Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend (The Guys Who Got Away Book 1) Page 18

  “I meant no making out, lady. Serves you right,” he yells.

  Oh, well. He might have a point there.

  He’s not the only one watching us.

  He’s flanked by spectators with their cameras trained on our boat. Natch. After all, what’s funnier than a girl falling into a big pond in the city?

  I do the only thing I can. Smile and wave. Just smile and wave.

  I park my butt in the plastic seat next to my fake fiancé, and we pedal to the shore, where the bearded man glowers at us, telling us to never come back again.

  “That won’t be a problem,” I assure him.

  As we get off the boat and walk away from the dock, Oliver peels off his T-shirt and hands it to me.

  My brow knits. “You’re giving me your shirt?”

  “Well, your clothes are a little bit wet.”

  I run my eyes up and down his carved chest. “Guess I get a nice view and a shirt. It is my lucky day.”

  “Play your cards right, and you can get a shower at my place too.”

  And let me tell you, I practically run out of the park for that chance.

  I peel off his gray T-shirt then my wet sequined dress, dropping them onto the tiled bathroom floor.

  I wiggle my eyebrows as I unhook my soaking wet bra. “I’m sexy wearing Central Park lake water, don’t you think?”

  Oliver smiles as he stretches past me to turn on the shower. The water runs, and he unbuttons his jeans then unzips them. “Let me tell you something, Summer. Your sea monster perfume isn’t going to deter me from fucking you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  I shiver from his words, from seeing this side of Oliver Harris, from hearing him say fuck as it applies to me. It’s surreal, but heady too, to experience him like this—wanting me, staring at me, heat and abandon in his eyes.

  Even in my swamp creature state, all matted hair and stinking of pond scum, he still gazes at me like I’m not just the object of his desire, but like I’m precious too.

  Like fucking isn’t just fucking.

  Like it’s so much more.

  That’s how I feel too. And I want to tell him and tell him soon.

  But first, I need to de-skunk myself.

  I let my bra fall to the floor as steam curls from the shower. I peel off my damp panties, hold them up on my fingertip, twirl the cotton fabric, then toss them to the floor as well.

  I step into the shower but keep my eyes trained on my best friend. I’m tempted to make a joke, maybe about swamp monsters or sea creatures, but the look in his eyes stops my breath.

  Intensity flashes across his irises, a deep and powerful longing in his green gaze.

  My heart stutters, then it pounds relentlessly as he pushes his jeans to the floor.

  His boxer briefs go whoosh.

  His cock springs free, happy to see me in my Central Park state of decay.

  “Nice to see you too,” I say as I lean my head back under the water, letting it stream over me.

  He steps in, closing the shower door behind us.

  I shudder at his nearness, at the way he can’t take his eyes off me.

  And at my own spiking pulse.

  But I also want to get clean.

  Seems Oliver wants that too, because he reaches behind me for the shampoo, pours some into his hands, then washes my hair. He’s tender and gentle, running the shampoo all through my strands then rinsing it out.

  I squirt some into my hands and return the favor, loving the feel of his hair between my fingers.

  We’re quiet, besides saying the occasional hi, and that feels good, and lots and lots of mmmms.

  I don’t trust myself to say anything else. To not blurt out some great, immutable truth. Some pronouncement born from years of admiring him from afar, from endless days of maybe, possibly crushing on my best friend.

  Fine, maybe it was more than a crush.

  Maybe it’s becoming real, so damn real, but I don’t trust that this new reality will last beyond the here and now.

  So I let myself wordlessly enjoy the moment.

  He reaches for his shower gel, pours some in his hands, and then lathers up. He rubs along my arms, and I inhale deeply, loving the attention, the care.

  He moves up my arms to my shoulders, soaping me, then down my breasts to my belly.

  After he squirts more soap, he bends, kneeling on the tiles as the water pounds over us. He soaps up my legs, from my ankles to my knees to my thighs, cleaning all the dirty water off me.

  Then he runs his hands up the back of my legs and looks up at me. “I swear this is all I’ve thought about since the other night,” he whispers, and presses his face to my thigh, brushing a kiss against my skin, water droplets sliding down his nose.

  “Same here,” I confess, my voice feathery, my need palpable.

  “Maybe I am simple, Summer. I just want to touch you again. I want to kiss you and have you and fuck you,” he says, then a rumble emanates from his throat as he turns his face from my leg to my center, pressing his lips against me where I ache for him.

  Flicking his tongue against my wetness.

  “Oh God,” I gasp the second he makes contact.

  And because I’m helpful like that, I widen my stance, spreading my legs a little more.

  He groans against me, licking and kissing.

  Desire floods my body. It lights up my veins. It spreads across my skin as he cups my ass and licks me in his shower. I lean back against the wall, and I’m glad I do when my knees wobble as his tongue sweeps across all my wetness, all my desire for him. Kissing, licking, sucking.

  The sounds he makes are a dirty song, a carnal tune of lust and passion, the notes insanely sensual.

  “If this is simple, I’ll take it,” I whisper, my fingers tangling in his hair.

  He hitches my right leg onto his shoulder, and yes, standing is harder now, but he’s got me, and so has the wall.

  And this is on.

  It’s happening.

  And I’m awash in pleasure.

  He’s relentless, kissing and worshipping, and soon pleasure crests in my body, a wave rising up, rushing to the shore. I let go of his hair, grab at the wall, and shudder. A long gust of breath escapes my lips.

  I rock against him, losing myself to the moment, losing my mind to this connection.

  And nothing feels like we’re getting swept up in a moment or a mistake.

  Everything feels like we’ve been building to this.

  It’s the last wall between us coming down, coming down gloriously.

  As the desire tightens in my belly then bursts, I gasp and cry out, coming hard.

  I wobble, and he reaches for my hips, steadying me as he rises. He wraps his arms around me and tugs me close, our wet, naked bodies pressed together.

  “Hi, Oliver,” I whisper.

  “Hi, Summer.”

  “You’re quite good at that,” I say.

  He presses a soft kiss to my lips. “Because it’s you.”

  “Or maybe because it’s you.” I slide a hand down his chest, reaching for his cock. He groans, all growly sexy as I wrap a fist around him. I stroke him, gripping and pumping and wanting.

  So much wanting.

  But so much more than wanting.

  As he thrusts into my fist, his breath hot and staggered, I take another step, a bolder step.

  Maybe the riskiest one of all.

  I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t know how to make us work. I don’t know what happens tomorrow. But I want him to know this is more than just sex for me.

  I let go of him, run my hands up his chest, and meet his gaze. “Would you make love to me?”

  His lips curve up. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  34

  Oliver

  You think you know someone.

  And maybe you do.

  Maybe you know how they like their coffee, or that they snort when they laugh too hard, or that they’re a little bit stubborn—or maybe a lot—but still the
most positive, upbeat person you’ve ever known.

  And maybe you need that part of them, needed that part of them for ages, because you haven’t been inherently upbeat since life changed you.

  And you know that about yourself.

  But then, you get this person naked and you learn about her other side.

  I’m learning that Summer luxuriates in her body.

  That when she’s toweled off and dry, she settles into my bed languidly, stretching her hands over her head, her body on beautiful display.

  Sure, I’ve thought about having her here, but always in a truncated way where my brain doesn’t let me finish the thought. Where I force myself to swipe the images away.

  Now the images are real as she parts her legs for me, slides a hand between them, and glides her fingers through her wetness.

  Fuckkk.

  I don’t know that I can withstand the hotness, but I’m willing to try. I am goddamn willing to try as I climb onto the bed with her, grab her ankles, and spread her legs wide.

  “Let me taste you.”

  “But you already did,” she says with a smile.

  “I am ravenous, it seems.”

  She lifts her hand, runs her fingers across my lips, and I draw them into my mouth, sucking hard, savoring once again the delicious taste of her.

  “You dirty, sexy woman. Enticing me with the way you taste so fucking good.”

  “I think you like being enticed,” she whispers as a shudder moves through her, gliding along her skin.

  I shake my head. “No. I love it.”

  I reach for a condom in the nightstand, open it, roll it on, and then push her knees up higher and higher still.

  Then I notch the head of my cock against her and push inside.

  “Oh God,” she gasps, her back bowing, her eyes fluttering shut.

  And that’s another thing I now know.

  How the girl next door looks when I fill her. When she takes me in all the way. She looks spectacular, all sex-drunk and needy, her lips parted, her knees hiked up.

  Open to me.

  I move in her, swiveling my hips, pushing deeper, pulling back, then plunging in again.

  Her hands slide up my chest. “This feels so good,” she whispers.

  “Feels amazing,” I murmur as pleasure crackles along my spine. “Feels fucking incredible.”

  Her arms loop around my neck, her fingers playing with my hair. Even that touch ignites sparks across my skin. “Because it’s you,” I tell her as I pick up the pace, moving faster, listening to her body.

  She arches her back, moving with me as we find our pace.

  When we do, I bend closer to her, my lips dusting across hers. My shoulders are tight. Tension, exquisite tension, radiates through my muscles as I fight off my own release, focusing on her, only her.

  And on the words I just said.

  Because it’s you.

  Only, that’s not entirely true. This is spectacular, the sex, the connection, the unholy pleasure.

  But not because it’s just her or me.

  “No, Summer. Do you know why it’s so good?”

  “Why?” she asks as she gasps, her voice cresting to a needy cry.

  As I move in her, I pull back to look at her face. Her brown eyes are glittering with lust and something else.

  Something deeper.

  Something far more powerful.

  Something that lasts.

  I bury my face in her neck, whispering against her ear, “Because it’s us. That’s why it’s so good. Because we’re so good together.”

  “Ohhhh,” she calls out, rising up, her hips bucking, her voice catching, her sounds reaching the ceiling. Then she’s losing control, and it’s beautiful—absolutely beautiful and erotic to watch her fall apart beneath me.

  And I follow her there, chasing my pleasure to the other side of bliss too.

  Soon, I’m lying next to her, panting, sated, drawing lines with my fingertips down her warm skin when my phone rings.

  I have half a mind to ignore it, until I realize it’s Jane’s ringtone.

  I grab the phone from the floor and answer. “Hi, Jane. What’s going on?”

  She clears her throat, and a pit forms in my stomach. “Well, love, it seems that America’s Best Boyfriend is now America’s Fakest Boyfriend.”

  35

  Oliver

  That pit? It becomes a cavernous maw as I read. It’s like rubbernecking, and I can’t stop.

  This time, it’s worse. Far worse. Because there’s a GIF someone made of Summer splashing water at me, saying, “You’re evil! You’re laughing at me. You’re a terrible fake fiancé.”

  And that’s all it takes.

  @ManCandyFan: NO!!!! It was all fake???? They were fake dating? They were faking us? No, no, no.

  @LovesListsofMen: Do you mean YES???? It means he’s single.

  @GossipLover1andOnly: Single and going right back on my Single and Hot in the City list.

  @ManCandyFan: Put him at the top. But also, NOOO!!!! They were such a cute couple.

  @CheetahNoah: They seemed real to me. So real. I don’t know about this new intel. Are we sure? Like, really sure? Super sure?

  @MenAreJerks: He’s a douche. This proves his douchiness.

  @PeopleAreJerks: Um, hello? She’s a douche too. She’s just as bad. They both lied to us. They totally lied. And I’m sad, sad, sad, but not surprised.

  @ILoveJerks: I love liars. They are so hawt.

  @IloveCockyJackholes: OMG, yes. Liars are like the hottest guys ever. They lie, and they look good lying. And he sure looks delish lying.

  @DownwithDouches: Look at this picture of them eating cookie batter. I hate them.

  @ILoveJerks: Would eat cookie batter off his chest. Even with raw eggs in it.

  @MenAreJerks: I would eat it off her chest.

  @DownwithDouches: Also, her ring looks fake. I bet it’s cubic zirconia.

  @FanofNietzsche: What did I tell you about jerks? Jerks are always the hotties. And jerks always win. And he won. The hot jerk got the hot girl, and they hoodwinked us all. Once again, it’s the universe’s way of reminding us that nihilism is alive and well.

  @QuestionEverything22: Or maybe that they are pranksters?

  @DownwithDouches: They pranked us! Let’s start a movement to stop pranksters. Also, I zoomed in on her ring from the hockey game. TOTAL FAKE, like they are.

  @HZRedhead: Ahem. We stopped the pranksters. You’re welcome.

  @TheThird: Yes. You see, we had a feeling, Hazel and I. We sensed they were faking it. So we followed them. And then we caught them on camera. They tried to trick us all. But guess who’s getting the last laugh?

  @HZRedhead: We are. We’re cackling as we sit in a coffee shop writing this and smooching and enjoying the satisfaction of exposing two douchey jerk canoes who tried to trick us all!

  @ManCandyFan: Umm, aren’t you married, @TheThird?

  @TheThird: Happily divorced and enjoying my new girl. We fell in love as we took down the fake fiancées. NO ONE should lie about love.

  @HZRedhead: Love is beautiful and true. Like you.

  @TheThird: No, like you. <3

  I yank on boxer briefs one-handed while scrolling, slack-jawed, through my phone.

  “The internet must end,” I say.

  “Like my dreams are ending. This is terrible,” she says, hunting around for clothes in a hurry, finding her purse where she stashed her sundress from the thrift shop. She tugs it over her head, then borrows some boxer briefs from me and retrieves her wet dress and underthings from the bathroom. The briefs on under her dress are kind of an odd look, but, hey, desperate times.

  And they’re definitely desperate when I see there’s a message from my newest client on my phone. It’s three words long.

  Is this true?

  And another from Helen Williams Designs asking me to call her.

  Then Summer wags her phone. “Look at this.” Her breath catches, and her face twists in a wince as she shove
s the screen at me.

  It’s a message from The Dating Pool.

  The note is terse, to the point.

  This email is to inform you that both the Best Dates piece and your winnings from the essay contest have been canceled, your entries disqualified.

  And one from her mother too. She thrusts that at me next.

  Honey, are you all right? My book club is forwarding me a lot of strange tweets. I told them that I would know if you were engaged or if you were faking it. So let me know which it is. Love you, Mom.

  “I need to go.” Her voice cracks, and she covers her mouth with her hand.

  “Yeah, I need to deal with this too.” I scramble to get dressed, cursing as I tug on jeans then a shirt. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Not a single bit of it.”

  She freezes. “What?”

  “The whole thing. It’s a fucking shitshow.”

  She swallows roughly then nods. “I didn’t mean for any of it to happen either. None of it.” She grabs her purse and says, “I’ll talk to you later.”

  Then she marches out, stopping at the door to turn and offer a helpless shrug. “I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”

  “It’s my fault,” I argue, but the door’s falling shut behind her.

  Out in the hall, her phone rings, and I hear her ask, “What’s going on, Roxanne?”

  36