by Kendall Ryan
I bat her hand away. “Jesus, guys, I’m telling you I’m fine. Never better.”
And it’s true—there’s been a spring in my step ever since Keaton and I added benefits to our friendship. But I can’t say that. Keaton and I agreed to keep this private, just between us, and I’d never betray her confidence.
“Then why not walk on over there and work your magic?” Holding my gaze with hers, Keaton leans toward me, her elbows on the bar top. Her upper arms squeeze together slightly to deepen her cleavage.
Don’t look at her tits, don’t look, don’t . . .
Fuck. I looked at her tits. And now all I can think about is that hot, whimpering sound she made when I sucked her nipples firmly into my mouth.
But I realize everyone is still staring at me, waiting for me to reply, and so I draw in a deep breath. “Because all I want to do tonight is chill with my friends.”
Something touches my knee. Fingertips, circling.
Keaton? My eyes widen. Wait, is she doing that on purpose?
The touches continue, creeping up my thigh, making sure to brush the inside before withdrawing. Keaton winks at me.
I smirk to myself. Oh, it’s on now . . . if she wants to play dirty, I’m down. When nobody else is looking, I catch Keaton’s eye and lick my lower lip, all slow and sensual, then bite it. Now she’s the one who risks getting caught staring.
I keep my expression innocent, knowing my hand is hidden by the countertop as I reach toward Keaton and pinch one of the spots on her hip that I’ve learned is sensitive. She squeaks and jumps a little.
“Okay, what is with you two tonight?” Karina asks.
Oops. I guess our odd vibe is more obvious than I thought. Playing chicken is fine, but we can’t totally give the game away.
“Nothing,” we both blurt at the same time.
I cringe internally. Smooth move . . .
Karina shakes her head. “You’re both drunk.”
“Yes. Super drunk,” Keaton says, nodding very seriously.
“Maybe you guys are, but I’m just getting started.” Gabby stands up to catch the bartender’s attention. “Next round’s on me. Quick, what does everyone want?”
Keaton and I both say thanks, but no thanks. While Karina and Gabby are distracted with their drink orders, we flash each other a secret smile.
“Hey, when you’re done with that, you wanna dance?” Keaton nods toward my glass, which is mostly ice cubes at this point.
I take one last sip and stand up. “How about right now?”
“Perfect.” With a heat in her blue eyes that I couldn’t resist even if I wanted to, she takes my outstretched hand. She leans close to murmur in my ear, “And then what?”
Her husky tone sends wonderful shivers up my spine. “More dancing?” I play dumb, which makes her laugh and shake her head.
“After that . . . way after. My place or yours?” she asks.
My heart thumps harder, and chill bumps break out on the back of my neck.
Taking the risk of being spotted, I nip her exposed collarbone and relish her stifled moan. “Anywhere, any way you want, Keat. I can’t wait to be inside you again.”
Her cheeks flush and for a moment, I’m cursing myself, worried that I’ve gone too far, pushed her too fast.
But then I decide fuck it, this is me. This dirty side to me is one I’ve kept hidden from Keaton, but if she wants it—wants me—then this is part of the deal.
Keaton’s lips part and her breathing quickens. “You’re trouble,” she whispers.
I lead her out onto the dance floor. We grind and sway tightly together in a way I struggle to pass off as just two friends goofing around, until the music changes to a faster song and Gabby crashes into us, yelling, “Save some for me!”
I dance with Karina while the other two girls compete to crack each other up with silly moves . . . but my eyes are always, always on Keaton.
God, I can’t wait until last call.
It’s been two weeks since Slate and I began sleeping with each other, and it’s been perfect, far more educational than I ever expected. But tonight he has something different planned for us, and I can hardly wait.
I check my phone for the time and smile. I’ll be right on time. I tug at the hem of my cocktail dress, not enjoying the way my Uber driver’s seats scratch and pinch my thighs. Maybe the tight, slinky dress with its open back and dipping neckline is a little excessive for tonight’s events.
However, Slate insisted that I treat it like a “special goddamn occasion.” Tonight is the night we explore the various sexual positions many women have already mastered: doggy, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl . . . the list goes on.
“And, of course, some classic sixty-nine to get us warmed up,” Slate said as I added item after item to my to-do list. I put three exclamation points next to this particular topic to remind myself to internet search the best tips of the oral trade.
There’s plenty of fun to be had this evening. This, Slate has assured me. He’s also insisted on paying for the entirety of the hotel room, calling it his “charitable donation” to my project. He wouldn’t even let me dive into the Groupon wormhole as I normally would, had I been planning the evening.
Slate has come to call himself the benevolent Patron of the Sexual Arts. I would roll my eyes, but I’m too grateful to him for what he’s helped me with so far. He really is my sexy patron saint. Not to mention it’s a damn funny title.
Several hours of hygienic and aesthetic prep and here I am, on my way to some ritzy hotel suite I would have never booked for myself in all my years of planning business trips.
As we roll up to the building, I can’t help but gape. This hotel is way out of Slate’s budget, isn’t it? I peer out the car window, taking in the ambient glow of the hotel lobby, the deep rose color of the interior design, the uniformed valet stationed regally at the entrance.
This is really, really nice, I think. Too nice. I wonder if I can slip some money into Slate’s wallet by the end of the night without offending him.
My phone rings. Karina.
“Hello?” I say, waving a polite good-bye to my Uber driver. The man gives me a once-over, blatantly passing judgment on me for what the obvious combination of my dress and destination means to him. Sex.
“Well, fuck you,” I mutter as he speeds off. He’s not wrong.
“Hi? What?” Karina responds, her voice surprised.
“Not you, the rude Uber driver. What’s up?”
“I need someone to distract me from my own boredom. Mateo is out with his friends—honestly, thank God—and the only thing worth watching is reruns of Ghost Hunt. What are you doing tonight? Feel like a binge watch with me?”
Shit. “I’m, uh, busy this evening. I’m so sorry.”
“Busy with who?” she asks. “Oh.” Her mood suddenly shifts to something more playful. “Plans? Rhymes with . . . pecs?”
“Yes, yes, sex,” I say, conceding. “And pecs, actually.”
At the front desk, I press the phone to my chest so Karina can’t hear when I quickly give the concierge Slate’s information. With a sweet smile, she offers me a key. The key card has a note tied to it with a ribbon.
What on earth? I open the small, folded paper.
Glad you could make it. See you soon, kitty.
The blush on my face is only deepened by the concierge’s soft giggle. I’m going to beat him so badly for this.
Admittedly, I do appreciate the poorly drawn paw print in the corner of the paper. Slate is always equal parts sexy and humor. It occurs to me that that would be a great tagline for a dating-app profile. I’ll have to suggest it to him later.
“Hello? Keaton! Sex with . . .”
“I’m hooking up with a coworker.”
I don’t know why I lie. Of all the people I should be able to tell about this, it’s Karina, but for some reason I’d rather keep it to myself.
As the elevator doors close, I examine my makeup in the reflection of its metallic walls. N
o lashes out of place? Check. Lip liner? Still intact. Good job, me.
“Uh-huh,” she says, unconvinced. “I won’t ask any more questions. His place or yours?”
“That sounds a lot like a question. A hotel, actually. A really nice hotel.” The door dings and I tiptoe out into the hallway, trying to get my bearings.
“A hotel? What the hell, Keaton, is he married or something?”
I nearly snort with laughter at the idea of Slate, our resident playboy, being married. Yeah, right. That will never happen.
“No, God no,” I assure her. “It’s all just for fun. We’re changing it up.”
I find the right door, insert the key card, and the lock flashes green. I have no idea what to expect on the other side. The door opens easily, and I hit the lights.
“Changing it up?” Karina gasps. “How long have you been seeing this guy?”
It takes me three full Mississippi seconds to readjust my jaw from its slackened gape.
“Not long enough for this.”
The floor is covered in rose petals—absolutely covered. The smell is utterly intoxicating, and I inhale deeply. Slate has been sweet about my whole sexploration, but this is over the top. He’s completely spoiling me.
I cover the microphone on my phone for a moment. “Slate?” I whisper down the short front hall into the room.
No response. He hasn’t arrived yet.
I take a single step into the room, skewering a few petals with the heel of my shoe. Still reeling in utter amazement, I remove my shoes to avoid picking up any more petals. The flowers create a silken carpet beneath me. I can’t help but shiver at the decadent way they feel under the soles of my bare feet.
“What’s going on?” Karina asks, shamelessly begging for details.
She really is bored. I’ll throw her a bone.
“I just walked in the room he booked for us. There are rose petals on every single surface.”
“No way,” she whispers, giddy with excitement. “That’s so romantic!”
My pulse quickens as I find another note sitting on a nearby table, next to the crystal lamp. I almost rip the paper in my excitement to read it.
The hotel gave me two options for rose coverage: semi or full. Go big or go home.
The giggles hit me like an unexpected bear hug.
“What is that sound? Oh my God, Keaton, are you giggling?” Karina sounds concerned, which only makes me laugh harder.
“Yes. This is crazy!”
I can barely get the words out without the unfamiliar sound bubbling out of me. It feels good to be this surprised. Who knew Slate had this in him? And, of course, he has to take it way over the top. I find myself loving this pleasant feeling inside me—this tantalizing taste of spontaneity paired with a deep fondness for Slate and all his lovable quirks.
Two emotions fill me in contrast—affection for my sweet friend who went to all this trouble, and the simmering heat of what tonight will hold. I release a breathy, little sigh.
Of course, that sound doesn’t slide by Karina either.
“Who are you and what have you done with my surly mistress!” she cries over the line in mock distress.
“It’s still me, don’t worry.” I pause. “Oh my God, this bed is massive! It’s bigger than a king size. Is there a god size?”
The minifridge in the corner of the room catches my eye. I open it. Champagne, rosé, merlot . . .
“I don’t think so. Who is this mystery man offering these romantic gestures?”
My breath catches. Are those chocolate-covered strawberries?
“A coworker, like I said.” I can’t help myself. I take a tiny bite of one strawberry, enjoying how the cool chocolate melts on my warm tongue.
“Right, right.” She’s not convinced, but she lets me get away with it for now. “Well, I’ll let you go. Sounds like you’ve got a full night ahead of you, girlfriend.”
I remember why she called in the first place.
“It’s okay. I can talk for a minute. At least, until he gets here.” I plant myself on the edge of the bed, sending more petals tumbling to the floor around my feet.
“No, it’s fine. Enjoy your night. Besides, I don’t think I’ve seen this episode of Ghost Hunt.” I can hear her turning up the volume, the familiar intro music pulling me back to late nights drinking white wine out of coffee mugs in our little college apartment. “Have crazy sex, tell me all about it. I’ll catch you up on the supernatural another time.”
“I love you,” I remind her. She knows, but it feels so nice to say.
“Love you too. Make sure you finish first!”
“Oh my God, ’bye.” I laugh, and we hang up still giggling.
Maybe it’s the lingering nostalgia of the Ghost Hunt theme song ringing in my ears, but I haven’t felt this young in years. I throw myself back on the bed, enjoying how the flowers fly up around my body and float back on the duvet in a new pattern.
I turn my head to deeply inhale the scented bedding. My eyes flutter open, my smile growing as I spot a little black gift bag on the bedside table. I grab it and sit cross-legged on the bed as I reach inside.
There’s a note in Slate’s neat handwriting, but this one makes my skin break out in chill bumps.
Feel free to get warmed up. I can’t wait to see what you’ve learned.
Inside the bag is a deep purple, subtly ribbed vibrator.
Whoa. That’s . . . unexpected. But it could be fun too.
I peek at my phone. It’s almost eight o’clock. Where is he? Maybe he’s left another note.
I glance around the room and spot yet another piece of ribbon with a note attached, this time on the marble bathroom counter. I launch myself off the bed, excited to read what silliness he’s left for me.
My blush creeps down to my chest, which only ever happens when I’m really excited. This creative side of Slate is fun in a new kind of way.
P.S. First, check out the tub. Jets!!
Two exclamation points? Adorable. It’s so sweet how much thought he put into this.
The tub is expansive, easily taking up half of the bathroom. Bath salts, bath bombs, gels, and soaps galore line the edge of the tub. I don’t really need a bath. I took a shower earlier, making sure all necessary surfaces were groomed to my liking. Taking a bath seems excessive . . .
But it is a goddamn special occasion.
In a matter of minutes, the tub is nearly full with a hot, steamy bubble bath. I’ve peeled off my slinky dress and piled my hair on my head in a somewhat graceless bun. Wineglass filled with bubbling champagne in one hand, I drag the fingertips of my other hand through the water to test the temperature. Perfect.
Sliding one foot and then the other into the tub is pure bliss. I lean back into the water, enjoying the way the heat steams up my glasses. Every work-related knot and ache unwinds in the almost-too-hot water, forcing the stress out of me.
I sigh as the nagging worry I had about the evening’s expenses evaporate into the scented air. Slate was right. This is all worth it.
My fingers run slow, sensuous lines across my belly. I want to touch myself so badly. I think about Slate’s hands pressing against my hips, his lips dragging torturously across my breasts, his sparkling brown eyes flashing mischievously through thick lashes . . .
I reach for my phone and type a message.
Okay, you’re right. The tub is great.
As I wait for Slate’s response, another message occurs to me.
If you don’t get here soon, I’ll try the jets without you.
Setting my phone aside, I feel my eyes getting heavy. If Slate doesn’t get here soon, he’s going to find my dead, waterlogged body. Cause of death? Too much relaxation.
I imagine him walking in, chuckling at the sight of my fogged-up glasses. He wouldn’t hesitate at all to strip out of his clothes and join me. I wonder what he’ll wear? Maybe a suit?
I try to remember a time when I saw Slate wearing anything other than business or brunch casual. I ca
n picture how nice he’d look in a black suit jacket, emphasizing his broad shoulders. The sensuous embrace of his pants along the lines of his muscled thighs and calves. Would he wear a tie? I imagine reaching up a dripping hand to pull him toward the water, drawing his lips to mine . . .
I finish my glass of champagne, and then tiptoe naked and dripping across the room to refill it, hoping this isn’t the moment he decides to arrive.
When I’m done with my second glass, I decide to get out of the tub. Wrapping myself in a fluffy robe, I grab my phone. It’s almost nine!
I frown. Still no response from Slate. I dial his number. The phone rings six times before I hear Slate’s voice.
“Hey, it’s Slate. Leave a message if it’s urgent. Otherwise, just text me like a regular person, you weirdo.” Beep.
Well, buddy, you aren’t answering your texts either. I hang up and begin to worry. What if something has happened? One more text. Surely, he’ll respond.
You can’t spell Slate without LATE, am I right?
Three minutes tick by. Nothing.
I’m still damp, and now chilly, so I grab my clothes, ditching the robe to stand before the mirror, naked. The girl staring back at me is wearing a sad expression. Hurt eyes gaze back from the mirror at the pathetic woman dripping on the tile.
Everything comes into focus at once. The reality of it strikes me like a cold, sobering slap.
I have feelings for Slate.
Otherwise, being ghosted wouldn’t hurt this much.
“Fuck this,” I say to no one. I can’t let this happen.
Without even drying my skin off, I dress again in my costume. That’s what it is, isn’t it? Just a silken lie—alluring and fun, but not functional against the realities of life. I was pretending; we were pretending that this wouldn’t happen to one of us.
I don’t bother to empty the tub, just loop my strappy heels in my fingers on my way out the door. Catching feelings for a flaky playboy was the last thing I wanted on my to-do list, yet Slate managed to sneak his way into my heart.