Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend

by Blakely, Lauren

  “Oliver, God, Oliver! Yes, yes, yes.” His name is hard to say during sex. All those syllables. But I want to feel it on my tongue. I want the reminder that he’s doing this to me. My friend, my rock, my confidante. That even if this is a game, a slipup, a moment in our pretend love affair, I want it to feel as real as I’ve imagined it.

  So many times.

  Countless times.

  And now, as I’m chasing the edge, I start to understand why.

  As he pumps into me, my belly tightens, a swirl of pleasure coiling inward, gathering strength, and then, out of nowhere or out of everywhere, the pleasure in me shatters into a thousand diamonds as I detonate.

  I shake as ecstasy rattles through me, expanding, crashing over me, into me, under me as I call out his name again.

  The second I come down from the high, he pulls out, flips me to my back, and hikes up my legs on his shoulders.

  Oh my God. I can’t move. I don’t want to move. I want to be owned.

  He’s fucking me so good.

  Such a hard, wild fucking.

  And I love it. I love watching him take me. Feeling him ride me to the edge, my legs hooked over his shoulders as he pumps hard, fast, deep.

  “You’re so fucking wet. So fucking sexy. Love the way you grip my cock. Love the way you feel. It’s so fucking good.”

  “It is. It’s so good.”

  “So sexy. So goddamn sexy. Come again for me. Want you to come again.”

  As he drives into me more furiously, his moves send me soaring over another cliff, and I come hard for the third time. I cry out, then I beg, “I want you to come.”

  But I don’t really have to ask. His body stiffens, and then he grunts, “Coming,” and collapses onto me.

  He’s panting, moaning, and saying my name over and over. Whispering it. Then my new nickname, spoken quietly in my ear. “Cupcake.”

  It’s a slow, soft murmur.

  Like he’s delighting in it.

  And I am too, as aftershocks reverberate in me while Oliver kisses my neck. “That was so much more than being good in bed,” he whispers.

  I know, I know.

  My throat tightens, and I press my lips together because I don’t dare let a true word escape. That this was so much more than a test, a theory. That it was so much more than sex.

  But if I admit any of that, I might lose my heart to him, and if I lose my heart, I could lose him.

  The person I depend on, turn to, need.

  So I say something else that’s true. “It was. You broke all the laws, Oliver.”

  28

  Summer

  This isn’t the first time we’ve spent the night. There was that Saturday a few years ago when we were all up late—Stella, Henry, Oliver, and me—playing Would You Rather and showing off our drink-mixing and drink-downing prowess. My grandma was out of town, and we all crashed in the living room in an epic late-night fiesta of drinks, food, and fun that made us feel like we were in college again.

  Another time, I was at his apartment, binge-watching Friends from College on Netflix—or cringe-watching, really, since that show is like a train wreck you can’t turn away from—and I conked out five minutes into the final episode.

  I woke the next morning covered in a navy-blue blanket, one arm hanging over the side of his couch. We finished the episode over coffee and bagels, lamenting the show’s cancellation.

  But this is not that.

  This is not either of those.

  This is something else entirely.

  I’m not even sure how he or we made the decision for him to stay over last night, only that there was yawning and stretching, and a great many I’m so tireds involved.

  Now, it’s Saturday morning, and he’s sound asleep on his stomach, the sheets riding low on his waist.

  His back is exposed, and as I push up on my elbows, I’m tempted to trace long, lazy lines down his spine to where the curves of his perfect, round butt cheeks peek above the sheets.

  Dear sexy ex-boyfriend indeed.

  He’s the sexiest.

  And the riskiest. Because my heart clutches as I gaze at him, swelling with new emotions.

  Or maybe not so new ones.

  Maybe ones that have been present for years and became even stronger last night, activated by touch.

  Or maybe activated by new moments too.

  I flash back on last night outside the jewelry store, the way he apologized, then later at the game as we talked about our families.

  Those moments brought me closer to him.

  Made me feel more connected to my best friend.

  I lift my hand, running it through the air as if I’m touching him. The desire storming inside me is so much more than physical.

  It’s not only coming from my body—it’s coming from my heart, my mind.

  And that’s why I have to get out of bed, have to get away from him.

  If I stay here, I’ll pepper him with kisses. I’ll run my fingers across his warm skin. I’ll try to cuddle him.

  My God, if I cuddle him, I’ll give away all this aching in my heart.

  And I can’t.

  Just can’t.

  Last night has to be just sex.

  Because I remember how he looked at me in the diner yesterday after we broke the kiss.

  Like he’d already lost something.

  I remember what he said later when he apologized.

  I left because I didn’t think I could stop kissing you if I stayed, and I care about you too deeply to jeopardize our friendship.

  The memory singes me, and I bolt out of bed, grabbing jeans, panties, a bra, and a shirt. Like my hair is on fire, I rush to the bathroom, take a quick shower, brush my teeth, and get dressed. I can’t risk our friendship. I can’t hurt it.

  Ten minutes later, I’m out of there, heading into the kitchen to start some coffee.

  I’m not a yoga person, and I don’t meditate. But I know the value of breathing, so I practice my breaths, telling myself that nothing can jeopardize the years of depending on each other.

  Because I won’t let it.

  As the life-giving beverage brews, I hear sheets rustling and feet padding on the floor. Then the toilet flushes, a sink runs, and a door opens.

  Clad in only jeans, Oliver walks into the kitchen with gorgeous bed head and a happy grin.

  My heart trips on itself, wanting to run to him and fling itself at his feet.

  Must. Calm. Down.

  “Good morning,” I say, all cheery and full of zest.

  I’m not Summer the Sex Vixen anymore. I’m the cheery, sarcastic friend. I draw a circle in the air to encompass him, especially the hair. “I’m entering you in The Best Bed Head Ever competition. Because that all-the-strands-sticking-up look is adorable.”

  I fix on a smile.

  There. I sound like a sassy friend, not a lovestruck lover.

  With a what can you do shrug, he drags a hand through his tousled hair, strides over to me, and drops a kiss onto my cheek. The minty scent of his breath drifts past my nostrils. He must have found my extra toothbrush and brushed his teeth when he woke up. Another point in his favor.

  He lifts his face. “Morning.”

  Gah.

  Even the way he says Morning is making my heart do handsprings. What is wrong with me?

  I straighten my spine and gesture to the coffee. “Want a cup?”

  “There is only one correct answer to that question.”

  I smile and pour him a mug, looking away and focusing on the role I’m playing. That role means steering the ship of us back into Buddy Harbor.

  “So,” I begin, drawing a deep breath. “The verdict is in.” I spin around and hand him his coffee.

  He arches a brow in question. “It is?”

  I nod fiercely, making a big deal of this moment. Because friendships cannot be jeopardized with things like epic, earth-shattering, soul-searing sex.

  “Good-looking men are not selfish lovers. Law abolished.” I make a big
sweeping gesture with my free hand, like I’m striking down a statute.

  He blinks, his brow furrowing. He takes a drink of his coffee, the crease in his forehead still present. “Oh, right,” he says. Then his expression shifts, like he’s clearing something up in his head. When he looks at me, he flashes that fabulous, famous smile—the one that melts hearts and panties, and might very well be doing a number on both those things of mine right now.

  Damn him for being so damn pretty.

  And kind.

  And funny.

  And caring.

  Because that was what I saw last night. For all his cocksure charm, all his jokes about sizes, he’s the same guy in bed that he is out of it.

  A good man.

  He blows out a long stream of air, like he’s relieved too. “Glad to hear that. That law. Super important to strike it down.”

  “Right?” I force out a laugh. “I couldn’t have Stella bad-mouthing your abilities. I had to know for sure, though, since she wouldn’t take my word for it.”

  “Right, right,” he says, nodding as he drinks again. “Wouldn’t want that.” His voice tightens, goes a little crisper. “Maybe it’s time to let Twitter know too. I’m sure they’d be delighted to learn that I’m not only a spectacular kisser, but that I’m great in bed as well.”

  My brow knits. Is he mad?

  He sets the cup on the table and turns to head for the bedroom. In my alarm and confusion, I grab his arm. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it.”

  He laughs, but it sounds bitter. “Nor did I. Hell, it’s great news. Let’s host a parade. Let’s tell everyone that the guy you all thought would be rubbish in the sack is a stellar shag.”

  “Oliver,” I say, turning desperate. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m not posting anything on Twitter. I was just . . .”

  I was just covering up how I feel for you.

  He waves a hand. “Whatever. It’s fine. I love being judged for completely unimportant shit.”

  He doesn’t add like how I look, because that would be cocky.

  And right now, he’s not cocky.

  But he has been judged—unfairly—and that’s partly my fault.

  I don’t let go of his arm, squeezing tightly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to judge you. I think you’re amazing. As a person, as a friend, as a . . .” I flap my hand in the direction of the bedroom.

  A small smile plays on his lips. “Thanks.”

  “And I would never say something online about . . .” I don’t finish that sentence either—how good you are in bed. That seems trivial, and this moment feels bigger, more important.

  So I do the thing I ought to do—apologize again. “I’m sorry for judging you on your looks. You’re gorgeous, and I maybe assumed something that was stupid to assume.”

  He laughs, and it sounds self-deprecating. “I sound like a total arse now. It’s all good. We’re good, I swear. I didn’t mean to get cranky.” He takes a beat. “But would you tell Stella your grade for me?”

  The question comes out almost sheepish, like he’s embarrassed to ask.

  I want to tell him the truth. That I would tell Stella as my friend. That I would tell her because she’s the only person to see through this facade of mine. Because she knows how I feel for Oliver.

  Oh, how I want to find her, flop onto a couch, clutch my heart, and say it was amazing because it was him.

  But I can’t, and I won’t.

  “No,” I say. “It’s private.”

  He shakes his head, like he’s clearing it. “Shit. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I said any of that about judgments and whatnot. I didn’t mean anything bad by it.”

  I let go of his arm. “I didn’t mean to make it seem like it was only about that, Oliver. I didn’t sleep with you to test her theory.”

  “You didn’t?” For a second, it sounds like he’s holding something precious in his hands, like a hummingbird, like hope.

  I square my shoulders. “No. It wasn’t about a law.”

  “No. It wasn’t about that for me either,” he says, his voice stretched thin.

  In it I can hear fear—fear of loss—like I heard the other day. I go with an answer that’s true but won’t hurt my heart—or his.

  I meet his eyes, willing myself to stay strong. “I think we just got caught up.”

  “Yes!” His eyes blaze. Well, then. “All caught up.”

  “It was a moment. And we just gave in.”

  “Yes, precisely. Just a moment,” he says, practically punching the air in agreement.

  Admittedly, my silly heart wishes he weren’t agreeing so easily. But my head knows this is for the best.

  “We’re not going to do it again, obviously,” I add.

  “Of course not. We know better.”

  I swallow past the stone in my throat. “We do.”

  “Yeah, we sure do.” Then he picks up the cup, takes another deep drink, and peers at the clock. “I should get out of here. I have lots to do.” He scratches his head and repeats, “Yeah, lots to do.”

  I don’t answer. I just savor the view one last time.

  I’ll see him like this again, surely. At the pool, he’ll be wearing less.

  But it’s not so much what he’s wearing or not wearing.

  It’s why. He’s still in a half-dressed state from last night, from us, together. It’s not just bed head—it’s bed head from sleeping next to me. It’s shirtlessness from me undressing him last night.

  It’s a sleepy, sex-rumpled, morning-after look, and I put it there.

  I want to put it there again.

  But I can’t.

  So it’s better if I just let him leave.

  “Yeah, I have so much to do too. The gym and planning. Maybe I’ll even add a pole-dancing class and all sorts of fun stuff.” The words tumble out to fill the awkward silence. “Plus, we have dinner tonight with your client, and maybe we should take pics for one of those The Dating Pool dates before we go? I’ll pick one and text you where to meet.”

  “Sounds brilliant.” He heads to my room, grabs his clothes and shoes, then walks to the door.

  I follow him, and as I open it, my grandmother walks back in.

  “Oh, I didn’t know you had company,” she says. “Hi, Oliver.”

  “Good to see you, Mags. I’m just taking off. Summer, I’ll see you tonight.”

  When he leaves, it feels like he takes a piece of my heart with him. My grandmother tilts her head, shooting me a curious look.

  “There’s something you need to tell me. I see it in your eyes.”

  A lump rises in my throat. She knows me so well.

  My shoulders sag as she shuts the door, and then I sit at the table and tell her everything.

  Well, I leave out the three orgasms, but I tell her that I think I’m falling for him.

  “What do I do?”

  She pats my hand. “Sweetheart, I honestly don’t know.”

  29

  Summer

  Time to focus on the gym.

  On the goal that I’ve been working toward for years.

  I am this close to nabbing the financing I need to make this happen, and all I have to do is nail this feature piece for The Dating Pool.

  I power walk around the park with Mags, where we discuss the follow-up email from The Dating Pool, with its short list of possible dates. We debate the merits of each, and settle on a few fab ones. Ones that will make the piece sing, and hopefully guarantee the magazine pays me the full amount for the article I’ll write.

  Then we catch up on her triathlon training and her friend Octavia’s Tinder woes—she did not swipe right on a dog, but she is suffering from a severe lack of interest in men her age.

  “She finds them dull. She likes a captivating young mind,” Mags says.

  “And what about you? Anyone new on the horizon?”

  “Me? I like ’em thirty-five or younger,” she says with a wink, and I’m pretty sure she’s taking this walk with me to keep my m
ind off Oliver. News flash—it’s not entirely working. I’m faking it, pretending I’m not thinking about him.

  But I do always love chatting with my grandmother.

  “Cradle robber,” I say with an exaggerated cringe.

  “But I do prefer to meet men the old-fashioned way. IRL.”

  “You can just say ‘in real life,’” I tell her as we power walk along the Bethesda Terrace.

  “If I don’t use the lingo, you’ll never learn it,” she says sweetly.

  “Hey! I know the lingo.”

  “Sure you do,” she says with a wink, then she squeezes my shoulders when we reach Fifth Avenue. “Good luck with your meeting.”

  She spins around and breaks into a jog. I smile as I watch her go, loving her spirit, her get-up-and-go-no-matter-what-ness. I’m glad she’s so fit at her age—seeing her energy reminds me why I do what I do.

  Or what I’m trying to do, at least.

  I head to a café and meet with some of my instructors for the classes I want to add at the gym, crossing my fingers that this dating piece will do the trick and make my dream come true.

  When I’m done, I say goodbye, grab a coffee, and google my favorite options from the short list The Dating Pool sent over. Checking the time, I pick the best one for tonight, then open my text app and tap out a message to Oliver.

  Summer: I know you hate classes, but . . .

  Oliver: Please tell me we’re not going to learn to knit hats or make booties. Or candles. I draw the line at candle making.

  Summer: Candles? That’s the line in the sand?

  Oliver: A man has to have some lines.

  Summer: Then you’ll love where I’ve drawn this one.

  Oliver: Can’t wait.

  Summer: You do know I can hear the sarcasm even through text messages?

  Oliver: I wasn’t trying to hide it.

  Summer: See you at five on Perry and Hudson, then we’ll go to your client’s dinner, and we’ll have a hostess gift that’ll be perfectly unique.