Thanks For Last Night: A Guys Who Got Away Novel Read online

  I don’t need to have tossed out the ceremonial first pitch at Dodger Stadium to know that it would be an all-time highlight if I did.

  And there’s one more thing.

  I don’t need to have had great sex to know I’d love it.

  I’m confident I’d absolutely, completely fucking adore, worship and revere it.

  But much like zip-lining in Costa Rica or being front row at a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert, great sex is an incredible life event I know exists. It’s just one I’ve never experienced.

  Not that I haven’t had sex at all. Far from it. I just haven’t had that toe-curling, moan-inducing, leg-shaking kind I’ve heard so much about. And I have heard about it, because I listen. But all that listening hasn’t translated into great sex.

  Yet.

  And that’s not due to lack of enthusiasm on my part. I’d happily enter into a booty boot camp, take a coitus crash course, or study up in a love making masterclass until I’ve got this thing dialed in once and for all.

  But I haven’t had the chance.

  Which is a head-scratching travesty, but it happens, okay?

  Like, if you get involved in a long-term relationship with a woman who’s only into sex every other Saturday night, and who only wants missionary, and only with the lights off.

  That rule of the bedroom with my ex was, admittedly, bumpy to navigate. Because lights are awesome, what with the way they illuminate the female form and all its curves, dips and delicious valleys.

  Also, what the hell was up with the nighttime-only law? I’m sure I’d be super into afternoon delights.

  Morning bangs too. My dick certainly seems interested in the a.m.

  But hey, I loved her, so I went along with the pencil-in-sex calendar approach.

  Twice a month was better than, God forbid, the Gobi Desert of once every four weeks.

  Or worse, the vast arctic wasteland of once a year.

  My thoughts and prayers go out to all the dudes suffering from birthday-only boinking.

  But I know that sex shouldn’t be on a schedule. Or if it is, the schedule should be part of the foreplay, like sending dirty daytime texts to your partner about what you’re going to do at ten o’clock at night when you finally see each other after a full day of being driven mad with desire.

  That kind of planning is the hella sexy kind.

  And when sex does happen, it shouldn’t be in the same position every single time. It should be imaginative.

  It should be raw.

  And I’m pretty damn sure sex should also be fun.

  You know what’s not fun?

  Finding my girlfriend and the dog walker brings new meaning to the phrase doggie style.

  At least they weren’t using a leash.

  Why didn’t Rex tell me he wasn’t getting walked? Poor pooch needed his exercise, and all he was doing was chasing his tail while the ex was giving hers away.

  I can’t be mad at Rex, though. Not the little dude’s fault he was getting stiffed at the same time she was.

  But hey, everything happens for a reason, right? I like to believe that anyway.

  They say good guys finish last, but I don’t believe that. When a good guy finds the right woman, they can both finish. Together. A lot.

  So, here I am, twenty-eight, single AF, and absolutely ready to find the right woman who’ll practice until perfect with me. And then practice some more: every position, kink, and dirty deed.

  I’m positive my time has come. That my luck is due for a change. And it feels like I’m holding the winning lottery ticket when a sexy, sweet, sarcastic, brunette walks into my life, and all I can think is yes, yes, yes, it’s about fucking time.

  Then I learn exactly who she is.

  She is sexy, sweet, and sarcastic, but she is also . . . one hundred percent forbidden.

  Which means I’m back to square one.

  Until the night she issues me a challenge I can’t refuse.

  * * *

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