I AM WRECKED, ruined, and completely okay with it. I stay in Reese’s arms for what seems like hours after we both climax. He holds me, never asking me to move or shift in any way. I can feel him slowly getting hard again inside me, but he doesn’t push for us to do it again. He seems as content as I am, just softly stroking my back as my head nuzzles into his neck. I relish in his scent, the smell of him after sex. He still smells like citrus, but it’s mixed with sweat and I know right then that nothing will ever smell this good. Or feel this good. Which I hate myself for thinking. His air is the only air I want to breathe now, and it does me no good to think like this. But I can’t help it. I’m officially screwed and I know it.
We spend an hour on the couch together, laughing and talking as he holds me against him. I feel terribly embarrassed for not knowing minor details about the man who brought me the most pleasure I’ve ever experienced. Like the fact that he is thirty-one years old. He grew up in South Side and graduated from the University of Chicago when he was twenty-six with a Bachelor of Science Degree in Accounting and a Master’s in Business Administration. He made partner when he was twenty-eight which sounds like a major feat for someone so young. The man is as smart as he is attractive, and I feel completely relaxed listening to him talk about college and his family. He has a younger sister who lives in Detroit who is married with two kids, and his parents are still married after thirty-eight years and live in Maywood. I tell him about my parents and how they encouraged me to open my bakery. Being an only child, they are immensely proud of me and speak of me like I’ve invented a cure for cancer and not a fabulous white chocolate truffle recipe. We talk about how close I am with Juls and Joey, and how Juls and Ian are practically living together now. Inseparable and mad for each other. I tell him about my morning runs and how most days I wish I had an iPod to drown out Joey’s bitchy rants, but other days I enjoy them.
It is an amazing night, and not just because of the sex. I’ve never enjoyed just talking with someone the way I do with Reese. I don’t want to move at all. I could stay in his arms all night, but I know I shouldn’t. No sleepovers. After a few hours, I ask him to drive me home, and the look on his face when we pull up in front of the bakery is priceless. He had no idea I live here. Of course, he wouldn’t know that; you aren’t dating, Dylan. I kiss him briefly goodnight, wanting more than anything to invite him inside to see my place, but I don’t. I manage to be strong in this one moment. This is just sex, and if I want to keep doing this with Reese, I need to remember that.
I haven’t seen or talked to him since our amazing fuck fest on Tuesday, which is making things easier and harder at the same time. Easier because I’m realizing he sees this for what it is and it’s making me keep myself in check. And harder because a part of me doesn’t want him to see it this way anymore. I spend all day Wednesday staring at my cell phone, waiting for a text or a call from him, until I stupidly realize he never actually got my number from me. The one time he had called me, he’d called the shop directly.
Thursday, Joey and I are slammed with four consultations, two weddings, an anniversary cake, and a birthday cake request. The wedding consultations both take forever because the brides have decided to include the grooms’ inputs and no one can decide on anything. Luckily for me, Joey is great at getting people to compromise, a trait that I love more and more about him with each passing wedding consultation. After I’ve finished up with my meetings, I spend the rest of the evening in the kitchen throwing together the tarts I’d promised the gentleman on Monday. They’re relatively easy to make after I fuck up the first one royally. I end up using strawberries, kiwi, and mangos, and then top the tarts with an apricot jam. After managing to only eat one of them, I pass out in my bed and dream the same recurring Reese sex dreams, which keep getting better. I’ve stopped fighting it. It is useless really. Besides, the sleep I’m now getting is some of the best I’ve ever gotten. Especially when I wake up from an orgasm.
Standing behind the counter at eleven thirty a.m. on Friday, I let my mind wander to what Reese is doing at this exact moment. I can picture him strikingly sitting behind his desk, working on some audit or whatever and doing it in a way that only he can make sexy. His hair is a right sexy mess, his green eyes are narrowed in on his task, and his massive erection is waiting for me. The shop door opens and I shake my head to clear it.
“Something or someone on your mind, cupcake? I know that look.” Joey strolls in, returning from our favorite little sandwich shop down the street and placing the bag of the best chicken salad sandwiches in Chicago in front of me. My mouth begins to water at the smell and I suddenly realize that all I’ve eaten the past few days has been predominately sugar. I’m going to develop diabetes if I don’t watch myself.
“No, nothing on my mind except for this sandwich that I’m about to destroy.” The bell on the front door dings and I glance up, my heart thumping hard against my bones at the sight of the delivery man.
Joey hurriedly scurries to my side. “Ooohhh, goody. Today has sucked ass and I need something romantic from my favorite numbers guy.” The delivery man smiles and places a small brown envelope onto the counter, handing me a slip to sign on his clipboard.
“Your favorite numbers guy? And what about Billy?” I ask, handing the man back his paperwork and staring at him suspiciously when he doesn’t exit the shop.
“He’s not a numbers guy. He’s a lawyer. A hot ass lawyer who is taking me someplace uber fancy tonight.”
“Awesome. Did you need something else?” I ask the man who stands patiently waiting.
“I’ve been instructed to wait until after you’ve read the letter to leave,” he states nonchalantly.
“Oh, okay.” I turn to Joey who looks at me like he has no idea what is going on either as I open the envelope and pull out a small card. My heart begins hammering in my chest and I automatically reach up and place my free hand over it.
Dylan,
It’s come to my attention that the only number I have for you is the bakery number. Now how am I supposed to send you text messages saying I want you to sit on my face? Or I can’t stop thinking about the way it felt to be inside you? OR I want to see you sometime this weekend if you’re free. Please be free.
X Reese
P.S. If you would like these sorts of messages, please give your number to Fred.
Oh, man. I sigh loudly as Joey snatches the note out of my hand. Finding my notepad under the counter, I bite my cheek to stop from smiling so much as I scribble down my cell number and hand it directly to Fred, the delivery man.
“Thanks, Ms. Dylan. Have a great day,” he says, turning quickly and walking out of the shop.
“He wants you to sit on his face? Well, that’s it, Billy needs to take lessons from Reese on explicit letter writing.” He hands me back the note and I place it back in its small envelope, putting it under the counter where I’m now storing them in a small tin. “You know you’re practically swooning over there, right?” he says to me as I pull my hair up into a high messy bun.
“Swooning? Who the fuck says swooning? What are you, ninety?” I pull a few stray pieces out and tuck them behind my ears.
He pulls his sandwich out and hands me mine and we start digging in. “So, what did he mean by ‘the way it felt to be inside you’? I mean, you’ve already had sex with him, so why would he... oh... oh, my God. Did you fuck him without a condom?” He spits bits of chicken salad at me as he shouts hysterically.
“Jesus. Close your mouth. I’d prefer to not be covered in your sandwich.” Crap. I really didn’t want Joey to know about this, but I manage to forget how fucking insightful he is sometimes. I grunt loudly before I answer. “Even though it’s none of your business, yes, I did.” I make a face and wipe a hunk of mayo off my apron that had managed to hit me in the middle of my shop logo.
Slamming his hand on the counter for dramatic effect, like he needed it, he finally speaks after chewing and swallowing his bite. “That’s fucking huge and really fucking serious. I’ve never even done that. Shit, how was it? Good enough to swear off condoms permanently?” He smiles wickedly at me as I nod slowly.
“With him? Yes, absolutely. It was perfect.”
“So you two are officially a couple now? Fuck yes. That’s what I’m talking about, bitch.” He holds his hand up for me to high-five him. I shake my head as I chew up my bite. Damn it. Thanks for the reminder.
“No, we’re not a couple. We’re monogamously casual.” I take another bite of my to-die-for sandwich.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
I swallow my bite and stare at my sandwich, avoiding his judging stare. “It means we’re not serious, but we’re only sleeping with each other. So it’s still casual and only about sex.” I feel a sharp pain in my chest. “Now that we both have established that we’ll only be with each other in that way, we don’t have to use condoms. Besides, he was my first and I was his.” And that part right there eases that pain. I glance up at him and see his unconvinced expression.
“Umm, okay. Honestly, I think you’re both delusional if you think it’s casual for either one of you. You light up when you talk about this guy and he writes you love letters. Fuck the casual bullshit.” He crumbles up his wrapper and shoots it into the trashcan. “On another note, I think it’s really sweet that you were each other’s first times without it. I’m sure it meant just as much to him as it meant to you.”
I grumble loudly, “Shut up, it’s just sex. And he doesn’t write me love letters. He sends me flour and panties with tiny notes.”
“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that. Want something to drink?” he asks, moving toward the kitchen as my phone beeps in my pocket.
“Please,” I reply, pulling it out and seeing an unknown number.
Unknown: There you are. Now I don’t have to worry so much about Fred intercepting my letters to you.
I smile and type frantically.
Me: Here I am. And I happen to like your letters so I hope you don’t mind the risk of Fred intercepting them.
Reese: The risk is worth it, love. Can I see you this weekend?
Me: I think I can squeeze you in somewhere. I have a wedding cake to work on tonight, but I’m free tomorrow night.
Joey returns with two sodas and places one in front of me on the counter.
“Thanks. So, where are you and your hot ass lawyer going tonight?” I force myself to keep my eyes on Joey and not the phone that is in my hand.
He notices the struggle instantly. “Some ritzy Italian joint. And you don’t have to hide your enthusiasm about Reese texting you. I’m done trying to convince you it’s more than you’re both letting on.” He takes a sip of his soda and pulls his phone out, pointing to the clock on the wall and smiling wide.
“Sweet. Dance party time,” I squeal, setting my phone down on the counter as he docks his phone onto the speaker station and flips to a song.
Every Friday at noon, Joey and I dance and sing along to one song in the shop. It doesn’t matter if customers come in and it doesn’t matter how busy we are. We always make time for one song on Friday. A few months ago, I had an entire wedding party in here dancing along to “Locked out of Heaven” by Bruno Mars. It was awesome. Justin Timberlake’s “Love Stoned” blares through the speakers as I spin around and begin dancing and singing along to the lyrics with Joey.
I’m on a serious roll when he cuts the music and stands, staring at the shop door, the familiar hot guy in the building look on his face. Spinning around to see what the fuss is about, I see a very amused face staring at me. Smiling in a suit and tie, the attractive blond steps forward and tilts his head.
“Well, thank Christ I decided to stop in here during my lunch break. Otherwise, I might have missed that hot little show.” He steps closer to the counter and presses his hands on the top, causing me to stumble back a bit.
“Sweet Mother. You’re like a sexy man-magnet lately,” Joey mutters to me softly.
I clear my throat and smile. “Sorry about that. Can I help you?”
“I hope so, Dylan.” His eyes drop to my nametag and then flick back to my face. Good, but didn’t have the same effect as my name coming out of Reese’s mouth. He’s tall and blond, hair cut short and spiky with chiseled cheekbones and thin lips. “My father came in the other day and requested something. He’s not feeling well, so he sent me to come pick it up.” He glances down at the display case and then back up at my face. “Do you have any idea what I’m referring to because he wasn’t specific?”
I think for a minute before it dawns on me. “Oh, the tarts.” I shuffle quickly to the kitchen and bring out the container of treats. “I’m sorry to hear he isn’t feeling well.”
The man smirks. “Yeah, well, I can’t say I share your sympathy. His illness did bring me in here to see you.” He smiles wide, showing perfect teeth and winks at me. I shudder a bit.
“Jesus,” Joey utters as he steps behind the register. I ignore him and the comment from the man.
“Umm, well, the tarts are three seventy-five apiece. How many would he like?”
“I don’t know, three I guess? Can I get your number?”
I freeze midair as I’m reaching into the container to pick out the tarts. Jesus, Joey was right. I don’t think I’ve ever been this popular with men before. Quickly shaking off his question, I pull four tarts out of the container and place them into a pastry box as Joey rings him up.
“I’m seeing someone. Here you go, the fourth one’s free.” I push the box across the counter and meet his eyes. They’re the strangest color, a mix between mustard yellow and pale blue. It’s a bit unsettling and I quickly glance away.
“Well, that’s too bad. If he fucks up and you stop seeing him, give me a call.” He smiles and pulls a card out of his pocket, sliding it across the table. I glance down at it briefly before flicking my stare back up to him. There’s something about this guy that I find to be a major turn off, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. “Thanks for the tarts,” he says, turning and exiting the shop as I pick up his card.
“Bryce Roberts. Well, he was disturbingly forward.” Spinning around, I toss his card into the trashcan and dust my hands off, brushing the creepiness off my skin.
“Excuse you. Why are you throwing out a hot guy’s number? I thought you and Reese weren’t serious?” Joey pries as my phone beeps.
I reach excitingly for it and hear his quiet laugh. “I have the hottest guy’s phone number. I’m set.”
Reese: I’ll come to you. 8:00p.m.?
Me: Sounds perfect.
I work on the cake for the Smith/Cords wedding all night, finally passing out a little after two a.m. It’s one of the prettiest cakes I’ve made yet. The bride has requested edible cherry blossoms along the base of each tier, and I’ve surprised myself at just how realistic they’ve turned out. I snap a close-up picture of one before sending it to Reese, since he seems to appreciate my work. His response is nothing short of swoonworthy. Yes, now that word is being thrown around in my vocabulary as well.
Joey texts me early on Saturday and tells me he isn’t feeling well, thinking he had some bad food at the restaurant with Billy and is being taken care of in bed all day. I’m sure that means not just in a bring you chicken soup and popsicles kind of way. This means I’ll be making the cake delivery on my own today. I’m a bit nervous. I haven’t done this in years, the last time being when Joey spent a weekend with a very hot Greek guy he met at a club. They fucked and fought while I busted my ass trying to carry a six-tiered cake up a huge flight of stairs. He paid for that one for weeks.
I stare out at Sam through my shop window. The van is pulled up in front of the shop, back door wide open and ready for me to slide the cake inside. It’s almost noon and I need to leave now if I am going to make it to the reception hall to drop off the cake in time. Traffic is always a nightmare on Saturdays, and I know it’s going to take me longer than I would like to get there. I’m stalling, not really wanting to attempt to carry the cake by myself and possibly have a major mishap. “Damn it, Joey.” I grab my phone out of my pocket and scroll to my favorite wedding planner’s contact info.
“Hello, sweets,” she sings with her chipper I’m going to keep everybody in this goddamned wedding party calm voice. I chuckle into the phone.
“Hey. I’m just now leaving to drop the cake off, so I might be a bit late.”
“We’re running late as it is, so no worries. This fucking bride is driving me insane.” She sighs dramatically. “I seriously feel bad for her groom. Pretty sure he’s in for a lifetime of annoyance.” I hear commotion in the background and can only imagine what Juls is dealing with. She’s had some doozy brides.
I sigh in relief. “Thank God. I’m flying solo today since Joey is playing house with Billy. I really hate doing deliveries alone.”
I hear her gasp dramatically. “What are you doing? Go find the preacher. He’s been MIA for twenty minutes. Sorry, I gotta go, Dyl. This wedding isn’t going to start at all without me. Hey, are we still on for a much needed girls’ day tomorrow?”
I jump in excitement, almost having completely forgotten about the massages and facials we booked weeks ago after declaring how little we see of each other. “Yes. I’m so ready for the spa and my Juls time. Good luck with your nightmare bride.”
“Thanks, I’ll need it. Bye, sweets.”
I click end and turn around, staring the cake down as it sits on my side table that I do consultations at. “All right, it’s just you and me. Don’t fucking piss me off and I won’t eat you. Got it?”
I prop the front door open and drop down, carefully and oh, so slowly picking up the cake and carrying it out to Sam’s back door. Setting it down on the ledge, I ease it inside while holding my breath and saying every prayer I can think of silently. After successfully putting it where I want it, I close my eyes tightly and force the air out of my lungs. Okay, half the battle’s over. Moving the holder in place that keeps the cakes from sliding all around the back of the van, I secure everything tightly and close the back doors. Spinning around to walk to the driver’s side, I’m halted immediately as I run straight into a brick wall of a chest. Oh, terrific.
“Jesus Christ, Justin, you scared the shit out of me.” I push away from him as he lets out a small annoying laugh.
“Sorry, Dyl pickle.”
Ugh. I hate when he calls me that. I haven’t been able to eat a dill pickle in two years.
“What do you want? I’m running late and really don’t have time to chat.” Nor do I want to. I move to step around him when his arm shoots out and grips my waist. “What the hell? What are you doing?”
“Oh, come on, baby. I saw the way you looked at me at the wedding.” He pins me against the van, grinding his erection into my hip. I’m struggling against him, but his grip is firm. Really firm. “You still want this. I can tell.”
“Are you insane? Get the fuck off me!” I yell, whipping my head from side to side at the dead street around us. Figures, any other time of day people are bustling up and down the sidewalks. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I know you prefer married men now. Give it up, baby. It’s all good. Sara apparently likes to fuck around behind my back, so I can do the same to her.” His breath reeks of alcohol and my shoulders begin to burn where he’s squeezing me, pressing my body into the side of my van. He runs his tongue over my ear and I buck against him. “Still sweet.”
I continue pushing against his chest, trying to back him off a bit. “You’re disgusting. I’m not interested. I’ll never be interested again. Fuck, you’re hurting me, Justin. Let go!” His fingers are digging into my skin and I want to cry, but I somehow manage to hold it in. I’ve cried enough over this asshole.
He pulls me toward him and then slams me once more against the van, this time knocking the air out of my lungs and dropping me to my knees. I fall over onto my side, gasping for air as he bends down and leans his face into mine. “Your loss,” he whispers and storms away as I finally take in enough air to calm my screaming lungs. I cough and wheeze, clutching at my chest as I struggle to pull myself up onto my feet. What the fuck? What just happened? Justin turned psychotic; that’s what happened. My entire body is in pain and I want to go back inside and nurse my wounds, but I can’t.
“Fucking hell,” I whimper as I climb into Sam and start him up. I pull the visor down and quickly try to recover my appearance so I don’t look like I just got molested in the street. My hair is a mess, completely unraveled from my bun and my face is streaked with makeup. I wipe under my eyes, removing my mascara, and clean up the rest of my face. Peeling my top down to reveal my shoulder, I wince at the bright red fingertip-sized marks that are highly visible. “Jesus Christ. That fucking prick.” I pull my shirt back up and cover them up quickly, resting my head back and taking in several slow deep breaths. That bastard. I’m going to dismember him the next time I see him. I shake my head and fix my hair. I can’t deal with this right now; I have a job to do and I need to fucking do it. I push the events that just transpired out of my mind and pull away from the curb and to a wedding where, hopefully, the only dick the bride will be sucking will be her husband’s.