Nicole

We barbecue on a friend’s rooftop, and we screw. We go lingerie shopping, and we do it. One evening, we see a revival of Private Lives at the Neil Simon Theater, and Ryder takes me backstage afterward to meet the director, Davis Milo, who happens to be a good friend of his.

“Your work is amazing. I loved Crash the Moon,” I gush, mentioning a musical he recently won a Tony for. “Almost as much as I loved what you just did with Noel Coward’s work.”

He nods a thank you. “I’m thrilled to hear you enjoyed both. I had good material to work with.”

He’s as humble as he is handsome.

“Speaking of good material, I’ve been enjoying your radio show these days,” Davis tells Ryder as the men do their man-hug thing.

“Good to hear. And if you ever want to commission my life story for Broadway, you know where to find me,” Ryder says.

Davis laughs. “Indeed. Finding the cocky bastard to play you will be the real challenge.”

Ryder laughs. “Just find the most handsome fella around, and you’re good.”

Davis turns to me with a sly smile. “You agree with his casting strategy?”

I run a hand down Ryder’s arm. “I agree wholeheartedly.”

When we leave the theater, Ryder has a town car waiting for us—one with a partition. We make excellent use of the private life we temporarily have in the backseat of the sleek, black auto that cruises through Manhattan. I’m not taking any chances. Just like last month, we’ve been doing it every night in the middle of my cycle. I’m not going to risk missing the window in case it turns out I ovulate early or late. I like to think I’m being thorough.

I’m also just the slightest bit addicted to sex with Ryder.

The next evening, we come up with the genius idea to play spin the bottle with an empty Pinot Grigio from my pre-baby-making days.

Cross-legged on my floor, I spin. It lands on Ruby, and I laugh. “Does that mean I kiss the dog?”

“Do it.”

I bend to her and kiss her soft snout. Next, I plant a wet, slobbery kiss on Ryder’s lips. He returns my lip-lock with an equally tongue-drenched one. When we break the kiss, he says, “Bet you thought I’m one of those guys who doesn’t want to be kissed after you’ve just kissed a dog.”

“The thought actually never occurred to me.”

“Let the record reflect, I don’t mind at all.”

It’s his turn to spin, and the amber glass bottle whizzes in four or five speedy rotations. After it slows, it settles on my door. “Is that your subtle way of kicking me out?” He shoots me a skeptical stare.

“Oh yes. I weighted the bottle because I just don’t have it in me to send you on your way. I had to have the bottle do it.”

He grabs at his crotch. “I’ll just take my sperm and go, then.”

“No, not the sperm, not the sperm,” I tease.

He points to the bottle. “By the way, how the fuck do you play spin the bottle with two people?”

I laugh and shrug. “I don’t actually know.”

“Shame on you. I’m going to tell Cal there is something you don’t know about dating games.”

“Ooh. Those are fighting words.” I stretch my arm to my coffee table and grab my phone, googling spin the bottle for couples. A few Pinterest boards turn up first, and I click on the photos. I zoom in on one from a dating site. It goes with an article called “Date Nights for Couples.”

Hmm. That doesn’t entirely apply. We’re not a couple. Still, I enlarge the photo. It’s a pink homemade board. “Ah, here’s how you do it. You make a game board of challenges.”

“Like what? Like take off your bra, or give me a kiss?”

I study the board. “Basically. But there are others, like truth or dare, or slow dancing, or hold hands during the next turn, or coupon for massages.”

He scoffs. “I remember spin the bottle being more fun in middle school.”

“I had my first kiss during a spin-the-bottle game.”

“Yeah? What was his name? How was it?”

“Peter Lansing. He was this beanpole of a seventh-grade boy. He had braces. I was so terrified of them getting stuck to my lips that I gave him a quick peck and then scurried back to my spot.”

Ryder huffs. “Great. Now I’m jealous of Peter Lansing.”

I shove his shoulder. “You’re jealous of a skinny thirteen-year-old who didn’t even get tongue?”

“Evidently,” he says, grabbing the bottle and setting it on the coffee table. He tugs me up, and before I know what’s happening, he’s scooped me into his arms.

“What was that for?” I ask, wondering why he’s holding me as if he’s going to carry me over the threshold.

“This is my version of spin the bottle,” he says, his voice deep and husky. “Every single piece on the board is the same. Fucking you.”

Shivers sweep down my arms.

He carries me to my bedroom and sets me on the bed. He strips me, spending extra time on the red, lacy bra I bought when we went lingerie shopping. “That’ll cover the taking-off-your-bra piece,” he says, as he cups my breasts, making me moan as he kneads them.

“And this will take care of another one,” he says as he drops a kiss on my lips. His kiss is hungry and fevered, and my back arches as he consumes my mouth.

He lets go and brings his mouth to my neck, leaving a hot trail of kisses in his wake. My hands dart out, and quickly I undress him, too.

We are naked together once more. He grasps my hips to move me up the bed. “Truth or dare. Do you want me to come inside you now?”

“So badly.”

He shakes his head, plants his hands on my knees, and opens my legs. “Wrong answer.”

“How was that wrong? That’s what I always want.”

“And you’ll get it. But you come first. Always.”

He stares at me with such heat in his eyes, such fire in the blue sky of his irises. I’ve never felt so wanted in my life. It floors me that I asked him to give me something tremendous, and yet here I am with a man who’s ravenous for me. He climbs over me, straddling my thighs as he runs a hand up and down his gorgeous cock. I writhe as I watch him.

“You like this, baby?” He grips himself with a tight fist.

“Yes. God, yes.”

“You want it, don’t you?”

I lift my hips in answer. He stares down at the wetness between my legs. His throat rumbles. “So fucking pretty.”

“Please,” I moan, begging.

His hand slides up and down his hard-on. “In my game, we’ve just landed on make her come.”