Page 6 of The Engagement Gift
“I have one for mine,” she said coyly. Her hazel eyes darkened with frustration. “Trouble is, nothing is getting checked off these days. So, let’s check off yours.”
“Ah, so you are going to spreadsheet my sex life,” I teased.
“Hell, yeah. The sum of column A with your threesome fantasy plus column B with asking for it equals column C: extreme pleasure.”
“Right . . . because there are no variables to account for, like, ahem, emotions such as jealousy and so on.”
She held up a finger to make a point. “Ah, but let me remind you—when you told him a year ago that you had role-playing fantasies, what exactly did your fabulous man do?”
My skin tingled from the memory. “He gave them to me,” I said, a grin tugging at my lips as I remembered the night I’d divulged all those naughty fantasies to him. We’d gone dancing at Edge, our favorite club. We loved going to clubs. Loved the sultry vibe, the techno beat, the low lights, the way the bodies grinding together unlocked secret desires.
On the dance floor, I’d unleashed my after-hours imagination. I want to pretend. I want to go home, or go out, or go to the car, and I want to enact all sorts of sexy scenarios, I’d said, the mojito lubricating my lips, freeing my dirty thoughts.
I’d detailed them all.
His answer?
I’ll be your cop. I’ll lock you up till you beg for release.
I’ll be your teacher and spank your luscious ass on my desk.
We’ll play doctor, and I’ll eat your beautiful pussy till you come all over my exam table.
Kate lifted the mug to her lips and took a drink, her eyes twinkling. “And did you enjoy the benefits of him giving you all your dreams come true?”
I laughed at the way it sounded like a fairy tale.
In some ways, my life had become one. After the dark beginning of my twenties and the rocky path I’d traveled, I’d reached the other side and found mad love, along with filthy, fabulous sex.
I didn’t need to rock the boat.
“I have nothing to complain about,” I mused.
Kate inched closer. “Maybe, just maybe, you could let him know that you might like to bring in some company.” She crossed her legs, took a sip, and issued the most knowing of knowing looks.
I shuddered at the prospect of two guys taking care of me. I didn’t need them to touch each other. I didn’t want them to touch each other. But I longed to be touched by two gorgeous men at once. As I pictured company in bed, my skin tingled and my pulse spiked. I tried to shake off the endorphin rush, even though my libido was a dirty devil, whispering in my ear for more.
Still, my love for my man was the angel telling me to be good, and the angel won out. “I hear you, but some things are better left unsaid.”
* * *
As I returned to the office, I reminded myself of all the reasons to keep my thoughts to myself.
It’s just a fantasy. That’s all. I’ll live if I don’t have it. Besides, I need to focus on this story for work, and wedding prep, and a million other things. There was no time to entertain the idea of threesomes.
I answered a text from my friend Nina asking for advice on which new pair of glasses to buy. The images she sent me made me smile—goofy selfies of her trying on horn-rimmed glasses then red cat-eye ones.
Lily: You look HAWT in the cat-eye ones. Like the sexy nerd you are.
Nina: Oh, good. I want to look nerdier.
Lily: Sexier! You look sexier, goofball!
Nina: Great. Then I’ll use these specs to seduce all the hot tech nerds at my office.
Lily: What a perfect plan!
I set my phone down and dove into my report for Sports Network on the looming major league trade deadline, then did some prep work for an upcoming conference I was leading in our hometown. I reached out to a few sports agents I knew, inviting them to a panel.
There.
That was who I was. Lily Whiting, a friend who gave fashion advice. Lily Whiting, a sports reporter who was professional and direct, outgoing and businesslike. That was what the world saw. And as I stared at the e-mail I’d just sent, it put my dirty thoughts into sharp relief.
How could I be the woman who interviewed athletes and general managers, invited top agents to intensive conferences, discussed the dynamics of the business of sports, but behind closed doors I was this . . . wild thing?
A wild thing who fantasized about sex on balconies as strangers watched.
A voracious creature who loved to pretend she’d been bad, so bad, and needed to be punished with bites and swats and hair pulls so hard she screamed.
