I take a breath, count to five to steady the rush of my pulse. Hold my face in a hand to cover the heat rising in my cheeks. And with my eyes squeezed shut, I slip a finger through the buttons of my flannel shirt. Run it along my skin. Dip into the bra I hadn’t gotten around to taking off and brush it over one tightened nipple.
It’s not enough. I undo the top button, cup myself in one hand and release a shuddering breath as the recording comes to an end with me playing with my own breast. I think of the vibrator in my bottom nightstand drawer. Of pulling that out and using it on myself, but that wouldn’t be enough, either. I need more. I’m tired of using a toy.
Memories inundate me. Thoughts colliding and mingling and building together into an outlandish idea I’ve tried to push aside for weeks now.
Summer’s words. Forget that dick. Find a new one. Like it’s that easy.
Natalie recounting Spencer using sex as a mechanism to get over his ex. Like that actually works.
Spencer himself, at Kellermann’s. You offering?
That one delirious second, when I’d considered saying yes.
My hands scramble for one of the notebooks in my desk drawer. I flip to a blank page, grab a pen. Because this is ridiculous. I’ll get nowhere repeating thoughts in my head. An idea like this needs debate. And while I keep all my work on my computer, when I’m so torn on a decision, it helps to capture it on paper. And this thought, this idea, it’s crazy enough to deserve thorough exploration.
I divide the page into two columns, and at the top, write the title:
REASONS FOR/AGAINST SEX WITH SPENCER ARMSTRONG
Pro: He’s supposedly very good at it.
Con: I don’t like him.
Pro: He’ll probably make me orgasm.
Con: I still have to see him after, since we share friends.
Pro: I’ll get to hear and see his orgasm.
Con: What if our friends find out?
Pro: I’ll get over Ashton.
Con: What if Ashton finds out?
My hand flies across the page, writing arguments in both columns. Some are valid points (Pro: He uses protection). Others are… less so (Con: What if I make weird noises?). On and on, I jot down my concerns, each side an equal itemized list, until I write one last bullet. I stop and stare at the words.
Pro: I can’t see a future with him.
My heart pounds at the truth of them.
Because with every date, each new guy, I’ve pictured romantic outlooks. Of dating beyond college, of shared careers and goals, of proposals and weddings and marriage and babies. Our lives and plans intertwining together. Only to be let down by the harsh reality that outside those imaginings, I felt nothing more than tepid interest in any of them.
With him, I see none of that.
Because Spencer doesn’t do love.
Spencer does one night stands.
Spencer does a new girl every night.
Spencer Armstrong…is the perfect rebound.
I mean, who better to be my rebound than the man who almost broke the nose of the guy that broke my heart?
Stop overthinking. Just do it.
I throw down my pen. Grab my phone. Race down the stairs, past my cold dinner and the movie playing on the TV, and stuff my bare feet into my boots. Pull on my coat without buttoning it. Forget a hat, gloves, a scarf. Almost forget my keys on the kitchen counter before I remember to lock the door behind me.
Main Desire is a short walk, even through the snow. Five minutes, tops. I’m at the front door in three. No car in the driveway—because Morris drove Natalie and Gray to the bar. Levi and Rylie are an hour away in the city. But a light’s on inside.
I slam my palm on the wood, frantically, until it swings open.
“Fucking what—” he says before noticing who it is. “Princess, what the fuck do you want?”
I hate it. Hate that he calls me that stupid name, like I’m some stuffy royal too uptight for such plebian emotions as want or need. Irritation runs through me, adding to the charged rush of my heartbeat in my ears, my chest, my wrists, that pulsing place between my thighs. And it’s heady and perfect and just what I need to reach out—
—and pull Spencer Armstrong’s lips to mine.
It’s zero to sixty. Though I’ve given him no time to think about what’s happening, he reacts eagerly, mouth greeting me with feverish contact. Locking to mine as he tilts his head, sliding in a hungry graze. He kicks it up, sucking my bottom lip in his. I pull back, start slow again. He accommodates me, before turning up the heat. Glides the tip of his tongue over the same lip as before. Once more, I pull back. He returns by dragging at my lip with his teeth. For a third time, I retreat. Thrill at this game of cat and mouse. Of his lips chasing mine, gaining further ground with each touch, each joined breath, until finally I part my lips and grant him access to everything.
For a moment, I almost forget to breathe.
Because Spencer Armstrong can kiss.
His arm slips under my coat. He yanks me to him. Distantly, I register the door slam shut, and in the next instant, I’m crushed between it and his body. I lick his tongue, and he groans. The rumble travels through his chest, pressed against mine. I feel it through my whole body, sending shivers straight to my core. His hands run over me. Grasping here. Cupping there. Squeezing and massaging. Bringing me ever closer to that hardening member I’d felt once before, the one I want to feel all night long…
Overwhelmed, I pause. Spencer, sensing my need for space, breaks away, too. He puts himself apart, taking all of me in from head to toe. As that familiar scowl returns, he rasps out a hard breath, once, twice. Then, “The fuck was that?”
I lick my lips. Taste him. He
