Thanks For Last Night: A Guys Who Got Away Novel

by Lauren Blakely

  I swallow past the desert in my throat, then push into her. “Let’s make it a double tonight, then.”

  Her smile is wicked. “Yes, let’s.”

  I sink into her, pleasure gripping me every-fucking-where. She gasps, grabbing my ass and wasting no time tugging me all the way into her. She pauses for a second as I fill her, then whispers, “This is so good.”

  “So damn good,” I agree, my cock twitching, my body sizzling. “And I want to watch you play with your toys someday.”

  “Want you to, Ransom. I want you to watch me sometime,” she whispers.

  I suppose it should worry me that we just planned another time.

  That as much as we said this would be a one-off one-night, we already know we want more.

  But that’s just the sex talking, surely.

  It’s just the fantastic, mind-bending sex.

  Because fucking Teagan is incredible.

  It’s everything I thought it would be and more.

  Because she gives.

  She’s so free with her body, so at ease with her pleasure, that it unleashes a new wave of desire in me, over me, under me.

  I want her more and more with every thrust, every snap of my hips. As I go deeper, she hooks her legs tighter around my back, digs her nails in harder. As I move, she responds, and we moan and groan together.

  I don’t know if it’s the rhythm or the position, or if it’s because this is our first time together.

  But we’re in sync every second, wanting each other with the same ferocity.

  And that flips the switch.

  In her, it seems, as she arches her back, her mouth parting.

  And in me too, as I follow her to the other side, chasing her second orgasm with my first, a powerful, agonizingly blissful release that blurs the world.

  When I collapse next to her, she strokes my hair, and I breathe out hard.

  Words seem hard.

  Nearly impossible.

  But when they come, I say, “Stay the night.”

  And she says yes.

  8

  Ransom

  So.

  That happened.

  I should regret it, but I don’t.

  And I don’t regret it when it happens again.

  Because why screw once when you can go twice?

  This time the redhead rides me, and what a view.

  Her tits bounce, and her hair spills down her back, all that gorgeous flesh on display. I run my hands up and down her stomach as she goes to town on my cock.

  And all I can think is fuck the mantra.

  The mantra is in time-out for tonight.

  When we come together, she collapses on top of me, hot, sweaty, and perfectly fucked. I brush a kiss against her silky hair, and yeah, this feels like a one-night vacation. It’s twenty-four hours in the land of bliss with the woman I’ve wanted.

  After I get rid of the condom, she slides up against me, and I stroke her hair.

  “Thanks for bidding on me,” I say.

  “Thanks for asking me to.” She turns and props her head in her hand. “So, you beat all your friends tonight. You went for the most, hottie pants.”

  I nod, laughing. “I sure did, thanks to you.”

  “Does that feel good? To have won?”

  I laugh, running a hand along her hip. “Not as good as fucking you.”

  She rolls her eyes and shoves my shoulder. “Thanks, North. Appreciate the props.”

  North.

  That’s good, right? Sliding right back into the familiar friend zone where I’m North and she’s King.

  “No problem, King. Happy to give it to you anytime.”

  She smirks. “That’s what she said.”

  I crack up, sliding my hand down my face. Then I flip to my side and poke her. “I thought you weren’t saying that. You broke your resolution.”

  She shrugs. “It’s not the only one I broke tonight.”

  That makes me curious. “Did you have a resolution not to sleep with me?”

  “Well, yeah. One, I didn’t think you wanted to. But we also have a gazillion friends in common, and us getting involved is one helluva bumpy ride.”

  “That’s what she said,” I mutter.

  She nudges my side with her elbow. “You’re just as bad as me.”

  “Some things are too hard to resist.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You are just giving me low-hanging fruit tonight, aren’t you, North?”

  I lift the covers, checking out my junk. “I dunno. Is it low-hanging?”

  She laughs again, and it’s such a great sound. Warm and welcoming. Buoyant too. “You are the worst.”

  I hold up a finger. “Okay, that’s not what she said. That’s definitely not what she said.”

  She buries her face in my neck, chuckling. “You are not allowed to make puns anymore. You’re forbidden.”

  “Says the queen of puns and jokes. Which is awesome, because it’s the opposite of . . .”

  Shit. I didn’t mean to say that.

  She arches a brow, curious. “Opposite of what?”

  I gulp and can’t hide a wince. “My ex. She was very serious. Sorry. I’m an ass for mentioning her.”

  “Oh.” It comes out heavily, and maybe I’ve ruined the mood.

  Actually, there’s no maybe about it. Mentioning an ex is a 100 percent guaranteed mood-destroyer.

  “Sorry I mentioned her, King.”

  She quickly rearranges her features into a small smile. “It’s okay. I’m not upset. Just surprised. You never mention her. So I was kind of taken aback.”

  “And I shouldn’t have mentioned her when we’re in bed. That was dumb.”

  “Um, hello. We’re not banging. It’s okay to talk. Was it a bad breakup?”

  I sigh. “On a scale of one to nuclear, it was the atom bomb.”

  She frowns, running a hand down my arm. “I’m sorry. That sucks.”

  I shake my head. “Listen, we don’t have to talk about exes in bed.”

  “I know we don’t. But it doesn’t bother me either. My last relationship went nuclear too.”

  Oh? “It did?”

  She swallows, then speaks. “We’d been together for a few years. We were pretty serious—lived together and all. I was with him when my dad died. And I was pretty devastated.”

  “As well you should be. That’s completely understandable. But what happened?” I ask, bracing myself for her pain.

  “He couldn’t handle it. He couldn’t handle my grief. He said it was too much for him.” Her voice is tense, her eyes a little shiny.

  Shock tightens my muscles. “He wasn’t there for you during one of the hardest things you’d ever gone through? He couldn’t man up and support you?”

  “Exactly,” she says, taking a deep breath. “He left me. Said he couldn’t deal with it.”

  “Jesus,” I say with a heavy sigh. “And I thought I’d been dealt a shit hand.”

  She meets my gaze, her eyes soft. “What happened?”

  This should be hard to say. I don’t like to talk about Edie. When I say her name, my body tenses. Only this time, nothing hurts. It’s remarkably easy to speak the truth to Teagan. “She was my best friend. She was my girlfriend. She was the woman I thought I’d marry and have kids with. A little over two years ago, I planned a romantic night out. I had a ring. I took her to dinner. And when I was about to ask her to marry me, she told me she’d fallen in love with someone else.”

  It feels better than I thought it would to get those words out. The war wound doesn’t ache like it has every other time before.

  The words don’t resurrect the old pain.

  This time, it’s simply a story and not a fresh serving of heartache.

  Still, Teagan’s hand flies to her mouth. “My God. That’s awful.”

  “It kind of sucked,” I say. That’s the goddamn truth, even if I don’t ache like I used to.

  She runs her hand down my arm again. “That’s an understatement, Ransom. That’s
terrible.”

  “And so is what happened with your ex. But listen, I’m not in love with her. I’m not sad anymore. I’m all good.” And I mean it—every word. I’m officially all good in bed with this fantastic woman. But it also feels nice to say to her, to let her in.

  Teagan gives a faint smile. “We officially have some of the best worst-ex sob stories.”

  I laugh lightly. “We sure do.”

  As she jokes, something occurs to me. Teagan’s incredibly good at teasing. At keeping things light. I tilt my head and meet her gaze, zeroing in on a hunch. “Is this why you’re funny? Why you like to have a good time?”

  “Because of my ex?”

  “Because of your ex. Because of losing your family. Because you’ve been through some serious hell. Is it your way of coping?”

  She studies the white linen of the sheet, running her hand over the seam, but she doesn’t tell me to back off or stop questioning.

  So, I don’t. “They say humor gets you through grief. And look, I’m not trying to co-opt what you went through. But I was pretty shaken after Edie left me, and it was when Martinez took me to some comedy clubs that I started feeling human again.”

  Teagan grins, a sweet, delighted smile. “He did that? The guy you trash-talk?”

  “He and Carnale. They knew I wasn’t happy. They wanted to cheer me up.”

  “Did it work?”

  I flash back on those nights when two of my peeps showed up at my door, insisted I get my ass off the couch, and then took me out to have a good time. They knew I didn’t need a strip club or a bar. I needed some deep belly chuckles. “Yeah, it did. And I’m happy again,” I say, wrapping up the tale. “Smarter now. More careful. But humor got me through. Is that what did it for you?”

  She nods slowly, as if considering it fully, then says, “I think so—laughter as an antidote to pain. If you can laugh when you’re grieving, it’s wonderful medicine. That got me through, and so did my friendship with Bryn.”

  “Yeah? She helped you?” I ask.

  “She lost her mom and had a shitty situation with her ex too, so we met in grief support and bonded over both of those things. Then we wound up working together. She got me the job at The Dating Pool.”

  I park my hands behind my head, relaxing even more, smiling as she lets me deeper into her life. It makes me happy that Teagan has someone like Bryn to rely on. Someone who’s there for her, and vice versa. “That’s awesome that you’re so close—that you worked together and are also such great friends.”

  “She’s a terrific friend. Like a sister, in a way. I was actually talking to her when you were backstage. Before everything started with the auction,” she says, and there’s a flash of something—insecurity, maybe—in her eyes.

  “What did you talk to her about?” I ask, curious what’s going on in her head.

  She waves airily as she brushes some strands of hair off her cheek. “Oh, just the whole thing. Would I ever possibly be able to bid enough? That kind of thing.” She goes all dramatic, and I feel like she’s disguising something, but I’m not sure what.

  “And did she say just go for it? Bet big on the stud?” I ask, opting for humor too. But it doesn’t feel as right as it usually does. Almost like, after the conversations we’ve had tonight, we can’t just revert back to surface-level, to banter without depth.

  But it’s not only that we’ve shared stories that makes the usual verbal fun and games unsatisfying.

  It’s the other part.

  Being in bed with her.

  Wanting to be in bed with her again.

  And knowing it’s a bad idea.

  She taps my shoulder. “Yes, she encouraged me to bet everything on the hockey stud we’re all buddies with.”

  That’s why we’re a bad idea. “Yeah, the whole lot of us. Our crazy, tangled pack of friends.”

  “We’re lucky. Damn lucky to have great friends.” I offer her a fist for knocking, and she knocks back. And hell, I’m grateful to have Teagan in that pack, and I don’t want to lose her either.

  I yawn, and since yawns are contagious, she serves one up right after me. I wrap an arm around her. “One night of snuggling?”

  “Definitely. It won’t change a thing,” she says, repeating our vow from earlier.

  “No way. We’ve got this,” I say, bringing her a little bit closer, holding her a tiny smidge tighter.

  This won’t change a thing.

  9

  Teagan

  We got this.

  When I wake up the next morning next to a still-sleeping Ransom, I reach for my phone out of habit. A message flashes across the screen—a text from Bryn.

  When I slide it open, I smile.

  It’s a group text, and Ransom has already responded, so he must have woken up long enough to read it and reply.

  * * *

  Bryn: Brunch today? Fox and Gavel. Yes, it’s one of those ultra-trendy brunch spots, but Dean knows the owner and got us in, and the French toast is supposed to be divine. See you at noon. Be there or else.

  * * *

  Like a slot machine payout, the group thread is bursting with replies.

  * * *

  Fitz: Obviously, we will be there.

  * * *

  Logan: Hey, Bryn, since you’re right next to me, you know I’m going. But this is me, chiming in anyway.

  * * *

  Oliver: Aww, aren’t you cute with your bedside chime-ins. I’ll be there. So will your sister, Logan. There, I chimed in for her.

  * * *

  Summer: Hey! I can speak for myself. I’ll be there.

  * * *

  The last text in the thread makes my heart glow.

  * * *

  Ransom: I’m in.

  * * *

  It’s just a reply. Nothing special. But seeing that it flew across the internet at five forty-five a.m. tells me something. Ransom woke, saw the invitation, and answered it while I was asleep, knowing he’d want to go to brunch with our friends—and, potentially, me.

  And now it’s my turn, and I write back with my official RSVP.

  * * *

  Teagan: Divine French toast is calling my name.

  * * *

  There. Done.

  That was surprisingly easy—all of it.

  Sex. Talking. Sleeping.

  Then returning to normal.

  Staying part of the crew.

  Scrolling through my Instagram feed, I replay the simplicity of all those things, as I lie here in bed with a sleeping sports star next to me.

  Wait. Forget Instagram.

  The live view is way better. I’ll just ogle Ransom for a bit. Yup, I’m a perv, but no one can blame me.

  Because . . .

  His carved pecs. His sculpted abs. His most excellent ass, courtesy of the NHL. Thank you, hockey, for giving him a great butt.

  That butt was fantastic to hold on to last night while he fucked me.

  I shiver as the memory rushes through me. It feels like a dream. An intense, fevered one, but a dream nonetheless.

  Three orgasms.

  Then a long, deep conversation, filled with laughter and truths.

  And it wasn’t weird.

  Neither of us wants anything more than this—the utter simplicity of waking up next to someone who gets you and who doesn’t ask anything more of you.

  Who won’t hurt you.

  Who won’t take away the things you love.

  A small yawn escapes my lips, and I wince.

  Because . . . morning breath.

  That is not acceptable.

  No way can I let Ransom smell me in the morning. I wriggle around him, sliding toward the end of the bed and quietly swinging my feet to the floor.

  I pad across the hardwood to the bathroom, shutting the door and locking it.

  Whew.

  Inside his very manly bathroom—where it’s all chrome and white, ocean-spice deodorant, black bottles of shampoo, and manly lotions and potions—I pee then track down some mout
hwash. As I gargle, I hunt for toothpaste then scrub with my finger like a toothbrush.

  I exhale, breathing a sigh of relief.

  There. Fresh as a daisy.

  When I turn around to reach for a hand towel, my gaze snags on a shelf of toiletries—including a mint-green stick of deodorant. Spring lavender. My brow knits. Next to it is body lotion. Vanilla honey. And a hairbrush.

  My throat tightens, and my chest convulses.

  These are for women.

  Are they for hookups?

  He is known for enjoying the ladies, and there’s nothing wrong with that, since he’s single.

  Wait, is he single? These things—the lotion, the brush—belong to someone. Is he seeing someone and fucking me?

  My stomach recoils.

  A wave of panic rolls over me.

  When I leave the bathroom, my shoulders are tight and my pulse is racing with the hope that he’s still asleep.

  I need to get out of here. I need to let go of these warm, fuzzy feelings and return to some kind of normal before our brunch.

  I gather my clothes, head to his living room, then get dressed in record time. With my shoes in hand, I tiptoe to the door, unlatching it.

  “Hey, you.”

  I wince.

  “Hi.” It sounds icy. I try again, injecting some warmth in my tone. “Hi there.”

  I turn around to find the gorgeous man clad only in black boxer briefs. He’s scratching his jaw. “Hmm. Looks like you were making a dine and dash.”

  Against my better judgment, a laugh bursts from me. I collect myself, trying to go for a cool and casual vibe. “I just need to go. Stuff to do before . . .”

  Yeah, this isn’t working as well as I thought, and he knows it.