Love Machine

by Kendall Ryan

  I grin. She looks so cute in sweatpants and a messy ponytail.

  It’s been two months since we moved in together, six months since we became “official,” and I’m still not over the pleasure of being able to see her all the time, so casual and domestic.

  “Nope. Something better than pizza.”

  Keaton turns around. I hold up the pet carrier so she can see through the wire door to what’s curled up inside—a fluffy orange tabby kitten with emerald-green eyes.

  Keaton’s blue eyes blink, then go wide. “Oh my God . . . she’s adorable. Or is it a he?”

  “She’s a she.” I set down the carrier in the middle of the living room and open the door.

  Keaton kneels about a foot away, careful not to crowd our tiny guest. “Hey there, baby girl, it’s nice to meet you,” she murmurs, keeping her voice soft and sweet.

  The kitten creeps to the lip of the carrier, peers around for a minute, then steps out onto the carpet. Slowly, Keaton holds out her hand. The kitten sniffs it thoroughly. Then, as if she’s come to a decision, she bumps her head against Keaton’s fingers.

  Biting back a squeal, Keaton pets her. “She likes me!”

  I chuckle. “Of course. I think you’re pretty likable.”

  “Aw, thank you, sweetie. But you have to say that—you’re my boyfriend, and you like a lot of sex.” She leans closer and the kitten bats at the tip of her dangling ponytail.

  I peck Keaton on the forehead. “Just because I have to say it doesn’t mean it’s not true . . . but you’re right about the sex. I’ll never get tired of fucking you, baby.”

  Keaton waggles her fingers until the kitten snatches at them, her claws out and pupils huge. “How old is she? Does she have all her shots? What about a name?” she asks, rapid-fire.

  “The rescue shelter figured she was about four months old. They handled shots and spaying too. They were calling her Beans, but I thought we could choose a new name together.”

  Keaton snorts. “Beans, really?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Hmm . . .” She studies the kitten, who has now moved on to attacking her fingers with teeth too small to do any real damage. “Reminds me of another cat I used to know.”

  I’m glad to see her talking about Penny with a smile rather than tears. Ever since she died, it’s been clear that Keaton has carried a cat-shaped hole in her heart. As much as I’d wanted to make a home for the both of us—and as far as Keaton’s concerned, a house isn’t a home without something furry climbing the curtains—I also didn’t want to run out and buy a replacement Penny too soon. So I held off until today to make sure Keaton was ready to move on.

  “If she really is Penny’s spiritual successor, we should find a name that starts with P.” I sit down beside Keaton. “What about . . . Pancake? Or Prissy?”

  Keaton playfully smacks me in the shoulder with the back of her hand. “No way.”

  I fake an innocently thoughtful look. “Poltergeist. Peaches. Porkchop. Pumpkin.”

  She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re the worst.” Then she rubs her chin, considering. “Actually . . . Peaches kinda works for me. Her fur looks like peaches and cream.”

  “Sold. Peaches, it is.” I scratch our newly christened daughter under her fuzzy chin. Her whiskers flare out and her vivid eyes slide shut with pleasure. “Welcome to the family, Peaches.”

  Keaton rests her forehead on my shoulder with a happy sigh. “Thank you so much, Slate. This is . . . I love her.”

  I kiss the crown of her head. “And I love you.”

  We sit like that for a long time, Keaton’s head on me, my arm around her waist, Peaches still playing with her fingers. It’s nice being here with Keat, watching the clumsy little kitten explore.

  After a few more minutes, I let out a sigh. “As much as I don’t want to move, I have to go get her litter box out of the car. I couldn’t carry everything in one trip.”

  Keaton reluctantly stands when I rise to my feet, and much less reluctantly kisses me. “I’ll set up her other stuff.”

  When I return with the plastic tray and bag of litter, Keaton has put down the kitten’s food and water bowls, filled both to the brim, and scattered the handful of toys over the living room floor. She’s scribbling down notes about what else we need, muttering to herself.

  “A small kitty bed . . . dental treats for your teeth . . . a scratching post, absolutely . . .” She looks down at Peaches, who’s demolishing a hill of minced turkey in gravy. “Or maybe a full-size cat tree. What do you think, girl? Something to climb and wreck that’s not the couch?”

  Peaches meows, her response somewhat garbled by her full mouth.

  I have to chuckle at the sight. All of it, from the meticulous planning to the conversing with cats, it’s all just so Keaton. “About that pizza—you want our usual?”

  Keaton gives me a grateful smile. “Yes, please. Thank you for rescuing us from my dinner mishap.”

  “Hey, I could’ve picked up that broth too. Don’t worry about it. We’re celebrating tonight . . . call it Peaches’ welcome party.”

  I order a large barbecue chicken pizza from our favorite pizzeria. I’m just hanging up the phone when something thwaps the back of my calf. I look down to find Peaches clinging to my pant leg.

  “You got bored with eating already?” I peel her off me, only for her to wriggle out of my grasp and dash away to explore the rest of the apartment. I shake my head, chuckling. “Didn’t take long to start acting like she owns the place.”

  “Well, of course. That’s what cats are for,” Keaton calls from the laundry room where she’s pouring litter into Peaches’ tray.

  After we eat, we snuggle together on the couch, happy and content. Peaches climbs up onto the armrest and tucks her paws underneath her so she looks like a tiny loaf of orange bread. The picture of a peaceful family is complete. Contentment radiates from us all, so warm and bright, I swear I must be glowing.

  Keaton freezes, her head lifted partway from my shoulder where it has been resting. “Listen,” she says, her voice hushed, almost awed.

  At first, I have no idea what she means. Then I hear it. Peaches has started purring.

  Keaton curls up against my side and kisses me. “This is everything I’ve ever wanted.”

  “Me too.” I hold her tight, this amazing woman who went from my best friend to my lover to my partner . . . to my home.

  It may have taken us a while to cross from the friend zone and into this new territory together, but it’s been a seamless transition. And one exactly no one was surprised about—from our friends to our parents, and even our coworkers, who all met the news of our coupledom with bored noninterest, like something long overdue was finally happening. I guess the only ones who were surprised were Keaton and me.

  After I clean up the kitchen by loading our plates into the dishwasher, I pour Keaton a glass of white wine and rejoin her on the couch. Rather than watching the comedy special we’ve selected, Keaton only has eyes for Peaches.

  “Look,” she whispers sweetly. “She’s falling asleep.”

  The kitten’s eyes drift closed, and she makes a soft contented sound.

  I gather Keaton close to me, my fingertips stroking her bare arm. “Keat?”

  “Yeah?” she says, her voice calm and happy.

  “Bringing home Peaches wasn’t my only surprise tonight.”

  She lifts her cheek from my chest and looks at me with narrowed eyes. “What else do you have up your sleeve?”

  With my heart pounding out a fast rhythm, I reach into my pocket and take out the diamond ring that’s been eating at me to pull out all night. Keaton’s eyes widen in surprise, and she lets out a small but unmistakable gasp.

  My throat has gone bone dry, but I dredge up the courage and finally say the words I’ve wanted to for months now. “I love you. So fucking much. Marry me, baby?”

  With a quiet sob, Keaton murmurs, “Yes!” and throws her arms around my neck.

  We kiss, an
d tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy. And when I slide the ring onto Keaton’s trembling finger, she lets out a sweet noise of admiration.

  “You’re crazy. We’ve only been dating for six months . . .” She can’t stop smiling as she admires the way the ring looks on her hand.

  I lean in and press a soft kiss to her lips. “Yeah, but we’ve known each other for ten years.”

  Her chuckle is sweet, and she places her palm against my cheek. “True. From that standpoint, I guess this was like the longest courtship ever.”

  “Exactly.”

  The crazy thing is, if someone told me ten years ago that I would eventually marry my friend Keaton, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised. She’s exactly the kind of girl every guy hopes to end up with—smart, hardworking, devoted, loving, and beautiful.

  And now . . . she’s all mine. Part of me still can’t fucking believe it.

  Keaton lets out a surprised squeal as I scoop her up from the couch and carry her to our bedroom, where I plan to take all night making sure she knows exactly how much I love her.

  “Cheers,” I say, raising my glass of champagne to Slate’s with a satisfying clink.

  His eyes hold mischief and happiness, and such a warm, comforting familiarity that it literally makes my breath catch in my chest. I haven’t been this happy in . . . well, ever.

  Slate leans close, pressing his lips to my neck, and all the celebratory noises in the room fade to the background. Even if we’re in a bar filled with our closest friends, the only person I see is him.

  “You trying to kill me with that miniskirt, babe?” he murmurs, his lips pressed to the sensitive spot below my ear. His fingers trail down to the hem of my skirt, and he grabs my ass in both hands, letting out a small growl.

  I meet his gaze and give my head a shake. “Behave, mister.”

  Our friend Jack was kind enough to let us rent out his entire bar for our engagement party tonight, and so far it’s been perfect. The memory of dancing on this very dance floor when no one knew we were a couple yet is a secret memory I still treasure.

  Sometimes I can’t believe this is real life, that the nerdy girl got the hunk. But it is, and I did.

  Tonight has been everything I could have ever wanted and more. Everyone is in a celebratory mood, and even some of Slate’s clients—high-profile pro football and basketball players—are here to congratulate him. Newlyweds Karina and Mateo are here, and Gabby has a perma-grin every time she looks at us. Even Meera is here. It’s perfect.

  Slate notices my champagne glass is empty, and after a quick peck on my lips, he takes it over to the bar, refilling it and talking to Jack for a moment before returning.

  “So attentive,” I say, praising him as I pat his scruffy cheek. I still hadn’t gotten used to the fact that I could just touch Slate freely now. That he was mine.

  “Pussy-whipped is more like it,” our friend Camden says, jostling Slate and playfully punching his shoulder.

  That’s rich coming from Camden. All night, I’ve watched him sneak glances at his friend Natalie, who seems rather oblivious to his longing.

  Camden, Jack, and Natalie have been best friends since high school, but I can’t help but wonder if their friendship is as strictly platonic as they’d have everyone believe, or if there’s something more between Camden and Nat.

  But I don’t wonder long, because the next thing I know, Slate is intertwining his fingers with mine and whispering in my ear. “I’m stealing you away.”

  Chill bumps race down my spine as his words sink in.

  Giving him a curious expression, I let him take my hand and guide me to the back of the bar and down a short hallway.

  Slate enters what appears to be an office and closes the door behind us. A big oak desk takes up the center of the room, with a couple of chairs and a low filing cabinet on the far wall.

  But before I can get a good look around, Slate’s lifting me in his arms and setting me down on the desk. Then he steps between my parted knees.

  “Needed you to myself for a minute,” he says at my quizzical expression. His mouth lowers to mine, and he places a sweet kiss against my lips. “Tonight’s been incredible.” Kiss. “You look amazing.” Kiss.

  I push my hands into the hair at the back of his neck and kiss him back, deeper this time, our lips parting as our tongues slide together.

  A low groan rumbles in his throat. “I can’t fucking wait to marry you. Can’t wait to make babies with you.”

  “Babies?” I pull back a fraction. We’ve only been engaged a month. We’ve never discussed babies. Slate knows I want kids; it’s one of those subjects we covered when we were friends, but I had no idea where he stood on the topic.

  He meets my eyes and smiles. “I really want to knock you up. You’d look so fucking cute pregnant.” He places his hand on my flat belly as he says this, and a warm shiver races through me.

  I feel like someone just dropped a bomb, and now I can’t get him naked fast enough. “This. Off. Now.”

  I’m making no sense, but Slate catches on to my rambling as I tug at his shirt. He pulls it up and off over his head, revealing his sexy, toned torso. Then he takes off my glasses and sets them on the desk beside us.

  I tug at his belt, eager to wrap my hand around the erection tenting his jeans. “What did you say to Jack? I hope he doesn’t think we’re about to defile his office.”

  Slate only chuckles, his mouth moving in slow kisses along the column of my throat. “I told him I needed to make my fiancée scream my name, and he said the condoms are in the third desk drawer on the right.”

  “Uh, I didn’t want anyone to know what we were doing in here.” I groan and then swat at his shoulder.

  Slate stops kissing me and meets my eyes. “Just think, after this we’ll get to check public sex off your spreadsheet.”

  My lips curl up in an involuntary smile. “Hmm. I do love it when you talk spreadsheets to me.”

  His warm palms slide up my bare thighs. “That get you hot, baby? When I tell you we’ll bang out the rest of your to-do list?”

  I work at the buttons on his pants faster, and Slate only smirks.

  “Gimme,” I murmur, done being articulate. Although I’m a smart girl, he can make me act really stupid sometimes. And I don’t mind one little bit.

  “As you wish.” He chuckles, drawing my panties down my thighs and helping me to step out of them.

  And then we’re back to kissing, and I’m stroking one hand over his thick cock, and the other along his firm ab muscles. It’s too much. Too much sensation. Too much love. But then it’s always like this with Slate. He kisses and sucks and nuzzles against me, rutting his firm cock between my legs until I’m wet and aching for him.

  “Condom?” he asks, his mouth inches from mine.

  I shake my head, and when Slate catches the glint in my eyes, he lets out a low groan.

  “Naughty girl,” he murmurs, running his thumb over my sensitive core, and I shudder in his arms.

  There’s no one else in the world I’d rather be naughty with.

  Thank you for reading about Slate and Keaton!

  Continue the story in Flirting With Forever and find out if Camden can convince his best friend, Natalie, to be more than friends. If you liked Love Machine, you will LOVE Flirting With Forever!

  Get your copy HERE.

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  What to Read Next

  Flirting With Forever

  No women.

  No sex.

  No hooking up.

  This is the oath I took in solidarity with my best friend after a particularly heinous breakup left him shattered.

  No problem, right?

  Wrong.

  Because lately, I’ve begun developing big, messy feel
ings for our best female friend who we’ve both sworn was off-limits since we were sixteen years old.

  I shouldn’t notice the way her hair turns golden when it catches the light. I shouldn’t make it a goal to see her dimples when she laughs. I shouldn’t find her knowledge of current affairs so sexy.

  I’m pretty sure she’s oblivious, which is a good thing, I try to convince myself. Until one night after too many cocktails when we fall into bed together. I’m left with an awkward morning-after, and one of the hardest choices I’ve ever had to make.

  Confess how I feel, and potentially lose both of my best friends in the process, or bury my feelings and watch her move on?

  How can something so wrong feel so right?

  Get your copy HERE.

  And read on for an exclusive sneak preview.

  Sneak Peek of Flirting With Forever

  CHAPTER ONE

  Camden

  Heartbreak isn’t a good look on a man. That’s an undeniable truth.

  “A beer for this guy.” I motion to the bartender to bring another for my miserable-looking buddy. Jack and I have been friends for well over a decade, and I’ve never seen him this torn up over a girl. Ever.

  A bottle of beer appears a few moments later, and I push it closer to him. “Drink up.”

  “Thanks, man,” Jack says, taking a long swig.

  It isn’t often that I volunteer to be the designated driver, but when I got the call from Jack this afternoon that his long-term girlfriend broke up with him over text, I knew he’d be drinking a bit heavier than our usual one or two reserved for Friday nights. We can’t drink the way we used to in college without calling most of Saturday a complete wash.

  But tonight is different. He deserves to work out his problems with his bottle of choice without worrying about getting home to our apartment safely, so I told him I’d stick to water for the evening.