Asking For a Friend

by Lauren Blakely

  But before I let go, I rope my hands in her hair and tug one more time.

  She cries out, and hell, if that doesn’t sound like she’s close again, I don’t know what does.

  I tug again, and Amy pants, “Coming.”

  Watching her second orgasm is better than watching the first.

  So good, in fact, that I don’t hold mine back. White-hot pleasure takes my body hostage, obliterating everything in its wake but this moment, this desire, and this woman.

  Later, after she orders tacos from the best hole-in-the-wall Mexican shop in the city and they taste better than nearly any I’ve had in LA, I’m pretty sure I know where we’re going.

  “You know, Linc, you’re trouble too,” she muses as we eat on her couch.

  “Is that so?”

  “Complete trouble, but somehow a good idea at the same time.”

  “Like on par with banana bread and tacos? That good an idea?”

  She smiles. “Better.”

  Yes, I have to agree.

  Because this is what I suspected. The train didn’t go to Bone Town tonight.

  It went to boyfriend material.

  That’s where I want to be.

  And exactly where I shouldn’t.

  19

  Amy

  Did someone say good sex steals your brain cells?

  Well, if someone did, someone was wrong.

  Dead wrong.

  Apparently, sex makes you stronger.

  Smarter.

  Sharper.

  And more ass-kicking.

  I’m ten-feet tall as I stride into Tiffany Chilton’s office the next day.

  Sex, tacos, and a sleepover with a specimen of brains and beauty will do that to a girl.

  Especially when said guy offers to walk your dog for you at ten at night.

  Le swoon.

  Maybe he was just trying to get in my pants again, and if so, it worked.

  Oh hell, did it work when he returned with my pooch, tossed me over his shoulder, and carried me to my bed, where he proceeded to lavish attention all over my body with his magical tongue. Then he slid into me and wrung another orgasm out of me.

  After, I asked if he wanted to spend the night.

  He said yes and became the big spoon . . .

  Until six when he slipped out, kissing me on the forehead, saying he’d see me at work.

  That means I had four window-shattering Os, a full night of shut-eye, and a dog walker all in one.

  Praise the goddess!

  With a vanilla latte in hand, a plume of sweet steam rising from the top, I knock on Tiffany’s open door.

  Smiling, she calls me in, her eyes landing on the cup. “That better be for me. If it’s not, the meeting is over, because I’m going to hunt one down.”

  I laugh and set the drink on her desk. “It’s all for you. Courtesy of DoorDash. And straight from An Open Book.”

  She takes off the lid, draws a deep breath, and says, “Yes. I say yes to whatever you want.”

  Quinn’s words ring in my head. All you can do is be your best.

  “Well, when you put it like that, what I really want to do is publish a coffee table book called Cats Who Think They’re Dogs. Imagine all the hiking cats, and cats on leashes, and cats chasing balls who would grace the pages.” My confidence comes from humor, so I lean on it, trying to make her laugh.

  And laugh she does, then she whispers, “I have a tuxedo cat. Caravaggio greets me at the door every day with his stuffed mouse. That’s his most dog-like behavior, and I love it.” She takes a sip of the latte, puts on her serious face, then taps the cup. “Thanks again for coming to see me. And I appreciate the drink, but I want you to know I’d go to bat for you even if you didn’t bring me this.”

  I sit up straighter. That has my attention. “That’s wonderful to hear.”

  She swivels her laptop around, showing me a retailer product page from a book I worked on last year. “I’ve been watching your career, and your choices. Your books generate great reviews. And not just consumer reviews, but trade and industry ones too. Now, I know some of these are assigned to you and some are books you find, but universally, you have a more than solid track record.”

  Yes, sex and tacos and professional praise. I’ve grown to twenty feet now. More than solid works for me. “Thank you.”

  “The question is—what can you bring to Bailey & Brooks that will make the VPs want to move you into the editor position?”

  I gulp, nerves swooping right back into me. I thought they’d vacated, but their return is swift because this is my Achilles’ heel.

  Selling myself.

  Taking a beat, I reflect on the past few weeks, on my conversations with Josh and Linc, with Tiffany and Lola, and with Quinn when I brought her pickles and peaches.

  And with Dax. I was on fire with Dax, operating at my highest levels of pith and wit.

  But it’s not them I picture when I draw a deep breath.

  It’s my thesaurus. My energy source. My freaking life force.

  I don’t trot out fancy synonyms or try to entertain Tiffany the way I would a pack of middle schoolers.

  Even so, I turn to the thing that’s given me the most confidence over the years.

  My words.

  “Stories rock my world, and the chance to make them better is my jam,” I say, speaking from the heart. “I see myself as a book Sherpa, and I won’t stop climbing till I reach the peak. And I know how to reach it because words are my favorite things. They delight me. They always have. And I know how to make them shine. Take this book, for example.”

  I launch into my sample pitch for a mock book we’d want to acquire.

  I listen as she gives me feedback, then I adjust, make some changes, and try once more.

  “Great job,” she says. “Just practice a little more—you’re almost there. The pitch is in six days, on Monday afternoon. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Me too.”

  When I leave her office, I’m floating on feathers, and I nearly race to Lola’s office, but she’s not there.

  And weirdly, that makes me happy.

  Of course I want to see her.

  But I also want to see him.

  I head past Rainey’s office, saying hi to Antonia and waving to the boss lady, who barely looks up, then I turn the corner and tiptoe past Linc’s office.

  He’s at his desk, on the phone, but he smiles the second he sees me and signals that he’s almost done with his call.

  I slip inside, and a few seconds later, he ends the conversation. “Hey,” he says. “How was your meeting?”

  I love that he remembered. “It was great,” I say then give him the lowdown.

  “That’s fantastic,” he says. “I knew you were going to do great.”

  “You did?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Amy Summers, you are completely captivating and charming. As long as you harness all your natural awesomeness, you’re unstoppable.”

  The smile on my face won’t budge. “Aww. You’re making me blush.”

  He narrows his eyes. “And it’s adorable.”

  I laugh, and he taps his pen on his desk, cocks his head, and seems to study me. Then he leans away from his desk, peering through the open door and into the hallway. Footsteps sound across the carpet, then fade.

  Once they do, he returns his gaze to me and whispers, “I don’t know why you ever said you’re no good at selling, because I’m sold.”

  My blush deepens. “Stop. You’re too sweet,” I whisper.

  “I can’t stop,” he whispers. “And I can’t stop thinking about last night.”

  Tingles spread all over. “Me too.”

  Another whisper, so low I can barely hear. “What are you doing tonight?”

  You. I’m doing you.

  I adopt a nonchalant shrug. “Rearranging my board games. Cleaning my cutlery. Vacuuming in my matching bra and panties.”

  There’s a rumble in his chest, and his blue eyes are fiery.
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  He reaches for his phone, taps away on it, then looks up at me.

  I grab my mobile device from my pocket and read his message.

  * * *

  Linc: Go out with me tonight.

  * * *

  Amy: What if I want to stay in with you?

  * * *

  Linc: You are such a dirty girl, and I was trying to be a gentleman.

  * * *

  Amy: You weren’t a gentleman when your face was between my legs last night.

  * * *

  Linc: Thanks. Now I’m rock-hard under my desk.

  * * *

  Amy: If this were a filthy romantic comedy, I’d shut your door and get on my knees under there.

  * * *

  Linc: Death by Sex Tease indeed. I expect the finished manuscript on my desk by noon. Also, why don’t you come over after work so I can do ungentlemanly things to you, and then take you out after?

  * * *

  Amy: I like the way you think. Orgasms first. Food second.

  * * *

  Linc: Food and entertainment. Don’t sell me short.

  * * *

  Amy: There is nothing short about you.

  By the time the workday ends, I’m pent-up and ready to climb the walls.

  Linc steals away first, and I leave shortly after, catching an Uber to his place.

  It’s early evening but it feels like an afternoon quickie, because we’re desperate and horny, and neither of us says much more than a word. He simply pulls me into his apartment, kissing me the second I’m past the door. His hands are on my face, and mine are on his pants, and in no time, we’re in his bedroom, his floor a pool of clothes, my body spread out on his bed.

  I expect him to grab a condom and drive into me, given how frenzied we are, but instead he slides a hand around my neck, yanks me closer, and kisses me so passionately I see stars.

  My vision blurs as his fingers slide between my legs, then inside me. I gasp, breaking the kiss so I can moan. My legs part, inviting him.

  He groans his appreciation. “I fucking love how much you want it.”

  “How much I want you,” I correct, and that seems to turn him on even more.

  His fingers thrust deeper as his lips reclaim my mouth. He’s ravenous, and he doesn’t seem to want to stop fucking and kissing.

  I don’t want him to either, because being fucked like this and kissed like this is a dirty dream come true.

  My body is white-hot and electric. Pleasure pulses through me, swelling, ballooning, as he rubs my clit, hooking his fingers inside me.

  I want to scream out in bliss.

  I can’t handle how good this feels. It’s so intense, so mind-bending the way he tends to my body.

  Pleasure coils low in my belly, tightening.

  I’m going to come so hard, I swear it’ll hurt.

  But it’ll hurt so good.

  My hips rock shamelessly. He devours my mouth until I can’t hold on anymore.

  And I don’t want to.

  I break the kiss, and I break apart.

  “God. Linc. Oh my God. Yes. Yes.”

  I come so hard and for so long that I barely know what hit me.

  Then he’s over me, rolling on a condom and pushing inside me.

  With that, something shifts.

  We go from hot, fevered, pent-up lust to something else.

  Something more.

  I know I’m in this deeper than I thought.

  I’m sinking under, and I don’t want to come up for air.

  The look on his face, the vulnerability in his eyes tells me he’s in the same damn place too.

  He rises, bracing himself on his palms, meeting my eyes. “Look at you. So much trouble. So irresistible.”

  “Am I?” I ask, savoring his praise.

  “You’re irresistible in every way.” He swivels his hips, pumping into me, taking me there. “And you come beautifully. It’s so fucking sexy watching you lose control.”

  I smile, blushing as my hands coast down his back, curling over his ass—his firm, yummy bubble of a butt.

  He laughs lightly. “You’re not shy.”

  “Not one bit,” I say as I squeeze his cheeks.

  He groans savagely, clearly loving the way I touch him. “You,” he grunts. “You make me feel so good.”

  He lowers his body, and then he slows his pace, moving with long, luxurious thrusts, and I get lost in the rhythm, lost in him.

  Then we’re lost together in sensations as we surrender once more to the pleasure, reveling in mine, and in his, and in ours.

  “You’re a maniac in bed, and that’s a good thing,” I say as I get dressed.

  “That’s a compliment of the highest order,” he says as he slides his glasses back on.

  “Yes, it is.” I point at him, drawing a circle in the air. “You, naked, wearing nothing but glasses. You are Dax Powers. You are the hot librarian of my dirty dreams.”

  “And you’re the sexy bookworm of my naughty fantasies.”

  I waggle my fingers. “I’ll meet you in an hour.”

  “Bye, Amy,” he says, then walks me to the door and kisses me softly before he mutters, “Trouble. So much trouble.”

  And there are no signs of trouble slowing down.

  After I take my dog for a walk and feed him dinner, I leave to meet Linc. We talk until the ramen noodle restaurant closes.

  I learn about his sister, his baby niece, and his passion for Ping-Pong that started when he was ten. He tells me he fell in love with books through Harry Potter, and that unlocked new worlds for him. He read till all hours of the night and all weekend long.

  “You’re a kindred spirit,” I say.

  “Yeah, that’s safe to say.”

  Then it’s my turn, and I give him the nitty-gritty on being the youngest of four. I tell him about my brother and how much I admire him. I rave about Quinn and how excited I am to become an aunt for the first time. And I tell him all about Tabitha, who’s working in Paris, the lucky wench.

  “I might have to hitch a ride across the Atlantic and coerce her into taking me on a personal tour of the best sweet shops in France,” I say.

  He lifts one brow, oh so doubtfully. “Will that truly require coercion though? I for one would feel no pressure if my sister wanted to go on a tour of sweet shops.”

  I tap my chin. “Hmm. Good point. I’ll call her tonight and book a jet. Also, my favorite bookstore is opening a shop in Paris. An Open Book.”

  “You definitely need to go, then.”

  “I do.”

  He asks about my parents next.

  “They’re great,” I say. “They supported me in everything. They weren’t helicopter parents, and they didn’t tell me I was perfect, but they taught me right from wrong, and they believe in me. That’s all I can ask for.”

  He lifts his glass of beer and toasts. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  The way he smiles at me, the way he takes my hand after dinner, the way he asks if I want another sleepover, makes me feel like we’ve already jumped over all the early relationship hurdles.

  Come to think of it, relationships have never been the stumbling block for me. I’m not afraid of getting involved. True, things didn’t work out with Chad, but that was a compatibility issue.

  My initial reticence over pursuing Linc was tied to work. But we don’t have any projects together, and we don’t work for each other.

  That’s why I decide to let go of the vestiges of my worries over work versus romance.

  Or maybe I let them go because it feels too good to curl up with him under the covers after he whispers dirty, sweet words in my ear while he takes me over the cliff again.

  So good, it’s better than cake.

  20

  Amy

  The next night, he takes me to Brooklyn.

  To a sporting event, of all things.

  But this race is just our style.

  The shopping cart decorated like a Victorian lady’s undergarments flies by, ra
ttling wildly on the Brooklyn street.

  The woman folded up inside it wears a high-necked dress with ruffles and lace-up boots perched over the edge. She’s shredding the air with her screams. Her teammate looks like he’s stepped out of the pages of a Charles Dickens novel. He has the chutzpah, or insanity, of a monster truck driver as he careens down the road.

  Close on their heels is a team with their cart styled in leopard gear. The big cats put the pedal to the metal and fly past the Victorians, nearly crashing into them before peeling away.

  I shudder momentarily. “This is way better than football.”

  “Worlds better than hockey,” he seconds.

  I bump my shoulder against Linc’s then point at the next team screaming past the crowds. “Moment of truth. How much would they have to pay you to do that?”

  Laughing, he shakes his head. “I can’t be bought. What about you?”

  “Oh, I can be bought. Or simply bribed with a nominal amount of dessert. A chocolate buttercream cake would probably be enough to get me to put on a baseball uniform and catch fly balls.”

  He sweeps one arm in front of me, like he’s writing on the sky. “Can Be Bribed with Dessert. That’s another book title for you.” He slinks his other arm tighter around me, curling his hand over my waist, and I sigh happily.

  Dreamily.

  Contentedly.

  This. Feels. So. Good.

  And the craziest part of being with him like this? Even though we’ve only been doing this for a few days, I feel like I’m winning at balancing work and romance. I had another great day at the office, powering through manuscripts and refining my editorial letter.