by Jane Green
Cosmo’s Sexiest Stories Ever
Three Naughty Tales
From the Editors of Cosmopolitan
Contents
Sex Under the Stars by Jane Green
Birthday Sex She’ll Never Forget by Jennifer Weiner
Falling in Lust at the Jersey Shore by Meg Cabot
Sex Under the Stars
by Jane Green
Maggie’s marriage fell apart three years ago—the guy was a dud. And the sex? Snooze. Plus, she couldn’t stop fantasizing about Aidan, her ex-hubby’s smoke show of a best friend. Even three years later, she’s still carrying a torch for him. When Aidan shows up on her doorstep out of the blue, looking all Gerard Butler–disheveled and irresistible, she’s never been so happy to be single....
Ringing Her Bell
The buzzer keeps ringing, but I refuse to go downstairs. Tonight is meant to be a lazy evening when I do nothing but hang out in my robe, slather on a mud mask, shove my face full of chocolate, and watch The Real Housewives.
After another series of buzzes, I go to the window. “Go away! I’m sick!” I yell, slamming it shut.
Bzzzzzzzz...
That’s it. I’ve had enough. I stomp downstairs and fling open the door to see a familiar face. Tanned from months in the sun, jeans loose, backpack slung over his shoulder. His hair messy, his smile exactly the same.
My hands fly up to my green cheeks, and I yelp in horror, running back up the stairs. “Wait!” I hear him call, laughing, behind me. “Can I come up?”
I don’t answer. I lock myself in the bathroom to scrub my face.
The last time he saw me, I was walking down the aisle on my way to marry the wrong man. I knew I was making a mistake, but it was too late. That I wasn’t in love with Josh seemed like a minor obstacle. Love will grow, I told myself. I will make it work.
That I was already in love with his roommate, Aidan, seemed irrelevant. Aidan would never go out with me. Wherever he went, women swooned. Models, actresses, gorgeous girls next-door. Even though I’m what the Jersey Shore guys would call a dime (translation: hot), it didn’t seem like Aidan could ever focus on one woman, no matter how amazing she was. Josh was my consolation prize. He wooed me, and I fell in love with being wooed.
When he proposed, after six weeks, I ignored the small voice that told me it was a mistake. I wanted to be in love; I wanted to get married; I wanted a wedding! I was so swept away in the excitement of planning the ceremony and reception, I never thought about life after the celebration.
Back from our honeymoon, we stopped going out. He barely spoke to me, and sex was so boring that I would fake orgasms just to get it over with. I wanted to leave, but I had made a commitment, and I knew I had to stay.
Hotter Than Ever
Locked in the bathroom, I stare at my reflection, pull my hair into a ballerina bun, and rub blush on my cheeks before going downstairs.
Please let me look even the tiniest bit like Natalie Portman in Black Swan.
Aidan looks up from where he is sitting on the sofa, with his casual smile. I catch my breath.
It’s been three years, during which I’d thought, Out of sight, out of mind, relieved that he wasn’t around to remind me I’d settled for second-best.
But if I thought distance had negated my feelings, the way my heart beats faster tells me I was mistaken.
“Where’s Josh?” Aidan asks, and I realize he hasn’t noticed that the apartment has been divested of all its Joshness: the movie posters, the 55-inch flat-screen TV, the brown leather sofa from his first apartment. All gone.
“He left me.” I make a face, attempting levity, even though it wasn’t funny.
“He...what?” Aidan is shocked, but not as shocked as I was.
Even more quickly than Josh fell in love with me, he fell in love with someone else: He proposed to her within three weeks. Apparently, he also forgot that he was already married.
I tell Aidan all this but don’t dwell on it. Instead, I focus on him, asking about his life. He tells me about working on boats in Saint Maarten, adventures he’s had, his voice lilting with endless tales of drunken parties and wild nights.
I smile, nod, and murmur encouragingly, but after a while, I notice I have drifted away. I’m watching his hands, his strong, tanned, long fingers.
How I always loved his hands.
I suddenly realize that he has stopped talking, and for a second longer than is comfortable, we stare at each other. I look away as a shiver of lust flickers between my thighs—something I haven’t felt in years. I cross my legs, flushed.
Aidan sits forward, watching me. “Want to see my boat?” he asks. “I hired a slip at the marina for the weekend. An old whaler. We could take her out.”
“Tonight? But it’ll be pitch-black soon. Isn’t that dangerous?”
He shakes his head and laughs, and I think to myself, Why not? I am divorced. Not dead.
Rocking the Boat (Wink)
An hour later, we’re coasting down the river; as water laps against the boat, we watch the sky fade from a fiery pinkish orange to the inky dark of night.
“I never thought you and Josh were right together,” Aidan says, his voice soft. We are sitting on a bench, Aidan steering as we both sip cold beer.
“You could have said something before we got married!” I attempt a joke. It’s gotten dark so quickly that I can barely make out his face.
“I didn’t trust myself,” he says.
Now that I’m finally hearing what I wished he would’ve said years ago, I’m too overwhelmed to speak.
We fall into an easy silence.
The bare skin of his leg touches mine, and the warmth sweeps up.
I can focus only on the electricity coursing through me, and I’m certain I am not imagining this connection.
My breath is short. I cannot look at him, although there is nothing to see other than the sparkle of a million stars. And in the darkness, I am suddenly aware of his fingers brushing over my thigh—slow and tentative.
I inhale sharply, and for a second, he freezes before moving farther up my leg as a moan escapes my lips.
The sound of a key. Click. The engine dies. We’re in the middle of the river, the boat rocking in blackness, his hands caressing under my shorts, gently stroking the fabric of my panties. I sink down and open my legs to welcome him.
Waves of Pleasure
His fingers fill me up and stroke me, and I am dissolving in wetness. His tongue is in my mouth, and the only sound is our breathing, our gasping. I reach down and run a hand between his legs, feeling the length and strength of him through his jeans, and he lets out a guttural moan.
Our tongues swirling, I unzip him and feel him sit back on the bench as I move down, set him free, and stroke him softly, before swiping my tongue over the head of his penis. Then I take him in my mouth, moving up and down, sliding my hand to cup and squeeze his balls as he groans.
I can feel that I am driving him to the brink, but in a flash, he gains control of himself and begs me to stop or he’ll let go too soon. Gently, his hands guide me up, and then he turns my body and lays me on the floor.
Aidan practically tears off my tee shirt and roughly pulls my bra aside. He tongues my nipples and makes his way down between my legs. Soon, I am the one gasping, and sparks of lust are shooting through my body. I am melting into his mouth, and I feel, at the edge of my consciousness, a wave that is threatening to build, threatening to wash over me. But right before it’s too late, he stops.
When he speaks, his face is above mine. “Are you ready?”
He moves away for a second, and I hear the sound of a condom wrapper tearing. A mi
nute later, he pushes inside me, whispering my name as I sigh with pleasure. We move together, tongues intertwined, and he lifts himself up, thrusting harder and faster. The wave is back; this time, as it builds, I let go.
It washes into me, over me, through me, bursting as it lifts me up into the night sky. My voice, unrecognizable, whimpers from far away, and every nerve is alight as I come back to earth, Aidan above me.
I gaze at the sky over his shoulder, glad for his weight; otherwise, how could I believe this really happened?
Happy Endings
The shower door creaks, water patters down, and a shampoo bottle clatters to the floor. Then a muffled curse.
I lie in bed, listening, smiling to myself as I replay every minute of this perfect night, careful not to think about the future. Not this time.
Years ago, I wasted months dreaming about Aidan, praying he would notice me, hoping he would wake up one day and realize I was the woman for him. That was when I still believed in a perfect romance, when I still believed fairy tales could come true. That was before I was married, before my husband, who never deserved me in the first place, decided to leave.
Aidan is leaving too. In three days, he goes to the Bahamas. For a year or two. Or three.
I should be devastated, but sprawled on my bed as the sun filters through the blinds, I am overflowing with happiness.
This isn’t about Aidan. This is about me.
Since my marriage, I’d reached the resigned conclusion that I was just not a sexual being. I believed the orgasms I once had, before meeting Josh, were a stroke of luck.
I thought attraction, lust, and waves of desire were a factor of youth, that once you hit 25—and I have no idea why I decided on that number, other than that it was the age I married Josh—that desire would disappear.
I thought what happened to me happened to everyone: Sex becomes, as it was with Josh, dull, routine, inescapable. I thought I would never again feel the intense pleasure of every nerve in my body quivering with anticipation.
Last night, Aidan gave me the most precious gift of all: myself. He woke me from a deep sleep. I’d forgotten how wonderful it is to feel fully alive.
When he leaves, I will let him go with love. I won’t waste time waiting for him to come back. The gift he has given me is enough—enough that I know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that we must truly seize each moment and live with purpose, and passion, and joy.
About Jane Green
Jane Green is the chick-lit master, having penned 12 best sellers. Cosmo faves include Jemima J, Mr. Maybe, and her most recent, Promises to Keep. Check out Jane’s Steamy Beach Read picks at cosmopolitan.com.
Birthday Sex She’ll Never Forget
by Jennifer Weiner
Daphne’s turning 26, and instead of going out with her friends, she’s stuck at a wedding. Thankfully, she runs into a hot guy from her past...and they get reacquainted. And by get reacquainted, we mean tear each other’s clothes off, and make damn good use of that hotel suite.
I stood at the edge of a tent with my rain boots sunk in mud, listening to raindrops plink down on the roof of the tent, thinking that this was not how I wanted to spend the weekend of my 26th birthday. Ideally, I’d be back in Manhattan, making plans with friends. Instead, I was in the New Jersey suburb where I’d grown up, on the lawn of a fancy hotel, attending the wedding of my cousin Matt, a 40-year-old personal trainer with a ponytail and an attitude, to a 25-year-old who said she was an energy healer and claimed her name was Sunshine.
“You know I met your father at a wedding,” my mom reminded me that morning in the hotel room they’d gotten for the day, a place for my brothers and me to get dressed and for my parents to sleep if they opted not to drive home after the party.
“I know,” I said, turning so she could zip up my dark blue satin dress. I’d heard the story dozens of times—how she’d been a friend of the bride and he’d been the best man, how their eyes had met while the happy couple were saying their vows, how they’d danced until the band went home and talked until the sun came up, how they’d eloped eight weeks later. It was romantic. It was also, as far as I was concerned, impossible. These days, if you met a guy at a wedding, you’d sneak into the bathroom to look him up on Facebook and check him out on Twitter, and you’d probably have already seen pictures of his three most recent girlfriends by the time he’d crossed the dance floor with your first drink. There was no such thing as handsome strangers, only handsome men you hadn’t Googled yet.
I was reaching into my clutch for my cell when I felt someone tap my shoulder from behind.
“Excuse me, Daphne?”
I turned and felt my breath catch. The shoulder tapper was gorgeous, with thick black hair swept back from his high forehead and big, solid shoulders. He had strong features, a square chin with an adorable cleft in its center, and he was smiling at me, eyes crinkled in the corners.
Blast From the Past
“You don’t remember me?” he asked.
“Should I?”
“High school. We were in English class together for four years. You really don’t remember?”
I shook my head, groping desperately for a name, regretting the tequila shot I’d snuck while my parents and brothers waited in the receiving line.
“Caleb Armstrong.”
“No way.” I stared, trying to connect the good-looking, broad-shouldered man in front of me with the pale, goofy, bespectacled kid from English class who would memorize David Letterman’s monologue every night so he could recite it to our class the next morning.
Caleb shrugged. “What can I say? I was a late bloomer.”
“You look incredible!”
He was at least six inches taller and 50 pounds heavier than he’d been in school, with an air of confidence that he hadn’t come close to projecting back then. “You look good yourself.”
I shifted my weight, tugging at the top of my strapless gown, hoping that I, too, had improved since high school, where my look had featured a distractingly orange fake tan, high-waisted jeans, and belly shirts (in my defense, Jennifer Aniston had rocked all the above). In the past 10 years, I’d gotten more comfortable in my non-orange skin, realizing that my wide-set hazel eyes and shiny brown hair were assets, especially if I didn’t wear a pound of black eyeliner. A half dozen boyfriends, a little more confidence, rock climbing for my shoulders and Spinning classes for my butt, and I was looking better at 26 than I had at 16.
I sipped my wine to buy a little time. “Bride or groom?” I asked Caleb.
“Actually, I’m here on business.”
“What do you do?”
His eyes sparkled. “What do you think?”
“You write for David Letterman.”
“Close.”
“You’re a spy.”
He threw back his head and laughed, and finally, I was able to connect the dots back to high school. When he laughed, he sounded the same. “No. I sell television advertising.” He looked me over, not even trying to hide it. Over his shoulder, I could see my brothers approaching.
On impulse, I grabbed Caleb’s arm. “Hey, you want to get out of here and go somewhere quiet?”
He looked surprised but said “sure” and followed me.
Screw the Reception
In the lobby, every chair was taken, occupied by elderly wedding guests who’d come in out of the rain. The bar was crammed three deep. I hesitated only a moment before leading him to the lobby and pulling the key card for my parents’ room out of my purse.
It felt reckless, but I had known him, once...and it was my birthday. I deserved a treat. I unlocked the door and led him into the room.
“So...,” he said and let his voice trail off. He was looking at me like he’d already seen me without my dress...and like he loved what he saw.
I could have taken the chair in the corner and made small talk about high school. I could have sat at the desk and asked about his grown-up life. But on my birthday, I didn’t want to do either of thos
e things. What I wanted was a present, an unexpected gift.
So instead of sitting on the chair, I lay down on the bed, lifted my arms, and slid the pins out of my hair. The wine I’d been sipping all afternoon had made me loose-limbed and lazy. I’d taken off my rain boots as soon as I’d stepped in the door, and my bare feet were curled up underneath me.
“Come here,” I said, patting the blanket. “Unzip me.”
He sat behind me on the bed and slid my zipper down. The halves of the dress parted, and I felt his lips on the back of my neck, his hands piling my hair on top of my head so he could kiss me just beneath my ear, then my cheek and then, finally, turning me around to face him, my lips.
Naughty Reunion
Caleb moved down my body. When he closed his warm mouth around my right nipple, I leaned my head against his chest, sighing. I didn’t resist as he eased me onto my back, sliding the dress down over my hips until I was naked except for my thong.
I opened my eyes a slit. He was on his knees, face flushed, hair messy, still fully dressed, but I could see his erection pressing against his pants. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, Daphne.” Then he practically dove on me.
First, his lips were against my neck, then sucking hard at one breast, then the other. His hands gripped my thigh, and his feet prodded at my own, spreading my legs insistently. He took his time, easing his body down on mine, placing lingering kisses along my neck and chest, pausing to suck at my earlobe. “You’re gorgeous.”
I ran my hands across his broad shoulders, down his back, cupping the tight curves of his ass. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
He kissed his way down my belly, parted my thighs, and gently, slowly slipped his fingers into my folds until the tip of his index finger was right where I needed it to be. I gasped, lifting my hips. His lips curved against me in a grin as he moved his fingertip back and forth. When I felt his tongue where his finger had been, I groaned. It was so sweet, so good, his tongue trilling against me, fingers working in and out at precisely the pace my body required. How did he know? I heard myself sighing, chanting, over and over, “Oh, god, don’t stop. Oh, god, don’t stop....”