Blue Balls

by RC Boldt

  “Love.”

  I jerk in surprise at the sound of Jack’s voice in my ear, yet maintain my gaze on my best friend and her new husband.

  “Any second now, those two lovebirds will have cartoon hearts shooting out of their eyes at one another.”

  I’m unable to resist a snicker at Jack’s remark because that’s exactly what I was thinking.

  “Any chance you’ll save a dance for me?” he whispers huskily.

  Spinning around to face him, I decide to mess with him. Planting a hand on one hip, I gesture flippantly with the other. “Look, just because you’re far too handsome for your own good in that tux and have a disarming grin doesn’t mean that—”

  Oh shit! Abort! Abort! This is how my attempt at harassing him goes? Really, Sarah? By spewing compliments?

  “You think I look handsome?” His eyebrows rise in exaggerated surprise. “And what’s this about a disarming grin?” Turning his head slightly, he flashes me a wide smile. “Is this the disarming grin?” This smile is more of a smolder—not that I’m going to admit that to him—and he reaches a hand back behind his head to pose dramatically. “Or this? Is this the one? This is the one, isn’t it?” He has the audacity to wink at me.

  Rolling my eyes at his antics, I redirect my attention to the crowded dance floor without responding.

  “Come on, now. Admit it. You thought that was funny.” What is the deal with his husky voice? I swear it’s giving off subliminal messages. And those messages are something like Get up on that bar and spread your legs for me.

  Damn vagina. She’s such a traitor when it comes to Jack.

  He steps closer, his chest against my back, and I swear, I can feel the heat radiating from him. Suddenly, his arm shoots around me, and his fingers hold something small in front of my face.

  A foil-wrapped chocolate; the kind I always carry with me. Except today, since amidst the wedding festivities and being Maggie’s maid of honor, I had no way of stashing any.

  Well, not without putting them somewhere they’d end up melting, that is.

  Fighting a smile, I grab it, but he hangs on. I give it a tug, and he leans in to whisper, “Promise me a dance, and you can have it.”

  “Fine.” Another tug but still no dice.

  “Promise, Sunshine,” he says, amusement coloring his tone.

  “I promise,” I grit out, giving another tug on the chocolate and internally rejoicing when he lets go. Unwrapping it, I read the message inside before popping the small chocolate into my mouth in its entirety.

  Something decadent is going to happen.

  With a smirk, I fold the wrapper just as Jack’s voice rumbles in my ear. “I’d say that’s true since you and I”—he startles me by grasping my wrist, spinning me around, and walks backward as he leads me onto the dance floor—“are about to show these people how slow dancing is really done.”

  My eyebrows rise with skepticism. “To Dave Matthews?”

  “Satellite” is playing, and while I love this song, I’m not entirely certain how swaying back and forth will show anyone “how slow dancing is really done.”

  He picks up on my disbelief and eyes me with a smirk. “Just close your eyes and go on a journey with me.”

  “Jack.” I can’t help but roll my eyes.

  With a pseudo attempt at a stern expression, he tosses back, “Sunshine,” before pulling me closer. In these heels, the top of my head is eye level with him. My eyes fall closed at the feel of his jaw against my cheek, and I find myself concentrating on the masculine, woodsy scent that’s one hundred percent Jack—and unbelievably potent.

  “Are you concentrating on the song? On his voice?”

  My eyes remain closed as I murmur, “Yes.”

  “Okay.” There’s a brief pause. “Now tell me you don’t think there’s a chance that Dave Matthews and Shakira could be the same person.”

  Wait, what?

  My head rears back to stare at him incredulously. “Are you kidding me right now?”

  “Humor me, Sunshine.” I honestly can’t tell if he’s serious or not. “Listen to his voice and then think of every Shakira song you’ve ever heard—”

  “Which would be a total of two.”

  “And note the similarities.” He raises an eyebrow as if he’s made his point. “This song isn’t as good of an example as some of his others. Like ‘Ants Marching,’ for one. That song”—he nods in affirmation—“would totally convince you.”

  Laughter bubbles up, and I can’t help but shake my head. “You’re crazy; you know that?”

  He makes a noncommittal sound before abruptly swinging me out, then spinning me back into his arms, and dipping me dramatically. Straightening us and continuing to sway to the song, he reaches out one of his hands to brush a few stray strands of hair back from my face. Dipping his head, he presses a kiss to my hairline before resting his lips against my forehead.

  “As far as something decadent happening, Sunshine,” he murmurs in a low, silky tone, “I’d have to say that having you in my arms like this is it for me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Jack

  I’m pretty sure I just grew a fucking ovary.

  That’s the only reason I can come up with for me getting emotional at Maggie and Ry’s wedding—or, more importantly, when I give the toast.

  “Ry and I have been through a lot together. We met in college and basically never looked back.” With a smirk, I press my hand to my heart and add whimsically, “It was us against the world. Jack and Ry.”

  There are some snickers and chuckles, but I press on, turning serious as I look over at my best friend and his new wife. “He saved me in a lot of ways, took me under his wing, and became the kind of friend I’d never known I’d been missing. The kind of friend I never knew I’d needed.

  “He helped me get through a rough time when my father passed away unexpectedly. I realized then that it didn’t have to be Jack Westbrook against the world, trying to pave the way all by himself.” I shake my head with a small smile. “I had someone else by my side, a best friend who ‘got’ me; a best friend who didn’t judge too much”—I break off in a laugh—“when he broke the news to me that a pocket protector would, in fact, not get us any hot sorority girls.”

  More people laugh at this, and my expression sobers as I avert my gaze to the linen covered table to maintain my composure. Finally, I allow my eyes to scan the room before coming to rest briefly on the newlyweds and then continue.

  “When Ry and Maggie first became friends, it was like it had been meant to be. One minute, they were strangers and the next, best friends. And I had the pleasure of watching that friendship grow into something more. Into a love that’s so imperfect to those looking in from the outside, yet such utter perfection for the two of them. I couldn’t be happier that my friend has found his other half, and that they both have found their forever love.”

  My throat grows thick with emotion, and I fiddle with the microphone before turning my attention to Ry whose eyes appear to have a slight sheen to them. “I’m thrilled that you found one another and am incredibly honored to gain a sister in this deal.”

  Swallowing hard, I force a brave smile, trying to keep my tone light as I address the guests. “I once heard a quote that said, ‘You know you’re in love when you don’t want to fall asleep because reality is better than your dreams.’” Raising my champagne flute, I smile down at Maggie and Ry. “Here’s to Maggie and Ry. May your reality always surpass your dreams.”

  As soon as I’m finished with the toast and the DJ has restarted the music to draw people out onto the dance floor, Ry stands. Making his way over to me, he embraces me in a tight hug, muttering in my ear, “Thanks, man. Love you.”

  Leaning away, I give him a light pat on the cheek. “Love you, too, cupcake.”

  He rolls his eyes at the old nickname. Before he can respond further, two additional arms slide around us.

  “I want to be a part of this hug.” Maggie smiles up at m
e. “Thank you, Jack. For everything.”

  Sliding my arm around her, I give her a quick peck on the cheek before turning my expression quizzical. “This means I get to be a godparent, though, right?”

  The couple groans simultaneously. Before I can say more, I catch sight of Ry’s father leading Sarah to the dance floor.

  “Is your dad about to dance with Sarah?” I pose the question to Ry, knowing his father is usually straight-laced and serious. Not one for doing anything even remotely fun like dancing with the maid of honor or even cracking jokes.

  “Uh,” Ry falters, appearing at a loss. “Yep. That’s him.”

  Leaning in, my shoulder to his, I hiss playfully, “Is your dad making a play for my—” I freeze, stopping abruptly.

  “Go on.” Humor fills Ry’s voice. “Your…?” he prompts.

  Shit. I’d been about to say “my woman.” Except she’s not. Hell, I don’t even know what we are, if anything.

  I feel a little nudge at my side. Looking down, I see Maggie peering up at me. “You should go rescue your woman after this song’s over.”

  As I make my way toward the dance floor to Sarah, it doesn’t escape me that Maggie referred to her as my woman. I choose to ignore it for now because I know it’ll take a whole hell of a lot of work to convince Sarah to be mine.

  Note to self: Start buying those little chocolates she likes.

  In bulk.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Sarah

  It’s been a few days since Maggie and Ry’s wedding, and I’ve been working like crazy. Am I jealous of my two friends who are lounging in the tropics right now, sipping a fruity drink between their bouts of crazy newlywed sex?

  Pffft. Does a square have four ninety-degree angles?

  Wow. I really do need sleep if I’m spouting off math facts. That made me throw up a little in my mouth.

  I’m also pretty disappointed that I didn’t get my hands on Jack after the wedding, but honestly, after a day chock-full of maid of honor duties, I was suffering from bone-deep exhaustion. By the end of the night, the only thing I was fantasizing about was sleep.

  Today, Clint and I wanted to take advantage of the nice weather and being off work at the same time, so we decided to grab lunch.

  After we finish, we stroll along the sidewalk in downtown Saratoga, and Clint spots something in the window of a nearby boutique. “This practically screams my name.” He points at a studded belt which has gold and silver designs.

  “It will certainly draw some attention to your waist area,” I remark dryly.

  Clint makes a pistol with his fingers and aims it at me. “Exactly. And there’s no such thing as bad attention in that area, honey.” Studying the belt on the other side of the window, he lets out a long sigh. “But I promised myself I wouldn’t spend frivolously.” Tapping his fingers on the window, he mourns, “Bye, little belt. Maybe one day we’ll meet again.”

  I shake my head and laugh. “You’re a weirdo.” Slipping his arm through mine, he continues leading me down the busy sidewalk. “You planning to head home now?”

  He barely stifles a yawn. “Yep. I hear a nap calling my name.” Suddenly, he perks up, his face a mask of innocence. “Wait a minute. Isn’t Jack’s place only two blocks away?”

  I’d wondered why we’d continued down to the far end of South Broadway, away from the shops Clint normally prefers. I toss him a look, my face a mask of cynicism. “That was the furthest thing from nonchalant.”

  He grins happily and shrugs. “It’s all good.” Stopping at the crosswalk, we wait for the signal and then walk across the street. “I’m going to deposit you on his front step, stork-style, and then he’ll—” He stops abruptly, eyes widening on me.

  “He’ll what?” I ask cautiously, eyeing him.

  “Maybe he’ll decide he’s been lusting over me instead!” he announces gleefully. Untangling his arm from mine, he bounces happily like a Chihuahua before darting down the street to Jack’s place.

  Tipping my head up, eyes to the blue sky, I groan, “Why me?” before jogging to catch up with him.

  Except I’m not quick enough to intercept him before he rings the bell for Jack’s apartment.

  “Hello?”

  Clint leans against the building and smiles coyly into the speaker as if Jack can actually see him. “Jacky, it’s me, Clint. I happen to be standing here with a gorgeous blonde who happens to be a complete horndog and secretly writes poems about her love for you. Oh! And sculpting. Can’t forget about those clay replicas she makes of your massive pe—”

  I lunge in a move that would make Neo of The Matrix movies envious, my palm covering Clint’s mouth to muffle the rest of his words.

  Except it’s far too late.

  “I’ll be right down. Can’t wait to hear all about these poems and sculptures.”

  At the sound of the intercom disconnecting, Clint reaches to open the door and tugs my arm, shoving me inside the lobby. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

  “But—”

  Then he shoves the door closed and runs off. Leaving me standing here dumbfounded in the lobby of Jack’s apartment building.

  Jack, who’ll be down here any minute now.

  Shit, shit, shit. What is it about this guy that throws me so off kilter?

  Taking a few deep, calming breaths, I spin around toward the elevator. And stop short.

  “Hey, Sunshine.” Jack stands before me, looking far too delicious in low-slung shorts and a plain white T-shirt.

  “Oh hell.” Can I, please, get a free pass for once and hurl myself at him? The way they always do in the movies before they kiss each other’s faces off passionately?

  One eyebrow rises. “That’s not quite the reaction I was expecting.” He glances past me. “I thought Clint was here?”

  “He was.” I wave a hand toward the outside. “He did a weird, alternative version of ding dong ditch, I guess.”

  We stand here, a few feet separating us, and I feel awkward as hell. Shuffling my feet, I slide my hands into the pocket of my lightweight hoodie. “Well, um, I should—”

  “Come up.” He gives a little tip of his head toward the elevators. “Hang out for a bit.”

  It’s at this moment I realize I’ve never come over to Jack’s place with the intent of just…casually hanging out.

  It feels weird.

  Okay, so I realize how bad that sounds, but it honestly feels odd. In my defense, the whole “curse” did begin here.

  “Try to contain your excitement,” he responds dryly when I don’t immediately answer. I realize I’ve been biting the edge of my bottom lip, and my face is probably scrunched up from my contemplation.

  “Sure,” I offer far too brightly. “I’d love to hang out.”

  “Stairs or elevator?”

  “Stairs,” I say quickly. “I had a big lunch.”

  Finally, I get a tiny smile from him. “Stairs it is.” He walks over to the door leading to the stairwell and pulls it open. “After you.”

  We climb the stairs in silence, arriving at the fourth—and top—floor of the building, and he leads me down the hall to his door. Stepping inside his place, I attempt to shake off the feeling of déjà vu.

  “Can I get you anything to drink?” he offers, reaching into his refrigerator and grabbing a bottle of water. “I was about to relax and watch a movie. This week’s been hell.”

  “No, thanks.” With a weary sigh, I lean against the kitchen counter and add, “I second that on the week from hell.”

  Turning, he leans against the closed refrigerator and uncaps his water. My eyes are transfixed on the sight of his forearms, of the play of muscles and veins as he twists off that cap. “Rough time of it, too?” He raises the bottle to his lips, and those biceps stretch the sleeves of his white undershirt.

  Oh, sweet Mary Magdalene and Jesus.

  Confession time: I have a thing for forearms and biceps, with more emphasis on the forearms. Give this man a fork, a knife, and some food to cut, and
I could sit all day long, watching his forearms hard at work. All those flickers of muscle movements and veins on display for my viewing pleasure. Yummmmmm.

  And in case you’re wondering (let’s be honest—you are), yes, I’ve always been this weird.

  “Can I just say that I’m officially in lust with your forearms?” I blurt out.

  Jack chokes in surprise while he’s drinking and attempts to cover his mouth but not in time to catch some of the water that drips down on his shirt. And I’m not sure what I did this week to deserve this, but it must have been really good because Jack’s white shirt gets a big wet spot down the front. The cold water instantly makes his nipples hard, and I’m. In. Heaven.

  Clearing his throat, he sets his bottle of water on the counter. “Jesus, Sunshine.” He laughs, and it’s almost like he’s embarrassed. But it gets worse. Or better. Because in the next moment, he does something divine.

  He removes his now wet shirt.

  That’s right. His fingers grasp the back of the shirt’s neck, and he tugs it over his head. In reality, this moment lasts maybe five seconds at most. For me, though, it lasts for a half a minute because my mind slows it down.

  You know those movies where the sexy, curvy woman is jogging down a beach wearing a skimpy swimsuit, boobs bouncing like crazy, and it’s in slow motion? Well, that’s what’s happening right here, right now. My mind is planning to savor this moment at a later date and is slowing things down as he raises that shirt over his firm abs and pecs. It’s like my very own little striptease.

  I snap out of it once I realize I’m left standing alone in his kitchen while he heads to get a replacement shirt.

  “Don’t put on a new shirt on my account,” I mumble more to myself than anything.

  “What’s that?” he calls from his bedroom.