Ryder

As I round the corner, I check my messages again. Still no word from Nicole, and I know today is the day. I stuff the phone into my back pocket, reasoning that can only mean good news. She’s probably caught up in the excitement. I bet she cabbed it to her mom’s house already and they’re shopping for baby blankets or maternity clothes. Does it make me a complete dick if maternity clothes give me the willies?

Look, I’m not saying pregnant women aren’t hot. Some are sexy as fuck, and Nicole would look smoking hot as a pregnant chick with a giant basketball belly and those perfect tits. All I mean is, I’d rather not see her in clothes with a pouch just yet.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

I do sound like a dick. Even in my own head.

While I’m at it, I guess I might as well make all my asshole confessions as I weave through the Monday morning crowds on the way to work. God knows, when I get to the office, I’ll have to put on my good-boy cap. But here goes. There’s a part of me that hopes she’s not pregnant.

I drag a hand through my hair as I march up the avenue.

I can’t believe I just thought that. But let the wild rumpus of dickhead ideas roam free in my brain. I really enjoyed fucking her, and I wouldn’t mind trying to score a touchdown a few more times inside her. The nights with her were everything I could want—amazing evenings with a wonderful woman, the hottest sex of my life, plus some of the best conversations in the post-fornication glow.

Nicole and I get each other on an instinctual level. Not just in bed, but out of it, and I will miss that.

I will miss having her.

When I reach the office, I shove those notions aside. Surely Nicole is in the family way, and I’m going to be the most enthusiastic sperm donor ever in the history of sperm donors.

I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and go inside. I say hello to the receptionist, make idle hallway chitchat with a few co-workers, then check my phone one more time. Still nothing. She’s probably not even here. I bet she took the day off to celebrate her good news.

I head to her office and tap on the door. A weak voice says, “I’m busy.”

My heart falls, and I know instantly that it didn’t work. “Nicole, it’s me.”

There’s a honk as if she’s blowing her nose.

She pulls open the door, and her smile is the most plastic thing I’ve seen. My poor girl. She’s so sad, and she’s trying so hard to be tough. I close the door behind us, lock it, and gather her into my arms.

“I’m sorry, baby.” I stroke her hair, and it occurs to me I’ve called her baby when we’re not screwing. In the heat of the moment, I just say it and it feels right. But at this moment, too, it feels surprisingly right.

“It’s okay,” she mutters, but her voice hitches.

“I know how much you wanted this. I thought it was going to happen,” I say softly in her ear. I wish I could take away her sadness.

“Me, too.”

She doesn’t cry, though. She lets me hold her, and she wraps her arms around me. As much as I wanted to have her again, I’d rather she be happy. I’d rather all her dreams come true.

She raises her face. “Want to know what really sucks?”

“Tell me.” I tuck a finger under her chin, meeting her eyes.

“I feel so stupid.” Her lips quiver.

“Don’t say that. Why would you say that?”

She swipes at her cheek. “I really thought it worked. I was so foolish. I know better, Ryder.” She grips my shirt. “I’m supposed to be this smart and rational woman, and instead, I became a fluttery, hopeful fool. I couldn’t imagine any other outcome than wonderful beginner’s luck.”

She rolls her eyes.

“You’re not a fool,” I say, soothing her as I rub her shoulders. “You’re just a normal person who wanted something badly. You stayed positive and believed in the possibilities. That doesn’t make you foolish. It makes you human.”

“It makes me idiotic. I should have known better. Instead, I practically walked around Manhattan with a hand on my belly, dreaming.” She lets out a long, frustrated sigh.

“Stop saying that. There’s nothing wrong with wanting something. So often we think we need to temper our hope so we’re prepared for bad news. Guess what? Bad news hurts whether you’re prepared for it or not. There’s nothing wrong with hoping for the best.”

“Ryder,” she whispers, “I feel so dumb.”

My heart aches for her. I press a kiss to her forehead. “You’re anything but that. It didn’t happen the first time. So we try again.”

She rests her cheek against my chest and breathes in heavily then sighs against me. All of a sudden, she flinches and looks up. “I didn’t even ask if you mind if we keep trying. I just assumed.”

I grin. “You know what they say about when you assume.”

“You’ll make an ass of you and me?”

I shake my head, giving her a naughty look. “No. When you assume, it means I get to bite your ass.”

When she smiles what is clearly a please-bite-my-ass yes, it lights me up in a whole new way. Different than before. Not just in a physical way, but inside my chest, like a lightbulb is glowing.

It’s such a strange sensation, and I’m not sure what to make of it. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Wallowing in ice cream.”

I mime hitting a buzzer. “Wrong. It’s date night. I’m taking you cupcake tasting. Call me sexist, but I’m going to presume since it’s that time of the month that you don’t mind eating sweets.”

She runs her hand down my arm. “Let me tell you something, handsome, so you never have to make any assumptions about sweets and me.” She pats her stomach. “I’ve got an equal opportunity belly. Any time of the month you can put sweets in me.”

“I’ve got something I’d like to put in you,” I say, because I can’t resist.

I could watch her eat cupcakes all day long. She dips her finger into the pink frosting and sucks it off with a low, sexy moan.

Or maybe that’s why I could watch her eat cupcakes anytime. Because she’s fucking torturing me. Making me think of sucking. And licking. And how far she could take me.

I’m sitting in a white and pink cupcake shop, surrounded by families, little kids squealing over mini chocolate cupcakes, moms and dads scarfing down confetti cupcakes, and I’m aroused. Under the white wood table, I make an adjustment. Good thing we grabbed a spot in the corner, far away from everyone. Pop music plays overhead, and the scent of sugar wafts through the air.

Nicole lifts the pink cupcake and darts her tongue along the frosting. “You’re going to need to stop making love to the frosting,” I whisper harshly.

She shoots me a naughty little glare. “But it’s soooo good,” she says, the same, drawn-out way she says it feels soooo good when I fuck her.

I drag a hand over my face as I slump back in the chair. “You’re killing me.”

“How does tonight rank on your dates list, then?” She winks.

I laugh. “With your cupcake antics, it’s pretty damn high. The trouble is, I’m still turned on, so how about we discuss something non-arousing?”

“Basketball? Sweaty gym shoes? Oh, wait. I know.” Her eyes light up with a wicked flare. “My neighbor Frederick.”

“And his plunger.” I raise my index finger and then let it droop. “You have successfully entered the anti-erection zone.”

She smiles and reaches a hand across the table, squeezing mine. “And you have successfully lifted my spirits.”

I look down at the table then up at her. Her eyes are wide and vulnerable, full of emotion. “I’m glad, Nicole. I don’t like it when you’re sad.”

“Seriously. I’m so grateful. I’m still completely bummed that it didn’t work, but you made me feel good tonight.” Her voice hooks into me, stirring some emotions best forgotten. Maybe that’s because this whole arrangement with her feels so real, so honest. The way she talks, her openness about her heart—it’s the complete opposite of my cagey, clandestine ex.

“It’s the frosting that’s making you happy. Let’s give credit where credit’s due.” I try to make light of things, but she won’t have it.

“It’s you. It’s completely you,” she says, leveling me with her intense eyes. “But the frosting is really good, too.”

I clear my throat. “When do we start up again?” I don’t want to sound too eager, but I could seriously screw her every night.

She looks at an imaginary watch. “Ten days?”

“You have ten-day periods?”

She shudders in mock horror. Or perhaps real horror. “God, no. I’m just thinking that’s about when we head into the fertility zone again.”

“Right. Got it.” I snap my fingers in an aw shucks gesture. “I was hoping you’d say ten hours. Wait. Ten minutes.”

“You have no idea what I would give for a ten-minute period. I’d give up frosting.” After another bite of her cupcake, she pushes the plate aside and her expression shifts. “I want to ask you something.”

“You want more than my boys? Want a liver and a side of kidney, too? Sheesh. You’re demanding.”

She laughs but quickly stifles the sound. “I don’t know exactly how to broach this, so I’m going to be blunt.”

“Ah, unlike all the other times you’ve asked me something,” I tease, even as my shoulders tense. It’s a gut reaction—when people say they need to broach a topic, it’s often one you don’t want to hear.

She smiles faintly. “I’m not exactly known for beating around the bush. But I realized there’s an important item we didn’t entirely discuss.”

I wait for her to continue.

“I hope you know I’m not sleeping with anyone else,” she says.

I flinch. “You better not be.”

“Trust me, you wear me out. And I suppose it should be obvious that for the purpose of this arrangement, there’s no way in hell I’d sleep with anyone else. It’s not something I’d do under any circumstances. Still, since we’ve been so direct from the start, I thought it best to make it clear that I am not dating, seeing, sleeping with, kissing, or getting involved with anyone else in any way, shape, or form. I don’t know if it’s reasonable for me to expect you to be exclusive to me when we’re in the middle of this project,” she says, taking a beat, “but I’m sincerely hoping you’re—”

I can’t even let her finish. I hold up a hand as a stop sign. “My ex-wife cheated on me seven times. I will never touch anyone else while I’m with you.”

Her eyebrows shoot into her hairline. She mouths wow.

“Pretty shitty, huh?”

A long nod is her answer. “That’s pretty much the definition of shitty. And part of me wants to ask how anyone could cheat on you? But that makes the cheating about you when it’s about her and the horrible choices she made.”

Relief floods me. The times I’ve told people, I hear how they’re sorry, how it sucks, or disbelief that someone could do what Maggie did. But Nicole gets it. Maggie’s crime isn’t a reflection on me. It’s a reflection on Maggie. “She made a lot of bad choices because she’s a sex addict. And I don’t mean that in an ‘Oh, cool, she’s a nympho’ way. It’s not that she wanted to screw constantly. She was addicted to affairs. She craved the chase. She wanted to reel in a new man, over and over. She needed constant affirmation, and she sought it by finding other people.”

Nicole sighs heavily, her brow knitting. “Did she seek therapy? Is she trying to change?”

I shrug. “I think so. She tried to convince me to stay while she went to rehab. But I didn’t want to be with her. And I had no interest in giving her another chance even when she begged me to.”

“I can certainly understand that. I wouldn’t have, either.”

“The funny thing is, you asked about that zing. About being in love. Obviously, I was in love with her, since I married her. But let me tell you, falling out of love was the easiest thing in the world. She made it a complete piece of cake since I can’t love a cheater.”

Nicole nods, her tone serious as she says, “Addiction or not, you don’t break a vow.”

“It’s so simple. Fidelity is so goddamn simple. You keep it in your pants. Case closed.” I take a beat and stare into her eyes. “You can count on me to be faithful. I don’t have any desire to be with anyone else, and I also won’t do that.”

“You don’t miss dating?” she asks like she feels bad for holding me back.

“What is this thing we’re on? Chopped liver?”

“You know what I mean. A date that goes somewhere.”

For a second, I linger on the somewhere. I start to imagine I’m on the path to somewhere with Nicole. Somewhere beyond cupcakes and Knicks games. But that’s probably just all the frosting and sugar going to my head.

“Our dates go to your bedroom,” I say with confidence. “This is about as perfect as dating gets.”

“Good.” She gives me a sly smile. “By the way, do you know what shark week means?”

“No sex?” I say, adopting the mopiest look ever.

“Let’s get out of here, and I’ll show you.”

Her hands are the fastest draw in the west when we reach my place. My belt’s undone, my jeans are unzipped, and my briefs are down. My cock salutes her. I’m ready. Just fucking ready, and she knows it. She has no need to kiss me all over or drag her nails down my chest.

I wouldn’t object to either, but I want her wicked mouth on me. Stat. “You toyed with me that first night, Nicole.”

She drops to her knees. “I did. I wanted to know how you tasted.”

“Now you’re going to find out.”

“I. Can’t. Wait.”

She wraps a soft hand around the base of my dick, and I hiss. Her lips part and she flicks her tongue over the head. I groan. She takes me in, sucking on the crown of my cock.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter as I grab her hair, threading my fingers through those red strands as she kisses the tip. She lets go and runs her tongue along the underside. Shocks of pleasure rocket through me. It’s so fucking good.

She licks all the way down to my balls, then draws one into her mouth and sucks hard. Electricity shoots through me. “That’s so fucking hot.”

Her eyes dance with mischief as she sucks, her hand curling into a tight grip as she shuttles her fist up and down my shaft. My thighs shake as I watch her. No way am I closing my eyes. No way am I doing anything but staring at her lush mouth playing with my dick. When she lets go of my balls, she wastes no time. She doesn’t tease. She doesn’t toy. She opens wide.

I curl my fingers around her skull. “Want to be in all the way.”

Her eyes twinkle as if she’s saying in due time. But due time is now. I’m a horny fucking bastard in general. That’s amplified ten times over with this wildly sexual woman. And God bless her, she doesn’t make me wait. Her warm mouth becomes a tunnel for my dick. I moan my appreciation, and then she does the sexiest thing ever. She lifts her hands and clamps them over mine on her head. She moves our fingers so I’m thrusting deep into her mouth. She drops hers, giving me control, giving me permission to fuck her mouth.

I shudder as my dick hits the back of her throat. Her eyes water and I pull back. “You okay?”

She nods, and her eyes are blazing. They say do it again. I grip her head tighter and pump. She gags a bit, but she grabs my ass, her nails digging into my flesh, urging me on. I give in to all my base desires, and she lets me. She stops to take one quick breath, then she opens wide, offering me full access to her delicious mouth.

My skin sizzles. Sensations speed into overdrive. My body goes haywire. I am nothing but a collection of nerve endings, firing at once, as I fuck her lovely, gorgeous, willing mouth.

“So fucking good,” I grunt as I rock into her.

She answers me with a hard grab of her nails, a scratch on my skin. Her touch torches me all over and obliterates any last hold I have on the here and now. Release is imminent. Pleasure thunders across my body, and I groan loudly as I come. My thighs shake, and I breathe so fucking hard as I pull back, let go, and watch my dick fall from her mouth.

“Wow,” I say, still seeing stars.

She grins and licks her lips, like a cat finishing his dish of cream. “Guess you like blow jobs.”

“I fucking love blow jobs. But I’m in love with your blow jobs. Madly in love.” I offer a hand and tug her up from the floor. Cupping her cheeks, I look into her eyes and murmur, “Thank you.”

She laughs. “You don’t have to thank me for a blow job.”

“I know, but I’m thanking you for trusting me to do it like that. To do it hard.”

“Don’t you know? I trust you completely.”

For a second, I tense when I hear that vicious word. Trust is a farce in my universe. And yet, when I’m with her, I feel it. I trust in what we’re doing, in how we treat each other, in the openness of what we have, and the mutual understanding of what we don’t want to have. “I’m glad you trust me. It’s the same for me.”

She presses a soft kiss to my cheek. “And I want everything to feel good for you.”

“Oh, it felt more than good.”

“Better than frosting?” She arches a brow.

“It felt like the world was ending.”

She runs her hand over my abs, then along my happy trail. “Or maybe a week of blow jobs is beginning,” she says.

That’s how the next several nights go. We tackle a few more dates, including a night at the arcade and an epic game of mini golf. Each night ends with an absolutely spectacular, out-of-this-world blow job.

I hereby rename shark week to my favorite week ever—blow job week.