Thanks For Last Night: A Guys Who Got Away Novel

by Lauren Blakely

  Ransom: Which one? There were about a gazillion.

  * * *

  Fitz: The one for a grand on whether she’d kiss you if she won you. Carnale said she wouldn’t. Martinez said she would. But guess what? I put my neck on the line. I said YOU’D kiss her. I had to defend your honor, bro.

  * * *

  I laugh, recalling the kiss. Yeah. I went first.

  * * *

  Ransom: I kissed her. You defended well. Happens every now and then.

  * * *

  Fitz: Sort of like your sense of humor. Also, see you on the flip side. I’m off.

  * * *

  Ransom: Hey! One more thing. Congrats! I’m really fucking happy for you.

  * * *

  Fitz: Thanks, man. Means a lot to me. And now I really am outta here.

  * * *

  Then, finally, a note from Martinez blinks at me.

  * * *

  Martinez: So, about that bet . . .

  * * *

  Ransom: Which one? Be specific. There’s the one where I beat you in the auction—aka the one where you pony up all your teeny little greenbacks for my favorite charity. Then there’s the one where you and your catcher bet each other that my woman wouldn’t kiss me.

  * * *

  Martinez: Oh, she is your woman now? Felicidades.

  * * *

  I’m about to write back and ask again which bet he was referring to when the padding of soft feet lands on my ears. I set the phone down, cross the living room, and grin when I see Teagan yawning, stretching her hands above her head, then smiling at me. She’s wearing sleep shorts and a tank top, and I want to kiss her everywhere.

  “I see you found my reading nook,” she says.

  My heart thumps hard. So hard it might be trying to leap out of my chest.

  “And I think I’d like to take a pic and post it on the Instagram feed for hot guys in reading nooks,” she adds.

  “Is that a thing?” I ask as I close the remaining few feet between us.

  “If not, I’m starting that hashtag today.”

  “Give me a paperback, and I’ll pose for you.”

  “Ooh, you know how to tempt me,” she murmurs, then she sighs as I band an arm around her back, thread a hand through her hair, and claim her lips in a sweet, minty morning kiss. Briefly, she breaks the kiss, whispering, “Brushed my teeth for you. No morning breath here.”

  “Dude. Same for you,” I say, smiling against her mouth then kissing her again.

  Deeper this time.

  My head swims with desire—and something else too.

  Something stronger, more powerful.

  Something that tethers me to her, and I know what it is as my lips sweep across hers.

  It’s everything I’ve avoided for the last two years.

  It’s everything I’ve tried to protect myself from.

  The feeling that she’s the only one I want. That we could be together. That we could be a thing.

  As I kiss her more deeply, our tongues skating over each other, our mouths searching, I wish for more weekends like this, more times with her, and, most of all, I hope she feels the same way.

  When I break the kiss, she blinks several times. “Good morning to me,” she says.

  I smile, and it feels like nothing can make me stop. “Hey, I wanted to revise something about our deal.”

  “The no-rules deal?” She slides her hands up my pecs then down my abs.

  “Yes. That one.”

  “Okay,” she says tentatively, then squares her shoulders, taking a deep breath. “Lay it on me.”

  She’s so tough, so strong. I can see that tenacity in her blue eyes, in the way she stands. She’s bracing herself for something hard, for something unexpected.

  Maybe from years of doing precisely that.

  But I hope that what I have to say is something she’ll want to hear.

  I press a kiss to her forehead. “When I said no rules, I was foolish. I have a very big rule.” I pull back, meeting her gaze. “Just you and me. That’s the one rule. I don’t want to find some guy’s vanilla-honey lotion in your bathroom, okay?”

  She laughs, her nose crinkling. “Or his lavender deodorant?”

  I nod, big and long, teasing her. “And no hairbrushes, K? Keep those all away. You hear me now?”

  She raises her hand, ruffling my hair. “Do you need a hairbrush though?”

  “I thought you liked my messy hair,” I say, dropping a kiss onto her cheek, loving the freedom to embrace her like this. I flash back to laser tag the other week, to all the little touches we exchanged. They were all precursors, it seems, to what we both really wanted.

  “I love your messy hair,” she says, then slides her fingers through it. “And yes, Ransom North. I want you all to myself. I like you a lot. In fact,” she says, licking her lips, taking a deep breath, “I’m kind of crazy for you.”

  My heart spins wildly, the merry-go-round picking up speed and turning in whip-fast circles. “What do you know? I’m kind of crazy about you too.”

  I haul her close for another hot, deep kiss that makes my head hazy and my skin tingle. And, big shock, it makes me want more than kissing. She seems to feel that way too, judging from how she’s melting against me, wriggling against me. And, oh yeah, grinding too.

  Good morning indeed.

  We stumble over to the nearest couch, stripping off the little we have on. We tangle together, kissing more, touching everywhere. I slide my hand between her legs, my skin sizzling as I glide across her hot, wet center.

  “Need a condom,” I mutter.

  She props her cheek in her hand, nibbling on the corner of her lip. “Or . . . we could go without. I’m clean and on protection.”

  I groan, slide a hand up her neck, and grip her hair. “Me too. Clean, that is.”

  I flip her to her back, hike her legs around my waist, and slide home. Pleasure envelopes me everywhere, from my toes to my hair.

  She arches against me, her lips falling open, a shudder moving through her.

  I thrust into her, fucking her on the couch. She moans and cries out, moving with me, rocking against me, gripping my hair, yanking me close.

  She wraps her legs nice and tight around me, tugging me nearer as her fingers rope through my hair.

  It’s hot and frenzied and passionate.

  And somehow it feels both like fucking and like a promise.

  Like we’re sealing our deal.

  To be with each other.

  To move past all our fears and jump into the great, wide waters of trying again.

  With someone you trust.

  Someone you’re pretty damn sure you could love.

  That’s how sex with her feels.

  Soon, we’re both panting, moaning, and coming together, tangled, sweaty, and satisfied.

  A little later, after we shower, she gives me the tour, showing me the three-story brownstone she grew up in and all the pictures of her family, telling me stories as we go.

  Every second feels precious and important.

  When we’re done, I turn to her in the kitchen, linking her fingers with mine. “I love knowing all that. Thank you for sharing.”

  “It’s always been easy to talk to you,” she says. “We’re just expanding our repertoire.”

  I tilt my face. “You know, that’s a good way to put it. Speaking of, I’m supposed to see Luna and Tempest today. Do you want to meet my sisters?”

  “I’d love to.”

  Maybe we’re zooming through these moments quickly.

  But maybe not.

  Because everything feels right about this pace, and this woman, and this new future we’re stepping into.

  The only thing that throws me is when we meet up again in an hour. My phone is buzzing, and it’s Tempest saying she has something to tell me.

  19

  Ransom

  Teagan gives me a tentative look when we reach the coffee shop. “I can just wait outside, or run errands and meet you back here,
” she offers.

  I shake my head, having none of that. “She knows I’m with you. It’s fine.”

  Teagan chuckles, patting my shoulder in a you’re so cute fashion. “That isn’t the issue. I meant if you wanted to see her alone.”

  “No, we can go together. It’s all crazy talk anyway.”

  I show her the text again.

  * * *

  Tempest: It’s about Adrian.

  * * *

  “I mean, she has to be playing a joke on me,” I say, then push open the door to the coffee shop, scanning the tables for my sister. She’s in the back, tapping away on her computer.

  I march over to her, introduce her to Teagan, then grab a chair and park myself in it.

  “So . . . is this the height of smack talk?”

  She grins. “I assure you it’s not. It’s all true. I’m seeing Adrian Martinez.”

  My. Jaw. Drops.

  Clangs to the floor.

  I grab it, yank it back up.

  “Seriously?”

  Tempest grins wickedly. “Yes, seriously.”

  Teagan holds up a palm to high-five. “You go, girl.”

  I snap my gaze to my woman. “How can you be encouraging her?”

  Teagan rolls her pretty eyes. “Adrian’s a fascinating guy, and you’re friends. What is the problem?”

  I huff. She makes a good point. But the problem is . . . “How did this happen?”

  Teagan laughs again and sets a hand on my arm. “Sweetie, you can’t figure it out?”

  “No. And why are you looking at me like I’m clueless?”

  Teagan meets Tempest’s gaze. “You’re his phone bidder, right?”

  Tempest smiles proudly. “I am indeed. We had lunch this week, and have met up a few more times already.”

  Teagan’s eyes light up. “We should all go out together.”

  “I’d love that,” Tempest says, then looks at me. “And you would too, right, Ransom?”

  She’s leading the witness. She’s saying what she wants me to say.

  And part of me wants to growl and grump, but another part realizes my sister is happy, my woman is happy, and hell, maybe my bud is too.

  “Sure. Let’s double.”

  It sounds odd, but oddly cool too.

  20

  Teagan

  Two weeks later

  * * *

  I strut down the street on the way to work, pop music blasting, my sassy pink purse on my arm, bopping in my head to the beat of my . . . no-longer-single-in-the-city lifestyle.

  I’ve been with Ransom—officially—for only two weeks.

  But it’s been a whirlwind.

  A fantastic fourteen days of dates and sex, nights and talks, food and fun. And more sex.

  As well as falling for him.

  Falling so much it ought to scare me.

  But I’m not scared.

  Or at least I’m not scared enough to stop it.

  I’m brave enough to try it.

  And when I arrive at work and open my email, I’m reminded why.

  Summer sent in her dating article, and when I open the file, I can’t stop smiling.

  She and Oliver wrote love letters to each other about their married dates, and it reminds me that this is why love is worth taking a chance on. Because sometimes friendships don’t just become something more—they become everything.

  I sink back in my chair with the letters and devour them.

  Dear Sexy-As-Sin Husband,

  * * *

  Let’s talk about dating your husband.

  * * *

  Well, my husband.

  * * *

  You, obviously, and the date starts here in this letter.

  * * *

  First, have I told you lately how good you look in your Speedo?

  * * *

  Or how freaking adorable you are when you get out of bed with your hair sticking up in ten thousand directions?

  * * *

  Or how cute you are even if you have a cookie crumb on the corner of your lips?

  * * *

  Well, I don’t always tell you that last one. Sometimes I just lick it off. Because cookies and your lips are the perfect combo.

  * * *

  Point being—I dig you.

  * * *

  In the water, out of the water, at home, in the park, in the morning, and at night.

  * * *

  And sometimes you need to let your LOL know. (That’s Love of Your Life. Which, fine, would technically be LOYL, but LOL is funnier.)

  * * *

  So, allow me to romance you, epistolary-style. Because romance is a key part of dating my husband—something I always want to do.

  * * *

  It’s never a challenge, because you will always be the man I love, and you will always be my sexy-as-sin favorite—and now one and only—ex-boyfriend.

  * * *

  And, lucky me, as your wife and roomie, I get to luxuriate in the proof of that whenever I wish. All I have to do is pull back the sheets one lazy Sunday morning. Or linger at the end of swim class and wait for you to emerge from the pool—those arms, that chest, and that . . . ahem.

  * * *

  Yes, I linger. Yes, I check you out.

  * * *

  Can you blame me?

  * * *

  My hubs is a solid one hundred on the one-to-ten babe-o-meter.

  * * *

  Every now and then, though, I feel like I don’t see your face as much as I want.

  * * *

  Fine, we did have fun power-eating Life cereal together the other morning before you rushed to take a client call and I had to jet to go for a run with Mags. And yes, admittedly, we played footsie under the table the other night at Gin Joint with our friends.

  * * *

  Those things are great.

  * * *

  But I don’t want to lose the magic that brought us together.

  * * *

  Between your successful firm and my new gym finding its feet, it can be difficult to sneak away for those little moments together. The things that make us unique. The things that make us us.

  * * *

  Dating.

  * * *

  We were masterful daters before we were engaged.

  * * *

  And I want to keep coming up with fantastic ways to date.

  * * *

  Like we did the other night—so simple, so in character for us.

  * * *

  You surprised me by picking me up from the pole-dancing class Roxanne insisted I try, and you took me to that new diner just a hop, kiss, and jump away from Central Park.

  * * *

  And ohmyword. If grilled cheese could become president, I would vote, vote, vote for that sexy contender.

  * * *

  It had the perfect level of melt and the right amount of pickle, and it left my taste buds in some kind of comfort food heaven.

  * * *

  But that wasn’t my favorite part of the evening.

  * * *

  After the diner, which we unanimously agreed made a good second- choice last meal—because nothing could top Melt My Heart—we indulged in a bit of PDA (I can’t resist kissing you!) while we sipped cocktails at Gin Joint and planned our next vacation. The pictures you painted of gorgeous summer days under the Eiffel Tower, of quaint French bistros with intimate lighting and tables set for two, and of hot summer nights spent twisted between the sheets . . . you had me at bonjour.

  * * *

  And let me just say—Ooh la la, voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir?

  * * *

  Vacation-browsing is the new thrift-shopping. It’s a perfect date-night activity because I want to go everywhere with my favorite person.

  * * *

  But that wasn’t the best part of the evening either.

  * * *

  Later, as we walked home, a delish blend of liquor and lust and love fueled my steps. We stopped at the door to our building. You pulled me clo
se, and with the crazy, wild symphony of New York in the background—the cars, the lovers, the sirens, the laughter—you kissed me. That kiss was loaded with the promise of more and the certainty of forever, and that right there.

  * * *