by Roni Loren
And when I’m finally left in a gasping, panting lump made of The Girl Formerly Known as Natalie, Monroe gets up and shucks the rest of his clothes, and I’m ready to die all over again. Good God. Men shouldn’t be allowed to look that good.
Usually after an orgasm, I’m done. Tension released, let’s move on and watch some late-night TV. But right now, I feel far from done. I don’t just want him. I need him. Inside me. Preferably now.
Lucky for me, he seems to have the same idea. He wrenches open his bedside drawer and comes up with a foil packet. The condom is rolled on in record time. “You okay?”
“So very okay,” I say, and scoot up the bed.
He smiles and climbs onto the bed, and I realize just how big of a guy he is. I feel small beneath him. I like it.
“I want to kiss you.”
It takes me a second to realize he’s asking permission. And maybe I should be weirded out that I’ll taste myself, but somehow it doesn’t feel strange. Because I want to kiss him, too. We’re sharing all of this. And nothing feels awkward or gross or out of bounds. I wrap my hand around his neck and draw him down to me.
He makes a greedy sound in the back of his throat and we kiss, long and languid. He grabs my knee, situating himself between my thighs, caressing me along the way. I’m melting into the bed. I feel him at my entrance, and my fingernails dig into his back. I want to absorb him. I almost can’t take the anticipation.
“Please,” I whisper against his lips.
And he answers my plea, pushing inside me—easy at first, making sure I’m okay, and then sliding deep when I tap his back like he’s some racehorse who needs to pick up the pace. I make some oh-God-yes noise at the feel of him, at the way my body stretches to accommodate him. Sweet pressure and fullness. We’re joined. Me and this stranger who wanted to make my birthday a happier one. For a moment, we stay that way, him inside me, our lips kissing whatever they can find, hands mapping.
I’m having a one-night stand. Somewhere that thought floats through my head. But this doesn’t feel anything like I expected. I thought it would be a fun thing—wild, physical. And this is physical. But it feels like so much more than that. Because when Monroe braces his arms alongside me and holds my gaze while he moves inside me, I feel like this is bigger than a hookup. This is what sex is supposed to be like. Not just a whole-body experience, but a whole-mind one. And even though this will only be one night for us, I know somehow that there is a bar being set in my life. There will be no going back to the world of Before.
I will want this.
I deserve this.
“You feel so good,” Monroe says as he reaches back and grips my thigh, somehow sinking even deeper. “And you’re so damn sexy when you come. I can’t wait to see it again, to feel you lose it around me.”
I close my eyes, drunk with the feel of him. “I’m not sure I can. I’ve never done that twice in the same night.”
“Mmm,” he says, obviously getting lost in his own sensations. “Maybe you’ve just never had a guy who was dedicated enough to make that happen. Just let go and trust me to take care of you.”
If Caleb had said something like that, I would’ve felt like it was some edict. Like if it didn’t happen, it would be my fault somehow. But with Monroe, I don’t feel any pressure. And really, this isn’t about reaching some destination for me. The journey is more than good enough.
Monroe teases my earlobe with his teeth, sending goose bumps across my body, and then he whispers, “Turn over for me.”
“What?”
He leans back, slipping out of me, and gives me a devilish grin. “Hands and knees, princess.”
Okay, this is new for me. “I—”
Monroe leans down and kisses me. “Trust me. If you hate it, you can turn back over.”
I nod, getting a little nervous, and roll over into position. Good God, if I felt vulnerable and self-conscious earlier, that had nothing on this. Meet my naked ass, Monroe Hawkins. I drop down to my forearms and bury my face in his pillow.
Monroe strokes down my hips and plants a kiss on my tailbone. “You look so damn sexy like this. The minute you climbed on my bike, I had really dirty thoughts about bending you over it. About seeing you surrender to me like this. All that red hair fanned out over your back.”
I groan into the pillow. The pillow that smells like him. And another flood of arousal goes straight downward. I know I have to be embarrassingly wet at this point. There’s no hiding anything in this position. But I have a feeling Monroe will just see that as a job well done.
He tilts me more toward him, putting a deeper sway in my back, and I feel his fingers against me. He slides his thumbs along my folds and spreads me open. I tense, imagining what I must look like to him right now. But then his tongue is on me again, and I lose all motivation to be modest. I whimper into the pillow, the feeling altogether different at this angle. Everything is already sensitive, and the lush sensation of his mouth on every tender spot is making me feel a little crazed inside. The ball of need is building again, tightening.
And when it almost feels like I’m going to go over again, he eases back, situates himself behind me, and thrusts forward. I arch with the pleasure of him filling me again, my fingers knotting in the sheets.
“Still on board with a little roughness, princess?” Monroe asks, and I can hear the strain in his voice now. He’s charging up his own mountain.
“Yes,” I manage, angling back to meet his thrusts, needing just a little more to send me into the stratosphere.
“Good.” He wraps an arm around me and finds my sweet spot with his fingers. Then he’s rocking into me with more speed and force. The bed is squeaking and the headboard is rattling. And everything inside me goes electric and hot.
I’m sweating. He’s grunting. I might be drooling.
It’s the sexiest I’ve ever felt in my life.
And with one more stroke, I’m breaking apart, the orgasm crashing over me and stealing my breath. I can’t even make noise. I’m gasping.
Monroe’s left hand is in my view, and the sight of his knuckles going white against the sheets as he finds his release is so unbearably hot I can hardly stand it. He thrusts deep into me and lets loose this long, gravelly moan that holds pure, unadulterated lust and satisfaction. I want to roll around in that sound and bury myself in it.
I ride the release with him, my own orgasm seeming to go on and on until we finally collapse into the sheets together. His full weight presses me into the mattress, but at the moment, I don’t care. I’m flying in the afterglow.
Happy birthday to me, indeed.
Chapter 8
Natalie
I wander into Monroe’s living room, wearing a pair of his boxers and a T-shirt that has a picture of a pig with all the cuts of meat outlined on the body. I still can’t believe he’s such a food nerd. And I’m kind of sad that I’ll never get to taste his cooking.
I go into the kitchen to find a glass and get some water, taking in my surroundings since they were only a blur when we came in earlier. It’s a compact house but it has a homey feel to it—like it’s been lived in but loved. After I drink my water, I wander back into the living room where a plush leather couch and worn recliner take up most of the space. It would’ve been a perfectly nice couch to sleep on. I’m glad neither of us ended up there.
The pinkish-blue glow peeking through the front windows tells me it’s almost dawn. My birthday adventure will be over soon. And so will the magic of tonight. But I’m okay with that. I have no regrets.
Yesterday, I woke up thinking I had everything in place. Like that board game Life. My little car was on the set path, my peg person happily riding along in the passenger side to a predetermined destination. Today, all the game pieces have been thrown into the box, shaken, and then dumped out completely. I should probably be freaking out. Instead, I feel . . . relieved.
There’s something oddly freeing about not having a plan.
I let my fingers trail over th
e back of the couch as I make my way to the wall of bookshelves on the far side of the living room. One seems to be packed with a hodgepodge of novels, encyclopedias, and knickknacks. But the other is impeccably neat and organized. I scan the spines. Cookbooks. Of course.
There are so many of them—brightly colored new ones, faded older ones with worn spines, fat ones, skinny ones. I touch one labeled From Canapés to Casseroles. It looks more well-loved than the others. I imagine it having splatters on its pages and notes in the margins, marking the evidence that the recipe was tried.
“That one was my mom’s favorite.”
I jump, startled, and turn around. Monroe is leaning against the doorway to the living room, wearing only a pair of pajama pants, his hair sticking out three different ways. He smiles and nods at the shelf of books. “You’ve discovered my dirty addiction.”
I grin. “The truth is out.”
“I have three more boxes in my closet. Hoarders will be here any minute to interview me for the show.”
I look back at the shelf. “Have you cooked from all of these?”
“Nah, not all of them. Half of those were my mom’s. She suffered from the same addiction.”
“She’s recovered, I guess, if she gave them to you?”
He walks over and wraps his arms around me from behind. He sets his chin on my shoulder. “No, she died when I was nine. My dad held on to her stuff for me and my brother.”
My chest constricts. “I’m so sorry.”
I can feel him shrug against me. “It sucked. But I’ve made peace with it. She was a great mom. I was lucky to get nine years with her.”
The comment makes me sad all over again. “So was she a chef?”
“She loved to cook, but no, not a chef. She got pregnant with my brother too young and kind of got locked into the mom thing. So, she taught herself the old-fashioned way by cooking every recipe she could get her hands on. The month she worked her way through that casserole cookbook scared me off of cream of mushroom soup for life.”
I laugh, then put my fingers to my mouth. It seems wrong to laugh while we’re talking about his dead mother. But when I turn in his arms to apologize, he’s got a warm smile on his face.
“She always talked about one day opening a restaurant and how me and my brother could work in it with her. She wanted to name it the Bluebird Cafe because bluebirds are the symbol of happiness, and the kitchen was where she was happiest. But she got sick before our family ever had the kind of money to do something like that.”
I look down and put my hand over the bird on his chest. “So this is for her?”
“Yeah. And a reminder for me that dreams don’t wait for us. You have to chase them. Take your chances at happiness when you have them or you may not get more.”
I wrap my arms around him and lay my head against his chest, this melancholy feeling sweeping over me. “Your mom would approve of your summer road trip.”
He kisses the top of my head. “Well, all except the motorcycle part. If she was still around, she’d kick my ass if she knew I rode one of those ‘death traps’ and would be ticked that my brother is so obsessed with them, he opened his own shop.”
“You mom sounds very smart.”
He sniffs. “Yeah, you two would’ve gotten along well.”
I sigh and lift my head. The room is already brighter than it was a few minutes ago. “The sun is up. Time for things to start turning back into pumpkins.”
He tucks my hair behind my ears and cups my face. “Is the princess calling last night a fairy tale? I don’t think I’ve ever gotten to star in one of those.”
“So you usually just stick with starring in porn, then?”
He laughs and kisses me. “Well, there was some of that, too.”
“True. But seriously, thank you. I had an amazing night.”
“Back at ya, gorgeous. But before you give me my send-off, how about some breakfast? I cook a kickass French omelet.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Shut up,” he says and plants another kiss on me. “I’m cooking for you. No way you can trust the food at your place. The Evil Roommate probably sprinkled it all with rat poison.”
“You just want to show off your mad cooking skills.”
“True that,” he says, herding me into the kitchen. “My ego needs feeding. Prepare to be stunned and amazed.”
I smile. Because I’m already there. Stunned. And amazed. And a little sad now.
Because he’s not mine.
And this is good-bye.
At least it’s a really good omelet.
Chapter 9
Monroe
There’s a BMW in the driveway when I pull in front of Natalie’s house. She lets loose a slew of colorful language from behind me. And I know immediately whose car it is. I want to cruise away and take her back to my house. Keep her from this. Keep her with me.
But, of course, I can’t. I’m leaving in a few days, and she has her own life to live. I’m not supposed to want to keep her. That’s not what this is about. And she made that clear when I asked her to spend the day with me today. I could already feel her shutting me out, closing that chapter of her life where my name appears on the pages. I was her wild-night adventure. Now it’s done.
I park at the curb. “Do you want me to go in with you?”
She releases a breath and presses her forehead against the back of my shoulder. “No, that’ll just make it worse. Maybe he just slept here with Rebecca to rub it in my face. As if I give a shit.”
“You don’t have to go in there, you know. You can hang at my place until he’s gone,” I say, hating that I’m probably coming off as clingy. What the fuck is wrong with me? I don’t cling.
“Thanks. You’re sweet¸ but I’m going to have to face this eventually. And I need to start packing. I’ve only got a few days to figure out if I’m finding a new place or heading home.” She gets off the bike and hands me the helmet.
“What do you think you’ll do?”
She gives me a half-smile and slips out of her heels on the sidewalk. “I have no idea. Maybe I need to be like you and say fuck it all and find a beach somewhere.”
“Or you can just come to mine.” The words are out before I realize it.
She stares at me for a second, looking a little dumbfounded, then seems to shake free of it with a quiet laugh. “Right. And interrupt the slew of bikini-clad girls that will be lined up for your entertainment? Even I’m not that mean.”
“Well, you’d be required to stay in a bikini for at least fifty percent of the day. So I wouldn’t need that line.” I don’t even know what I’m saying. A summer of half-dressed women is exactly what I’d had in mind for my vacation. But suddenly, that fantasy seems completely lame and . . . boring.
Natalie reaches out and touches my jaw. “You don’t have to do this, you know? Make me feel better. I’m all right. I know what last night was.”
I grab her hand and decide what the hell, why not be honest? What do I have to lose? Bluebird on the loose. Give chase. “I’m not trying to make you feel better. I’m being serious. If you’ve got no one counting on you for the summer, you could come with me. Creative writing is your thing, right? Instead of being stuck in one place trying to get inspired, why not go out and see the country? Imagine all the stories waiting out there for you.”
She’s watching me with this kind of wonder. “You’re being serious.”
“I am.” And I realize that’s the damn truth. I want to take her with me.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.”
She puts her forehead to mine. “You’re crazy.”
“Yep. Totally. Want to be crazy with me?”
“Monroe, God, I can’t just—I don’t know, flit off with someone I just met for the whole summer.”
“You can. If that’s what you want,” I say, and tip her face toward me to kiss her. “But I’m not asking for an answer now. I’m giving you an open invitation. I’
ll have your car fixed and delivered to you by Tuesday. I leave on Thursday at seven in the morning. I want you to come. If you want that, too, meet me at my place. If not, I’m glad we had last night. I won’t forget it. Or you.”
Her eyes shine a bit at that and I’m worried I’ve made her cry, but she blinks it away and smiles. “You’re trying to wreck me, Monroe Hawkins.”
“No, I follow all traffic laws.”
She smacks my chest, and I catch her hand and kiss it.
“I’ll see you around, princess.”
She backs up onto the sidewalk, and her hand slips from mine. I pull away before I can hear her say good-bye.
Chapter 10
Natalie
I must be delirious from no sleep and great sex because as Monroe rides away, I kind of want to cry. And call him back. And tell him yes. But even though I know I’m going to make some changes in my life, I can’t imagine that going on a three-month road trip with a guy I met less than twenty-four hours ago is a wise idea.
What if, by week two, we hate each other?
What if last night was a fluke?
What if . . . it’s amazing?
I put my hand over my eyes at the last thought. Shut up, Nat. Get some sleep and get it together. This is not an option. Maybe I can just tell Monroe to look me up when he gets back in town, and we can see if our chemistry really means something more than a one-nighter.
I dig my keys out of my purse and head toward the front door, praying that the asshole formerly known as my boyfriend is curled up with the skank. I can’t handle him right now. But, of course, when I walk in, he’s on the couch in the living room like some overbearing parent waiting on the rebellious teenager to come home.
He gives me the up-and-down look, taking in my wrinkled dress and bare feet. “Seriously?”
For some reason, I find this comical. I want to laugh. I want to sing that P!nk song about the walk of shame. Something about looking like a hot-ass mess and wearing last night’s dress. I’m walking, I’m walking. I snort.