Good To Be Bad

by Lili Valente

  “Mmm. The coast is clear here too,” he says, climbing on the bed, covering me with his body. As he does, I arch and shudder, all at the same time.

  This man makes me feel everything all at once. Tenderness and desire. Friendship and swoony belly flips.

  Joy and terror because we’re no longer playing by my rules.

  I thought I could set boundaries.

  I thought I could have him just so. That he could be the hot Englishman across the street, or the new friend I fuck.

  Or maybe even an arrangement—Saturday night sex and Scrabble on Tuesday afternoons. No stress, no mess, no risk of losing big at the game of love.

  But as West lavishes me in decadent kisses, it becomes increasingly clear that none of that would satisfy my hungry heart. It’s a ravenous beast and it wants what it wants—West.

  “Oh God, that feels so good. Everything just feels so good with you. Everything,” I say, emphasizing that last word, hoping he knows I mean much more than his mouth.

  He looks up from my belly then moves over my body to bestow greedy kisses on my lips. “Everything is incredible,” he murmurs before he turns full bossy. “Now, part your legs for me. Spread them wide so I can fuck you deep and make love to you the way you want.”

  Hot tingles race down my body, settling between my legs, a desperate ache. “I want both,” I whisper.

  “So do I, darling. So do I.”

  I let my legs fall open for him, and he rubs the head of his cock against my wetness, nothing between us but skin and heat. It is delicious and his touch makes me delirious, absolutely delirious with want.

  “Oh God, yes please,” I beg.

  “Hands above your head,” he instructs, and I love that even like this, he still knows how to dominate, still knows I want it like that.

  I follow his orders and arch into his touch, moaning as he pushes inside me then groaning like a wild thing when he sinks deeper. When he fills me all the way, my breath hitches, and my heart climbs the stairs.

  “This is sooooo…”

  “Sooo good,” he finishes, savoring the intensity, too.

  The connection.

  The depth.

  I want to throw my arms around his back and hold him close, bring him deep, but he already senses that. How I want it. How I crave him. He drives deeper, chest to chest, skin to skin, holding me close, his arms wrapped around my shoulders, his cock stroking deep inside me.

  He thrusts, fucking me hard and beautifully. It feels like my body turns inside out with pleasure and my heart cracks wide open.

  It’s terrifying and perfect at the same time.

  Terrifyingly perfect.

  And when I break, splintering into thousands of beautiful pieces, he’s right here with me, panting and groaning and saying my name like it matters.

  Like I’m his.

  21

  Gigi

  I’ve always craved a little bit of kink in the bedroom.

  Hands tied.

  Ass swatted.

  Hair pulled.

  After those first few years of teenaged fumbling when any kind of sex was new and exciting, I wasn’t sure I would truly enjoy something as simple as basic missionary. And that kind of missionary. Bodies pressed together. Legs wrapped around his back. Necks and throats being kissed.

  But I did.

  Oh, holy hell, did I ever.

  I enjoyed it everywhere, in every part of me.

  And I want him to know.

  After we transition to his fantastic claw-foot tub and I sink into the hot water between his legs, I turn to look at him. “I could get used to this,” I say, even though nerves wind inside me.

  Yes, fear is there, but strength and hope are calling the shots.

  He presses a kiss to my hair. “Me too.” I rest my head against his warm chest, wondering…

  “Does that mean…” I begin.

  “That we’re seeing each other?” he supplies.

  “Yes,” I say with a smile.

  “Well, it seems we already are. And have been. It seems we can’t stay away from each other. Best to give into it all. Wouldn’t you say?”

  I’m giddy with hope, alive with possibilities. “I would say you’re dating the competition.”

  He runs a finger down my chest, laughing. “Sleeping with the enemy.”

  “Dating the woman across the street,” I toss back.

  “Yes, it seems I’m quite mad about her.”

  I settle back into his chest with the happiest of sighs in all of Brooklyn.

  No. Make that the entire city.

  Especially when we eat peach pie in his bed after we get out of the tub.

  Yes, I could get used to this.

  Sometime in the middle of the night, I wake up to feel West wedged against me, his arm wrapped across my belly, his body warm but also hard.

  I murmur as I push my butt against his erection. He murmurs too, a sleepy, sexy sound.

  Then his fingers drift down my belly, between my legs, where he strokes me. “Already wet, love?”

  “Already hard, love?” I ask, imitating him. He laughs, but then we both stop laughing when he pushes inside me and makes slow, sleepy love to me in the middle of the night, sending us both into sweet, dirty dreams once more.

  Early the next morning, I grab fresh panties from my purse, tug them on, and twist up my hair. I stuff my dress into my gigantic handbag, pull on a pair of capri pants and a T-shirt, then I kiss a sleeping West goodbye.

  He grabs my wrist. “Thank you for spending the night,” he says, sounding so earnest and vulnerable.

  “Thank you for asking me,” I say, with a sashay of my hips. “Oh! You didn’t ask me, I insisted.”

  “You ought to insist again.” He presses a kiss to my hand.

  “I will. I will insist away. And then I will beat your adorable ass tomorrow at the competition,” I say, raising my chin.

  “Like bloody hell you will.”

  I leave on that sassy note, practically bounding down the steps, out the door, and onto Church Street, where it feels like a brand-new day.

  A brand-new start.

  There’s only one thing to do now…

  I root around in my purse, grab my phone, and click open the thread with Ruby, tapping out a quick note. One that delights me to my very bones to send to her.

  Gigi: You were right!

  * * *

  Ruby: Three of my favorite words. What was I right about?

  * * *

  Gigi: Oh God. I think he is the man of my dreams.

  *GIF of unicorn jumping over the rainbow*

  *GIF of woman fainting and falling to the ground*

  *GIF of cartoon cat fanning itself*

  *GIF of Jason Segel clutching a pillow*

  * * *

  Ruby: *GIF of smug-looking celebrity saying I told you so*

  Okay now that you’ve sufficiently GIF-bombed me, tell me everything.

  * * *

  Gigi: We had the most incredible time and now we’re DATING. Like two adults! We actually AGREED TO DATE. Not just be friends who boink like horny unicorns. Though we’ll still do that, of course. But DATING! We’re doing it!

  * * *

  Ruby: Dating as in that thing two people do when they stop playing games and decide they want to really give it a shot? And sometimes involves horny unicorns?

  As I read her note, I tilt my head back, drinking in the sunshine and the blue sky, soaking in the perfection of this summer day. I glance around, taking in my neighborhood, enjoying all the sights, all the stores, everything I’ve loved my whole life.

  Gigi: Yes. That thing. I’m told every now and then it can be wonderful.

  * * *

  Ruby: Yes. Yes, it can.

  As I type a reply, I turn the corner to my street and smack right into a wall.

  A wall of a man, with strong shoulders, sharp cheekbones, and swoopy Clark Kent hair.

  His shoulder in my face hurts like hell.

  “Ouch!” I
rub my stinging nose.

  But when I look up my stomach plummets.

  “Nelson,” I croak, in disbelief. “And Buttonista?”

  My ex squints as if he’s trying to place me. Then he snaps his fingers a few times. “Wait. Hold on. Don’t tell me. You’re…” His forehead smooths. “I helped you with your divorce from that jackass, right? A year or so ago?”

  I sputter, searching for words. For a few brief seconds, righteous anger floods my cells before something truly unpleasant rushes in to replace it.

  Shame. Mortification. And the primal fear that haunts me.

  I’m not even memorable.

  I dated him for three months and he can’t remember my name, let alone the way I laugh, the way I fuck, the way I bought him little gifts too, so he’d know I was thinking of him when we were apart.

  And now the brunette beauty next to him is beaming at me like we’re about to be besties.

  The woman extends a hand. “Gabriella. I just opened up a button shop in the neighborhood. My second location.” Pride drips in her voice as she clutches Nelson’s arm. “Isn’t Nelson the best shark in the business? He got me out of my horrible marriage too. I’m so grateful to him.” Then she lifts a finger in my direction. “We should grab a cup of tea and girl-talk sometime at that new tea place. We ladies have to stick together.”

  I stare at her, blinking, then at Nelson, trying to read him.

  His face is stone.

  I’m flummoxed, completely at a loss as to what’s going on. Did he lie to Buttonista about being with me when he cheated with her? Is he expecting me to go along with his case of feigned amnesia? Or does he truly not remember me.

  And in the grand scheme of things does it even matter?

  Not really.

  But my pride does.

  I straighten my shoulders and draw a deep breath. “I’m not divorced. I’ve never been married. But I certainly hope, Gabriella, that you’re happier now than you were before. And Nelson? Goodbye. Again.”

  I walk away with my dignity intact but tears streaming down my face. Once I’m a block away, they fall faster, stinging my skin.

  Nelson was lying. Which is on him.

  But there’s something on me.

  Something I’m responsible for.

  My choices.

  Do I have chronically awful taste in men?

  And is West going to be the next guy I run into once we’re over, when he tires of me and finds another plaything who’s more interesting than Gigi the curvy baker who loves dresses and her friends and nerdy games and has ordinary, pedestrian dreams like finding someone who wants to snuggle her for the rest of her life?

  Back at my apartment, I rush inside, shut the door, and slump against the wall—feeling weirdly uncomfortable and unlovable all over again.

  Deciding to indulge myself just this once, I call into Sweetie Pies that I won’t be in today, after all, explaining I need time to plan my competition entry for tomorrow even though I’ve had it locked and loaded since the day after the first contest.

  I am a very prepared person.

  Just not a very memorable one.

  Stop it, I insist as I change into a silk kimono and prop up in bed to watch old episodes of my favorite makeover show. You are memorable and West isn’t Awful Nasty Nelson.

  Nelson, who visibly cringed when I said something the tiniest bit nerdy or wanted to go to Trivia Night at the pub instead of martinis at whatever Manhattan hot spot he was desperate to be seen at. Nelson, who preferred for me to leave his place before midnight and never held me tight all night long.

  My brain makes very good points here, but I’m still low for the rest of the day.

  Even West’s romantic text later that afternoon—I’m dying for you to sleep over again, but tomorrow’s opening day and Abby will kill me if I’m groggy because I was up all hours kissing every perfect inch of you—can’t banish the lingering gloom.

  It makes me smile, but I’m not sad to have a good excuse to sleep in my own bed tonight.

  I shoot back—Abby is correct. And we both need rest for the contest tomorrow. But Saturday night? You’re mine.

  All yours—he confirms.

  For now, I think.

  For now.

  22

  West

  It’s grand-opening day at the shop, and customers line up down the block. Abby, at the counter, and the two servers and busboy on duty in the dining area have all been slammed.

  The madness is so intense that around eleven a.m. I call in another server and busboy, only for traffic to die down by the time they arrive.

  But that’s good.

  Better too much help than too little. And Eli, the server, is fabulous in the kitchen.

  I put him to work prepping the dough for tomorrow, when he and George, my second in command, will be in first to get the ovens going. Then I toss my dirty apron into the laundry bin and head out back for some fresh air.

  There, I find Graham munching sandwiches in the garden. When he sees me, he lifts a pinkie finger.

  “Hello,” I say, laughing as I cross to clasp the hand he holds up in welcome. “You should have had your server tell me you were here. I would have sent out some extras with your order.”

  “I didn’t want to bother you on your first day. Just wanted to provide friendly support and pick up scones for breakfast before I head home.” He smiles his predatory businessman smile. “Sounds like that contest was as good for business as Abby hoped it would be. She said you were slammed all day.”

  I sink into the chair across from his with a satisfied sigh. “Yeah. We were.”

  “Made you even more determined to win it all? Leave those other chefs in the dust?”

  I shrug and cross my arms, slumping a little lower. “Eh…”

  “Eh?” He arches a brow. “What’s that about? Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying the limelight.”

  “No, the limelight’s fine. The first event was fun, and the buzz it generated was clearly brilliant, but…” I sigh again, a less satisfied one this time. “But I’m honestly considering dropping out.”

  Graham’s brows shoot up. “What? You? But you’re the most competitive person I know. You almost punched me over a poker game, for God’s sake.”

  “You were cheating.”

  “We were playing for pennies!”

  “I don’t care. Cheating is cheating and it’s a reprehensible thing to do no matter how big the pot.” I drag a hand down my face. “But that’s different. I like to win, yes, but I like…other things more.”

  Graham tosses the last of his rosemary and goat cheese sandwich onto his plate. “This is about a woman, isn’t it? Specifically, that chef from game night you tied with in the first round.”

  “Gigi.” I lean forward, propping my elbows on the table. “She just wants it so much more than I do. And dammit, I want her to have it, even if it upsets Abby.” I wince. “I’m a terrible brother.”

  Graham laughs. “You are a terrible brother. And apparently a huge softie when you’re in love.”

  “Shut up.” I snort and grin, waving him off. “I just met her. No one falls in love that fast.”

  He nods. “Yeah. There’s probably some other perfectly logical explanation for you wanting to put her dreams first. And the way your face gets all moony when you say her name.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Smug isn’t a good look for you, in case you’re wondering.”

  “It’s a great look, I’m positive. I’m enjoying this so much.” He laughs again, relishing my suffering.

  That’s what I’ve been doing since Gigi left my place yesterday—suffering.

  I can’t stop thinking about her, and not just in an I-want-her-back-in-my-bed-ASAP sort of way, either.

  I want to hear her voice, know what she’s thinking. I want to see her smile and hear her laugh. I want to see what flirty little thing she’s wearing, and I’m absolutely looking forward to being the man who gets to take it off her when the day is through.
>
  And I want to do whatever it takes to make her happy, even if it means disappointing my sister and going against my fiercely competitive instincts.

  And I fucking know what that means.

  I know, even before Graham says, “Here’s the thing I’ve learned from falling for my best friend. Love doesn’t always adhere to your preconceived notions.”

  “But there are still tons of things I don’t know about her,” I say, though the argument feels flimsy. “Like, what kind of music she likes. Or if she’s ever been to Paris.”

  Graham rolls his eyes. “Right. Because no love ever survived a difference in musical tastes, or one person having seen the Eiffel Tower and not the other.”

  “The tower is the least exciting part of Paris,” I grunt and slump lower in my chair.

  He drops his voice to a stage whisper. “True. But also, if she says she likes Matt Nathanson tunes, just tell her to put him on. He’s catnip for women.”

  “Always classy, you are.”

  He smirks. “And so are you.”

  I motion for him to keep talking. “Go on, wise old married man with your musical advice. Convince me I might be mad for this amazing, sexy, utterly delightful woman at this scandalously early date.”

  He grins at the description. I acknowledge his smirk with an eye roll. And he asks, “Can you talk to her? Really talk?”

  “Yes,” I say without hesitation.

  “And she listens?”

  “Fabulously.”

  “Is she nice to waiters?”

  “Very. She’s nice to everyone. Except me, of course, when she thought I was a dirty liar who’d tricked her into letting down her guard, but once I explained things, she wasn’t stingy with her forgiveness.”

  Graham claps his hands together. “There you have it. All you need to know.”

  I wrestle with disbelief before I can reply. “Fine, I concede I’m falling for the woman, but what kind of crap advice is that, Graham? ‘Can we talk?’ and, ‘Is she nice to waiters?’” I snort. “I’m sizing up a major commitment for fuck’s sake, not hiring a new bookkeeper. Though, she’d be amazing at that,” I admit. “She’s wild with numbers. and it’s sexy as hell.”