Instant Attraction

by Blakely, Lauren

  I can’t move my arms. Can’t thread my hands through his hair. I want to, yet I love letting go as he consumes me. And I want to be consumed by him. Soon my legs are shaking and I’m flying, falling, breaking.

  As I come down from the high, he crawls up me and whispers in my ear, “I want to have you every way possible. But right now, I need you on your hands and knees.”

  He unties me and flips me over, then he kisses his way down my back and thrusts two fingers inside me, as if he wants to make sure I’m ready. How could I be anything but ready after what he just did to me? He pushes down his boxers, grabs a condom, rolls it on, and slides inside me.

  He groans, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. It says he wants this as much as I want him.

  And then he’s fucking me like an animal, mounting me, gripping my waist.

  He’s taking me and having me, slapping my ass and pulling my hair and whispering filthy things in my ear about how much he’s wanted to do this since he met me, about how he wants to do this every single night, about how I’m the sexiest woman he’s ever met. About how he knows that what I need is to let go.

  And I do let go as he rides me to the edge, then slows down, then does it again and again until I’m pretty much begging for him to let me come.

  When he thrusts so far and so deep that I feel I might die if I don’t come, I shudder, devastated by the intensity of my orgasm. Even more so when he joins me on this side of bliss.

  But he’s not all rough and tumble. He’s not all dominant.

  We make our way to the shower, where he runs soap all over my body then kisses me gently and tenderly.

  “I want to make you feel good all the time, Valerie,” he whispers. “Every day, every night. Always.”

  Like that, I’m ready again.

  He takes me back to his bed.

  This time, he makes love to me. He moves inside me, long and lingering, meeting my gaze.

  “You’re the only woman for me,” he says.

  It doesn’t feel like a line from him. It feels like the truth. Especially when he takes me to Paris a few months later and tells me something even better.

  26

  Enzo

  We reach the top of the Eiffel Tower.

  Where else could I take my love but the most romantic city on earth? After all, there are so many art galleries here, each an opportunity to indulge in one of our favorite hobbies. She deserves everything, and I hope she will let me be the man to give that to her.

  But tonight is for the icon of the city.

  With all of Paris before us, I get down on one knee. “Valerie Wu, you are the most intoxicating woman I’ve ever known. And I want to make you happy for the rest of our lives. Would you do me the great honor of being my wife?”

  Tears slide down her cheeks, and she clasps my face then tells me, “Yes.”

  I smile, filled with all the love and gratitude in the world. Then I’m filled with a new round of desire when she brings me in close for a kiss.

  A kiss that turns hot instantly, as kisses with her do.

  After we return to our hotel on the Left Bank and indulge in our other favorite hobby—yes, we enjoy the bedroom even more than art—I hum, a crease of worry on my brow as we discuss our wedding. “I think Sadie will be my bridesmaid. She’s more than just an assistant these days,” Valerie says.

  “There’s only one problem. I don’t really know anybody in the United States. And you know everyone. I’m going to need a best man.” And as soon as I voice that, a memory returns. A conversation I overheard.

  I prop my head in my hand. “Wait. I have an idea. Have you ever heard of a best man for hire?”

  “I have. And that sounds like a perfect solution. Let me have Sadie do some googling and find the best one for us,” she says with a twinkle in her eye.

  “You don’t mind looking into it?”

  She runs a hand down my chest. “Darling, it would be my pleasure.”

  I growl and kiss her once more.

  But she breaks the kiss. “There’s only one thing I want from you.”

  “Name it.”

  “Remember when you go on your next photo shoot, indulge me by sending a selfie. I do love seeing your handsome face when you’re out of town.”

  I drop a kiss to her lips. How did I get so lucky? She’s perfect for me in every single way.

  When I’m in Milan the next week, I pose for her and send her a shot.

  She responds with more emojis than I’ve ever seen. Her delight feeds my desire to make her happy.

  Then she tells me she’s booked the best man for hire.

  Enzo: You are a goddess.

  I’m a lucky man. I have a solid job. I’ve risen from less-than-ideal circumstances. And now I have this fantastic woman. The only thing left to do is to make it all official when we walk down the aisle.

  I send her one more selfie, this one a little naughtier.

  Valerie: You better get home soon because I have some serious plans for you.

  Enzo: No, my love. I have incredible plans for you. Every single night I see you.

  Interlude

  Spencer

  And it looks like our fabulously wealthy CEO worked out her issues with her . . . oh, come on. He’s not a boy toy. He’s a mogul too. A superstar model, and he scored the woman he digs.

  Their flirtation turned into something much more. From selfies to art to pizza to true love. They found their way, and they’re moving into the next chapter.

  They only have one more hurdle to cross, but it seems they already found their solution in a certain best man for hire.

  Hmm. I wonder who that might be.

  I have my suspicions. I suspect, too, that all these stories are about to collide. But there’s one more facet to this gem of instant attraction.

  Jason and Truly spent their afternoon in the land of soft mounds of snow and hard, polished boards to plow through them.

  And then they said they were just going to dinner.

  Sure, sometimes dinner is just dinner.

  But sometimes it’s the start of something else, and the question is whether the flame will catch tonight or if it’s going to be a long, slow burn.

  27

  Jason

  It’s just dinner.

  Steak and salad.

  Risotto and peas.

  It’s just what we do to feed ourselves, because we’re hungry after a day on the slopes.

  That’s all. It shouldn’t feel like a dinner date. It doesn’t feel like a dinner date. Or so I tell myself as I button my long-sleeved shirt then tuck it into my jeans.

  We have separate rooms, and I’m simply going down to meet a friend for dinner at the lodge. The cozy mountain lodge. The romantic, cozy mountain lodge with fireplaces everywhere.

  Fucking hell.

  As I walk downstairs from my second-floor room, I imagine I have blinders on, ignoring all these fireplaces. Besides, what’s so romantic about fireplaces anyway? They’re sooty and ashy, and they require a lot of upkeep. They make a place so damn hot that you’re sweating, and you have to take off your clothes.

  Oh.

  Yeah.

  That.

  It would be ridiculously fucking sexy if Truly took off her clothes because she was too hot.

  I better not think about that at all. That’s precisely why I can’t go there. She’s just one of the guys.

  I repeat this mantra over and over.

  Just one of the guys, just one of the guys, just one of the guys.

  But when she heads down the stairs wearing jeans, boots, and a bulky fisherman’s sweater, I gesture to the offending attire. “Would you like me to burn that sweater before or after dinner?”

  With wide eyes, she plucks at the material. “What’s wrong with my sweater?”

  I tap my chin. “Hmm, where to start? It’s bulky, for one.”

  She waves toward the windows, which are edged with frost. “It’s cold outside.”

  “It’s sh
apeless.”

  She shrugs. “So? Do you want me to show you my shape?”

  Don’t answer that.

  “It’s . . . well. Actually . . .” I slow my mouth down, because the sweater is perfect. It’s one of the least sexy things I’ve ever seen. “You’re just one of the guys in that sweater.”

  She gives me a strange, not-quite smile. “Gee, that’s what I’ve always wanted to be.” But then it turns to a full grin. “Actually, it’s good if you think of me as just one of the guys. We can keep focusing on the friendship.”

  Instead of on my texts about kissing her.

  We head into the restaurant, and the hostess seats us then hands us the menus. Candles flicker, so I continue my efforts to dismiss all notions of romance. “Why are candles romantic? They’re just fire hazards, if you think about it.”

  See? I’m all about friendship.

  She pats my arm. “Don’t worry, Jason. I have on the ugly sweater, and we have fire hazards. There’s not a chance this could be construed as romantic. But while we’re discussing clothes that should be burned, can we talk about that gray T-shirt of yours? The one with the holes in it?”

  I shoot her an inquisitive look. “I don’t own a holey shirt.”

  Her blue eyes twinkle. “Oh, but you do.”

  I shake my head. “No, I don’t.”

  She nods again. “You do. You wore it to spin class.”

  “I did?”

  Before she can respond, the waiter arrives and asks for our order. I opt for chicken, and she chooses pasta. And when he walks away, I arch a brow. “Where were the alleged holes in this T-shirt?”

  She pats my biceps. “Right here.”

  I lift a brow. “You were checking out my biceps. Admit it. You love my arms,” I say, then curse myself. That’s not guy-talk.

  She rolls her eyes. “I was not.”

  I flex my muscles, giving myself a break for a moment. “See? Pretty damn good, aren’t they?”

  She reaches out her hand and squeezes. “Yes, your arms are fabulous. Besides, why are you so upset about your holey shirt? You attacked my bulky sweater. I’ll attack your shirt.”

  “Fair play,” I say, leaning back in the chair, thoroughly enjoying our banter. I simply won’t make any more flirty remarks, nor any kissing ones. No way. No how. I’ve got this.

  We chat some more, about clothes that ought to be burned and food we don’t think should exist and mountains we want to snowboard on, and it’s friendly, with only a little bit of flirtation thrown in. Because I can’t help myself.

  And that seems to be par for the course with us.

  Just because I sent those texts doesn’t mean I’ll backslide again.

  Even though we’re at this supposedly romantic lodge.

  But I’m not worried. I haven’t even had anything to drink, and I keep it that way all through dinner.

  * * *

  When the meal ends, I pay the bill, and Truly waves her hand in front of her face, fanning herself. “It’s soooo hot. These fireplaces are pretty damn strong.”

  Uh-oh.

  She reaches down and tugs off her sweater. I close my eyes for a second, hoping she’s not wearing something ridiculously sexy like a camisole. Do women even wear camisoles under bulky fisherman sweaters? I don’t know. If they don’t, maybe they should. Pretty women should just wear camisoles all the time.

  I open my eyes as she tugs her sweater over her head.

  My jaw falls open. She’s wearing . . . my holey gray T-shirt. I point that out, surprised. “You have on my T-shirt.”

  She looks down at the material. “Oh, this old thing? I was just going to burn it later.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You’ll do no such thing. That’s a very special T-shirt.”

  “Why is it such a special T-shirt? It’s full of holes.”

  “Well, why are you wearing it, then?”

  “Because you left it at my house after we did the spin class.”

  “And you held on to it. Admit it, you haven’t even washed it.”

  “Actually, I did wash it before this trip, and I brought it here to give back to you. And I thought it would be kind of funny to wear to dinner. But I was cold, so I put on the sweater. And now that you’ve said you hate my sweater, maybe I should just keep your shirt.”

  “Well, it does look fucking foxy on you,” I say, and yep, there’s some quicksand.

  “You think it looks foxy on me?” she asks as we exit the restaurant and head for the stairs.

  I eye her in her jeans, her boots, and my T-shirt, which only has one little hole in the arm. “Yeah,” I say, tracing the hole, touching a sliver of her skin. Seems my shoe is grazing that slope. “There’s just something incredibly sexy when a woman wears a man’s clothes.”

  She looks at me. “Why is that?”

  And here I go, one foot leaving solid ground. “I think it’s something about marking a woman. I guess it makes it feel like . . .” I stop myself. Am I really going to go here? Am I really going to say this?

  Evidently I’m sliding all the way. “It makes me feel like you’re mine. It makes it look like you tugged that on after I fucked you.”

  Apparently I don’t need champagne to loosen my lips.

  She stops at the top of the steps. “So does this T-shirt make something a foregone conclusion, then?”

  I stare at her, at this woman I’ve been wildly attracted to since I met her, at this woman who’s become my great friend and who is my best friend’s sister.

  But in this moment, she’s none of those things. She’s the woman I want to mark. She’s the woman I want to make mine. She’s the woman who I want to be wearing my clothes right after I fuck her.

  I reach for the hem of the shirt, tug her close, and say, “Yeah, I hope it does.” She’s inches from me, and this is the moment of truth. The moment before. We stare at each other, hovering on that edge where we can still step back and return to being friends.

  She’s just one of the guys, she’s just one of the guys, she’s just one of the guys.

  But she’s not one of the guys. She’s the woman I desperately want.

  One more tug, and then she steps forward into my arms and seals her lips to mine.

  It’s instant—I’m hotter than the fireplace. Flames flicker across my skin, blazing through my body. I slide a hand into her hair, bring her even closer, and slam my mouth to hers, kissing her fiercely, kissing her ferociously. I kiss her like it’s the thing I’ve wanted to do for years, because it is.

  We kiss deep and hard, without any pretense, without any build. We’re already there. We didn’t start at zero, but we went straight to sixty, and now we’re speeding along this highway of kissing—mouths ravenous, tongues exploring, hands everywhere.

  Her fingers slide along my arms, along my neck, into my hair, tugging and pulling. I’m lit up everywhere, crackling and sizzling with desire for her. I break the kiss and point in the general direction of the hallway. “Room. Now.”

  Before I know it, we’re inside her room, and I push her up against the door and strip off the T-shirt then tug down her jeans and underwear. Her hands move quickly, unbuttoning my shirt and pushing down my jeans too. I kiss her neck, inhaling her delicious, luscious scent.

  I thread a hand through her hair, look her in the eyes, and say, “You need to know I’ve wanted you since the first night I met you.”

  She nods savagely, panting. “God, I’m so incredibly attracted to you, it’s ridiculous.”

  I slam my pelvis against her, letting her feel what she does to me. “It’s insane.”

  She pushes down my briefs, grabs my ass, and pulls me closer. “Do you have a condom? Because if you do, it would be great if you could get it on and then get inside me right now.”

  That’s really all she needs to say.

  The hotel provides condoms, but I have one too. Not because I expected to have sex with her. But because a man should always be prepared. In a few seconds, I rip it open, roll it on, and th
en I position myself between her legs, rubbing the head against her slippery sweetness, savoring our heat. “Oh, you really do want to be fucked tonight.”

  She nods. “I really want you to fuck me.”

  I push inside her, heat shooting all over my body as I fill her. Rocking, stroking, and thrusting—all I think about is her and the sheer intensity of this moment. We’re like a wire stretched to its limit, and all the tension of the last few years snaps as we come together at last. She pants, and I groan. Our bodies collide, moving together in a powerful, intoxicating rhythm.

  She grabs at my hair, telling me, “Harder, faster, there, right there, now.”

  I do as instructed, giving the woman what she wants until she’s shouting my name and coming hard.

  We don’t stop there. I bring her to the couch and bend her over it. She offers up her body so deliciously, her ass in the air, lovely and succulent, and I want to bite it and smack it and kiss it. I bend down and nibble on her rear, then get right back inside her.

  She claws at the cushions and rocks back against me.

  “Use your fingers too,” she tells me.

  I groan in pleasure. “There’s nothing I love more than when a woman knows exactly what she wants.”

  “I know exactly what I want. I want you to make me come again.”

  This is too much. This is so fucking good. This is the way it should be. Open, honest, fierce. Passionate.

  I bring a hand between her legs and touch her where she wants me most until she goes flying again and I follow her there.

  We pant and moan, and it takes ages to come down.

  But we do, and I turn on the fireplace, bring her over to the couch, and pull her close.

  This time we’re a little slower, a little more deliberate, but it’s still just as delicious. And the next best part? We don’t dissect it. We don’t freak out. She doesn’t say anything like Oh, holy shit, we shouldn’t have done that. Instead she says, “I think that was a long time in the making.”