as he comes back into sight.
“Me and my best mate are going to sing you something we wrote a while ago,” says a voice.
You know it’s Ed, but in front of the thousands of screaming people you can barely focus. His hand is on your back, almost as if to make sure you don’t fall over. You look at him, his blue eyes familiar and reassuring.
You can do this, you think. This is what you’ve always wanted to do, right?
Ed leads you over to his pedal station and looks at you, waiting for a sign that you’re ready. You look back out at the crowd once more, the bright lights of the stage making it impossible to see anything but a massive blur. Slowly, you turn back to Ed and give him a nod. He smiles a smile you’ve seen a million times and starts to strum the beginning of an old song, one you thought you’d never play again. As soon as the music echoes through the stadium, you know you’re okay.
Playing with Ed was what you were always best at. And here, as you play in front of thousands of screaming fans, the only thing you notice is how nothing has changed between you and your best friend.
May the Best Team Win
C. M. Peters
Imagine . . .
The set director’s shouting “Everyone, it’s time to take your places!” made you realize the moment had finally come.
You were about to appear on May the Best Team Win.
A few weeks prior, you had received an email from the production company you’d sent your application to—along with thousands of other hopefuls who wanted to win a spot on the prime-time hit May the Best Team Win. You loved watching the game show, in which fans were pitted against celebrities, and you had requested Chris and Liam Hemsworth for whatever competition the production would throw at you. The email had confirmed your participation in a cooking showdown with the brothers.
Along with your best friend, Emma, you had screamed, danced, and laughed while reading and rereading the message. What the Australian actors didn’t know is that you had studied to be a chef before changing your mind in college to major in communications. Adding to your experience, Emma had years of waitressing and cooking in a small diner. Cooking in such a short allotted time would be no problem, you were sure of it. You could totally win this.