GETTING PLAYED (GETTING SOME, BOOK 2)

Lainey

June

Sometimes life surprises you.

I never really understood that expression. I happen to think life surprises us all the time. Every day. In big ways and small ways—awful ways and beautiful ways.

For some—like my Great-Granny Annie—just waking up in the morning was a surprise. “The old ticker’s still tocking. Isn’t that nice?” she would say as she waddled out to breakfast behind her walker.

Until the day she didn’t waddle out to breakfast. Because Great-Granny Annie’s old ticker had ticked its last toc. And even that was surprising, in its own way.

Sometimes it’s the flower we spot growing through the sidewalk crack or the coffee spillage on our white shirt as we drive into work. It’s the

awesome sunglasses we thought we’d lost that show up in last year’s coat pocket—or even better—the twenty bucks we didn’t know we had showing up in last week’s jeans. It’s the car accident, the lottery win, the call from an old friend, the Nickelback song we always secretly loved but haven’t heard in forever coming on the radio.

It’s all surprising—every moment. Life can be a bitch . . . but she’s never boring.

A few weeks ago, I got a big surprise. The chance for my life to take a completely unexpected turn—and today is the day I sealed the deal. Signed the papers. Set my feet walking in a whole new direction.

I’m a lifestyle blogger. I post videos about interior design, fashion, skincare. The title of my blog even has my name in it—Life with Lainey. And now my channel has been picked up by Facebook and contracted to do

a weekly web series for the next year. It’s the biggest trend in social media entertainment and all the platforms are scooping up content providers, like me, and getting on board.

When I started blogging and posting videos a few years ago—it was a hobby—not a career path or anything I’d thought I could make money doing. But then, I started getting subscribers and followers—a lot of them. Next came advertisers and sponsors. And now, here I am, in this great bar down the Jersey shore with my sister and her boyfriend, celebrating this

whole new chapter—this new unexpected adventure—in my life.

Surprise, surprise, surprise.

The best things in life always come along when we’re not looking for them.

“Oh. My. God. How hot is he?” the woman next to me says to her friend.

Speaking of the best things in life… “Sooooo hot,” her friend sighs back.

They’re talking about the drummer on the stage a few feet away. I know they’re talking about him, because I’d bet my bottom dollar every woman in the bar—except my sister—is talking about him.

Despite the cheesy cover band name—Amber Sound—they’re actually really good. And their drummer is outstanding. He’s singing “She Talks to Angels” by the Black Crowes—singing and playing, which hardly any

drummers do because it’s super hard.

But this guy’s a unicorn.

With great hands, a gorgeous mouth, sun-kissed hair and sculpted golden-tan arms that contract lusciously with every move he makes. His

voice is warm and rough—like heated sand brushing slowly over your skin. And he’s got an aura around him—the cocky, vibrant kind—that sucks in every woman within a ten-foot radius, like a hot alien tractor beam.

“He’s looking this way!” the woman at the bar whisper-squeals. “He’s looking right over here.”

He is looking over here. Little excited sparks burst in my stomach— because the hot drummer guy has been looking over here a lot.

And I’m not the only one who’s noticed.

“All these do-me gazes between Lainey and the drummer are giving me a second-hand boner.”

My sister’s boyfriend, Jack O’Shay, has picked up on it too.

“You wanna get freaky in the bathroom, Erin? A blow job would be awesome right now.”

Jack has a unique, piggish kind of charm—it grows on you.

“Well, when you ask me like that, how can I resist?” The sarcasm is heavy in my sister’s voice. “You’re so romantic.”

“I know.” Jack grins, playing along. “But I’m storing up the big guns for after the wedding. You want the full Romantic Jack Experience, you need to let me slap a ring on it.”

Erin and Jack have lived together for the last three years. For about half that time, he’s been trying to get her to make an honest man of him. But

before they hooked up, he was a dog—the man-ho kind—humping any leg that would let him. Although he’s been the epitome of domesticated devotion ever since, there’s a part of Erin that worries it’s the chase that’s keeping him around. That once she gives in, he’ll lose interest.

Complicating matters more is they work together. Jack is an investment banker at Evans, Reinhart and Fisher, and Erin is the executive assistant to Jack’s friend and the firm’s golden boy, Drew Evans.

I’ve met Drew—he’s a funny guy. Smart, successful . . . almost pathologically self-interested. He wasn’t happy when Jack and Erin’s one- night stand in Vegas didn’t stay in Vegas, but evolved into an actual relationship. Drew made it abundantly clear that should things between them go south—he’s getting custody of Erin.

He tried to put that in writing a few months ago.

The sounds of my sister and Jack debating the romance quotient of a bar-bathroom blow job fades into the background.

Because the drummer is looking at me again.

And I’m looking back—watching him, watch me. His gaze moves from the spiral curls of my honey-blond hair to my shoulders, lingering at my cream bo-ho knit tank-top, before dragging down over my light blue ripped jeans.

Then the corner of his mouth hooks into a sexy, suggestive, grin.

And my vaginal muscles clamp down in a needy clench that would make Dr. Kegel stand up and cheer.

I take a long sip of my drink, fanning myself—’cause Nelly knew what he was talking about—it’s getting hot in here.

A moment later, the lead singer—a dark-haired guy in a leather jacket— thanks everyone for coming out, wishing us all a good night. I watch as the

drummer stands up from his kit, talks to his bandmates for a minute— slapping hands and laughing. And then he’s turning, stepping off the stage in loose, easy strides.

Walking straight to me.

And it feels just like an 80s movie—the swoony scene that always

comes at the end—when the former plain-Jane-turned-prom-queen finally gets the guy.

“Hi.”

He’s even better-looking up close—his eyes are cerulean with flecks of green and gold. Ocean-blue eyes.

“I’m Dean.”

Dean.

It’s a good name. A player’s name—a hot guy’s name. It fits him. I feel myself smile, a little giddily, a lot turned on.

“Hi. I’m—”

“Beautiful.” He says it intensely. Like he means it. “You’re really fucking beautiful.”

And just like that I’m a puddle on the floor. Sold. Gone. Done. His.

It’s not that I’m easy—it’s that Dean, the ocean-eyed drummer, is just that good.

He glances at the almost empty glass in my hand. “What are you drinking?”

“Vodka and sprite.”

“Can I get you another one?”

I forgot about lust. I forgot the power of it—the pulsing, pulling,

palpable connection that springs up between two people who are instantly attracted to each other. I forgot the excitement and fun of it. My heart

pounds and my palms tingle, and for the first time in a long time, I feel reckless and young.

I feel alive.

“Sure. Another one would be great.”

~ ~ ~

Introductions are made and the four of us hang out for a while, chatting the way strangers in a bar do.

Then, expectedly, my sister yawns and announces, “We’re gonna head home.”

I glance at my phone. “You made it until eleven o’clock. That’s a new record.”

They’re not known for their late-night partying, even on a Saturday night.

“I blame myself.” Jack rubs the back of his red-haired head wearily. “All those years of ragging on Steven about being a homebody little bitch have come back to bite me on the ass.”

I glance up at Dean, and he gazes warmly back with an invitation in his eyes.

“I’ll hang here a while,” I tell Erin and Jack. “I’ll get an Uber home later.”

“Of course you will,” Jack says. “It’s like blue balls—if you don’t get some after all the eye-fucking you two have been doing, you’ll give yourself a migraine.”

Erin covers her forehead with her hand. “Jack—stop talking about eye- fucking. You’re embarrassing my sister.”

Jack snorts. “What’s embarrassing? Eye-fucking is a tried-and-true hook-up tool. It’s how you reeled me in.”

“I reeled you in by pretending like I wasn’t interested.” Erin smirks, lifting her chin and tucking her blond hair behind her ear. “Classic Jedi Mind Trick.”

Jack lifts an eyebrow. “Or maybe, I took your Jedi Mind Trick and Inceptionated that shit by pretending I was only interested because you weren’t interested—when really . . . I was interested all along.”

Erin blinks.

We all blink.

“Did you?” she asks.

He smiles smoothly. “Marry me and I’ll tell you on the honeymoon.” Erin shakes her head and laughs. Then she turns toward me.

“Do you have your TigerLady?”

A TigerLady is a self-defense device. It fits in your fist, with sharp little spikes sticking out between the knuckles to do serious damage to any dumbass, would-be assailant who wants to get touchy-feely. Erin bought it for me for my thirty-fourth birthday. She’s only eleven months older, but

she takes her big-sister role very seriously.

“Of course.” I tap the Louis Vuitton backpack that I found at a yard sale last summer and bought for a tiny fraction of the retail price.

Erin looks at Dean. “No offense, you seem nice and all—but Ted Bundy seemed like a nice guy too.”

He holds up his hands, his expression laidback and amused. “None taken. Ted Bundy ruined it for all of us.”

Jack steps up closer to Dean, chest out, eyes hard. He points from his forehead to Dean’s face. “Photographic memory, dude.” He tilts his head toward me. “Anything happens tonight that she’s not okay with, I will hunt you down, find you, and literally nail your dick to the wall.”

Wow.

Now I’m embarrassed. And I’m never going to get to have sex again. “That’s some vivid visualization you painted there. Nice job.” Dean

chuckles, shaking his head. “Listen, man, we’re going to hang out, have a few drinks, have some fun. She’ll be all good with me, I promise.”

Jack stares a second longer, then nods.

Erin hugs me, like a blond Koala with separation anxiety—the drinks we had making us both rock a little on our feet.

“Thanks for coming with me today.” I say against her hair.

“Of course! And congratulations—I’m so happy for you, Lain.”

Then she’s waving over her shoulder as Jack takes her hand and they head out.

Dean guides me to the bar with the press of his hand on my lower back.

I hop up on the stool and he rests his arm against the shiny dark wood, leaning close enough that we can talk without raising our voices.

“What was the congratulations for, Lainey?” he asks.

I like that—the way he says my name—the way his mouth looks when he forms the word. It makes the sparks come back, but more—they spread out over my shoulders and down my arms to the tips of my fingers.

“A new job. Well, not exactly new—more like an upgrade.” I wiggle my drink. “I’m celebrating.”

He takes a drag on his beer bottle. “What do you do?”

“A little bit of everything. I’m a blogger and an entertainer—an aesthetician, an interior designer and a life coach. I try to help people live their best lives for less.”

Dean takes all that in with a nod. “So you’re like . . . a guru?” “Yeah, I guess am.” I smile. “You wanna join my cult?”

“I’d follow you.” Dean looks deliberately at the back of my chair—at my ass. “If only to be able to keep watching you go.”

He wiggles his eyebrows—because that line was so cheesy it should’ve come with a box of crackers.

And we laugh. He makes me laugh.

And everything after that is just really, really easy.

~ ~ ~

“So, Amber Sound—where’d that name come from?”

An hour later, Dean and I are still at the bar—still talking and drinking.

He slams back a shot of vodka before answering, “Okay—sophomore year in high school, me and the guys decide to start the band. And Jimmy, the lead singer, was dating this girl—Amber Berdinski—who he was dying to nail, but she wouldn’t let him past second base. Amber tells Jimmy if he’s really into her—he has to prove it. By getting a tattoo of her name. So

—” Dean shrugs “—he did.” “No!” I gasp.

“True story. On his ass.”

I cover my eyes. “Oh, my God.”

“But then, Amber still won’t bang him. She says if he’s really, really double-dog-dare serious about her, he’ll name the band after her.”

I peek out between my fingers. “And he did.” Dean nods. “And Amber Sound was born.”

“So what happened then? Did Amber give up the goods?”

“Nope.” Dean laughs. “She dumped his sorry tattooed ass the day after our first show.”

“Ouch.” I cringe.

“By then, there was no turning back. We already had fliers made up and the name painted on the side of Doyle’s—our lead guitarist’s—van.” He

lifts his finger. “But there’s a life lesson there. Never get a tattoo of a girl’s name on your ass—”

“Or a guy’s.”

“Or a guy’s.” He nods, agreeing, “And never name your band after someone just so you can get down their pants.”

“Words to live by.” I tap his beer bottle with my glass and we drink to that.

The vodka and soda goes down like water now.

“You’ve been playing together since sophomore year? That’s a long time.”

“We get together only in the summers now, tour the regular spots that we’ve been playing for years. It’s the breaks in between that have kept us from getting sick of each other.”

He toys with the label on the bottle and I notice his hands—big, strong hands—with clean, neat, nails at the end of long fingers that have just the right amount of girth. And I think about how those hands would feel on me, against my skin—everywhere.

Dean follows my eyes, maybe reads my mind. He takes my hand and

opens my palm, lightly tracing my lifeline with the tip of his finger. A little sigh escapes my lips and my eyes close.

Then he taps gently on my hand, on my wrist, in a rhythm—a beat. “Guess the song,” he says softly.

I open my eyes and he’s smiling. It’s a teasing, playful smile that makes my knees wobbly.

“Guess,” he coaxes, still tapping.

I close my eyes again, concentrating for a minute—and then it comes to

me.

“‘Video Killed the Radio Star’!”

“You got it.” He laughs, nodding. “You’re good, Lainey.”

I don’t really have any experiences with one-night stands or meeting

guys in a bar. During my prime pick-up years, I was too busy working the night shift at the 24-hour Mini-Mart, and taking care of a boisterous baby boy during the day.

I always imagined a random hook-up would feel sleazy or cheap and awkward. But this—whatever this night is or turns out to be—it feels good. Seamless. Fun.

And for me, that goes down as another wonderful surprise. I slide my open hand toward him.

“Do it again.”

~ ~ ~

Another hour goes by and the bar is still hopping. The song “Sex and

Candy” by Marcy Playground comes from the speakers—and I wonder if

there’s a “Marcy” out there somewhere that their lead singer wanted to bump uglies with.

The conversation between me and Dean flows easy—we talk about everything and nothing at the same time.

“If you could only listen to one song for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

He frowns—and even his frown is hot. Possibly hotter than his smile. “Damn, that’s hard.”

I don’t relent.

“Life’s most crucial questions usually are.”

He tilts his head toward the ceiling, exposing the enticing swell of his Adam’s apple. And there’s something so deliciously manly about it—I want to lean over and lick it.

But then he dips his chin, blocking my move. “Tom Petty’s Greatest Hits.”

“That’s not a song—that’s a whole album.” “That’s my answer.”

I poke the curve of his bicep—it’s like prodding a warm, sexy, rock. “That’s cheating.”

“Then I’m a cheater.” He shrugs. “Screw it.” Later, we delve into each other’s souls . . . kind of.

“Tell me something you hate,” Dean asks, before downing his shot.

“I hate commercials where you have no idea what they’re trying to sell you until the end.”

His head bobs in agreement. “They suck.” “What about you?”

“I hate people who drive in convertibles with the top down and the windows up. Like dude . . . pick a side.”

And he says it in such a serious, adorable way, I crack up.

Dean watches me, staring at my mouth, his eyes deep-water blue and enraptured.

“That’s a great sound.” He leans in. Closer and closer. “What sound?”

He takes a curl of my hair, brushing it between his fingers thoughtfully. “Your laugh. It’s a beautiful laugh, Lainey.”

“Thanks,” I say softly. “I work really hard on it every day.”

His lips stretch into a full, chuckling smile. Then he grabs the bottle of vodka on the bar, tosses down a few bills and tilts his head toward the door.

“You want to get out of here?” And I don’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

~ ~ ~

We shuffle across the back parking lot of the bar—holding hands, taking swigs from the bottle and giggling. Because alcohol is a time machine—it makes you young and silly.

Dean leads me up the steps to an apartment above a detached garage.

“This is where we stay when we play at the Beachside Bar. But these days, Jimmy and the guys get hotel rooms with the wives and kids, so it’s just you and me tonight.”

He flicks on the lights revealing a small living room with a couch and television, and a tiny kitchen. It’s sparse, and void of any real personality, but it’s clean.

I follow him through the set of French doors that lead out to a balcony, with two cushioned lounge chairs and a hot tub that overlooks a dark, wooded lot.

I nod, smiling. “Nice.”

“I’m going to take a quick shower. You good here?” I give him two thumbs-up. “I’m good.”

Dean takes out his phone, fiddles with the buttons and sets it on the table, leaving Amos Lee to sing “Wait Up For Me,” as he goes inside. And I soak it all in—the warm breeze, the way the moonlight shimmers on the trees, the smell of the ocean in the air, and the loose, languid feel of my bones.

Here, now, in this moment—life is really good. And when it’s good, it should savored, enjoyed. Celebrated.

A few minutes later, the song changes and “Boardwalk Angel” plays from Dean’s phone. I close my eyes, humming along, tilting my head up to the sky and spinning slowly in time to the music.

Until I feel him. I turn around and Dean is leaning against the door-jam, the heat of his eyes following my every move.

He’s wearing jeans—shirtless—his hair a damp, dirtier shade of blond. The muscles of his arms and chest are long and taut, all beautiful swells and

shadowed ridges. Little water droplets glisten on his shoulders and I’m suddenly very thirsty.

“Hi,” I whisper, a little breathless because—wow. His mouth does that sexy quirk thing.

“Hi.”

Dean moves forward, eating up the space between us and I step in into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands skim up my back, pressing me close, and mine slide down his arms—loving the warm, smooth feel of his skin beneath my palms.

And then we’re dancing. Swaying together to this slow song about the boardwalk and carnival lights and falling in love on a carousel. And there’s a sweetness to the moment—a magic and tenderness—that I just might remember for the rest of my life.

“This is a good song. John Cafferty and The Beaver Brown Band.”

I feel the chuckle that comes from his chest. “Most people would’ve said Eddie and the Cruisers.”

I shake my head. “Not me. I know my music.” He strokes my hair down my back.

“What kind of music do you like, beautiful?”

“I like songs that tell a story. That make me feel. That make me remember. There’s a song for every big moment in my life.”

“Me too.” He rests his chin on the top of my head. “When I was a kid, music always made sense to me, even if nothing else did.”

“Yeah.” I nod.

And he smells so good—like sandalwood and spice and a unique, clean man-scent that’s just him. I want to run my nose across his skin—smelling up every inch of him.

When the song ends, our eyes lock. And I whisper his name, because I like the taste of it on my tongue. “Dean…”

He swallows harshly, his throat rippling, his eyes tracing my face. “Lainey… Jesus.”

Then his mouth comes down on mine—hard and hot. His hands sink into my hair, angling my head, and a needy, frantic spike of pleasure streaks up my spine with every stroke of his warm, wet tongue.

It’s a great kiss, the kind they write songs about. A movie-star kiss— that gets the audience all hot and bothered. The kind of kiss that deserves

surging background music—a whole soundtrack—that goes on and on and on.

“I wanted to do this the second I saw you,” he tells me between kisses. I sigh against him, molding my body to his, warm putty in his strong,

talented hands.

“I wanted that too.”

His fingers dance across my rib cage, pushing my tank-top up and off.

And the sensation of our bare stomachs pressing, my breasts rubbing against the hard heat of his chest, is nothing short of heaven.

“It was all I could think about the whole set. Walking off that fucking stage and kissing the hell out of you.”

I wrap my arms around his neck—pulling him nearer, wanting him closer.

“Yes.”

Dean’s arm is an iron band across my lower back, lifting me off my feet, moving us into the apartment. He pushes me against the wall, grinding the unrelenting ridge of his erection against my pelvis. And it’s so good— that mindless kind of good that’s all instinct and no thought. An effortless intimacy that makes me tremble.

He holds my face in his hands when he kisses me—and I love that. The way his tongue delves deep, his fingers brushing my cheek, like I’m something precious.

His lips slide down to my neck, rasping against my skin. “Lainey, are you drunk?”

“Yeah.” I rub my cheek against the spiky stubble on his jaw, and moan with how damn good it feels. “But not too drunk. I know what I’m doing. I know what I want.”

He straightens up and looks into my eyes, both of us breathing hard. “Tell me.” He sweeps his thumb against my lip, like he can’t stop

touching me. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.” “I want you.”

I skim my palm over the ripples of his abs into the front of his pants, cupping him, taking the hot, impossibly hard length of him in my hand and stroking up and down.

“I want this. I want to feel you inside me.”

He groans, diving back in. “That’s a great answer.”

He kisses my breasts over the lace of my bra, sliding to his knees, nibbling my stomach on the way down. My jeans are unbuttoned, tugged down and off my legs.

“What do you want?” I ask, because I want to hear his words. For a moment, he stares at the pale, pink lace of my panties. “I want to make you come so many fucking times.”

That sentence—and the rough, needy way he says it—almost makes me come all by itself.

Dean pulls me forward by my hips, pushing my panties aside, and puts his mouth on me. And he goes down on me like a guy who really, really

likes going down on a woman. He takes his time, kissing me open-mouthed

—swirling his tongue and sucking gently at my flesh.

Heat surges through my veins and it feels like the floor has left the building—like I’m about to fall, about to fly. My nails scrape the wall beside me for something to hold on to.

Dean’s voice is low and husky. “You taste like fucking candy.” He

skims my panties all the way down and off, then he looks up at me—into my eyes. “Open your legs for me, Lainey.”

And it’s the sexiest moment of my life. Until I do.

And Dean spreads me with his fingers, and drags his tongue up and down, slow and deliberate. He slides his fingers inside me, pumping his hand, and his tongue moves to my clit, making tight, hard circles over and over. I’ve never had an orgasm in this position—standing up—but Dean

seems hell-bent and determined to make it happen.

His fingers, tongue and lips work me over in the same rhythm. And that decadent, telltale pressure starts low in my stomach, building and cresting and spreading out through my limbs.

“Oh, God,” I whimper. “Oh, God.”

My hips rotate all on their own, and I grip Dean’s hair—pressing mindlessly against his face. The sensations claw and climb higher and higher, until a deep moan drags out of me that would make a porn star blush. And everything goes tight and pulsing and I’m plummeting with the pleasure—falling so hard, right over the edge.

Before I can come all the way down, Dean skims up my body, and I cling to him on shaky limbs as he lifts me off my feet, kissing me down the hall to the bedroom. He sets me on the bed, the blanket cool and downy

against my knees. And I curl my way around him—like a cat worshiping her scratching post. I kiss his shoulders, his chest—everywhere I can reach.

I make a wet trail down his torso, tracing the lines of his abs with my tongue. I kiss the V of his pelvis—that sexy, sculpted indentation that

disappears down the waist of his jeans. I rip at the button of his pants and push them down his hips because I’ve felt the massive bulge between his legs—and now I want to see it.

I want to taste it.

When his jeans are a puddle on the floor beside him, I’m not disappointed.

Dean’s cock is beautiful. It seems silly to think of a dick as beautiful— but this one is. The kind that should be sketched in a high-level art class or described in vivid detail in a bestselling romance novel. It’s big, thick, velvety smooth and rock-hard, with a glistening rounded head that I want to feel between my lips and down my throat.

I wrap my hand around him, pumping, and then take him in my mouth, swirling with my tongue, leaving him nice and wet. I tighten my lips around his shaft, dragging back, then moving down again—all the way—until the head of his dick taps the opening of my throat.

“Fuuuck.” His mouth opens on a groan above me. “That’s so good.” And the hot gravel of his voice turns me on even more.

I suck him hard, bobbing slow, taking him deeper, making it good for both of us. I clench my thighs—feeling the slippery heat between my legs, because he tastes so good.

Then Dean’s gripping my upper arms, pulling me up, kissing me hard. And I mumble out rushed words against his lips.

“I don’t do this.”

I don’t know why I want him to know, but I do. That for me, this is something different. New. Special.

“I never do this, Dean. Ever.”

“You should.” He touches my cheek, my hair. “You should do this all the time. You’re really good at it.”

And then we’re falling back onto the bed—a tumble of laughing limbs and moans. We roll around, mangling the sheets. Dean’s body is a wonderland, and I explore every bit of it. And he plays me like an instrument. He teases and tortures me, strums his slick fingers between my

legs, rubbing and petting, while his lips wrap around my nipple, sucking in long, slow drags.

Dean’s a multitasker—and it’s glorious.

Then he’s climbing over me, kneeling between my spread thighs. I watch as he brings a condom wrapper to his mouth and tears it with his teeth.

“That’s so hot.” I moan, reaching for him.

It’s like a whole new porn fetish category—I could watch this man rip open condom wrappers all night long.

He takes himself in his hand, his movements sure and confident, and

rolls the latex down his length, pinching the condom at the tip. And he’s so hard when he presses against my opening—so big when he pushes inside. We moan, long and low, as our bodies rock together.

All my senses are focused right there—where we’re connected—on the surging feel of him filling me where I’m tight and wet around him.

Dean’s head rolls back on his shoulders. “Your pussy is heaven.” He holds my hip for leverage, thrusting. “Literal heaven.”

And I love it. The sound of his voice, the color of his eyes, the taut contraction of his muscles, the relentless breach of his cock, the feel of his solid hips between my thighs. I love how his big hands hold my waist, lifting me, angling me to take all of him. I love how his spine curves and chin dips low, and how he watches himself disappear inside me.

I love it when he rolls us over, so he’s flat on his back and I’m straddling him.

“Ride me.” His voice is jagged and raw. “Ride me, Lainey.” And I love that too.

I straighten my back, arching, my hair falling long all around. And I swivel my hips and squeeze my muscles hard around him—he’s so deep this way, and I want to feel every inch.

Dean grips my ass in his large hands, sliding me back and forth. And I love the way he looks up at me—the heavy-lidded heat in his eyes and the

harsh rise and fall of his chest—that makes me feel every bit as beautiful as he said I was.

I love all of it. Every moment. This wild rollercoaster of perfect, aching, pleasure.

Dean lifts up, licking my breast, kissing my neck. Then he cradles the back of my head as he shifts again, taking us down, so he’s on top. And he

glides back and forth into me—riding me in smooth, steady strokes. “Christ, you feel—”

He presses me into the bed, going deeper, fucking me faster—pushing the breath from my lungs with every thrust.

“I’m gonna come.” His voice is a mirror of mine—urgent and clinging. “I’m gonna come so hard.”

It’s his words that get me there—those words.

A keening sound comes from the hollow of my throat, and I clasp at his back, wrapping my legs around his waist. It feels like a whirlwind is building inside me, swirling and stretching. So close, so close…

And he feels it too—I know it in the way his thrusts go wild, in how he rocks forward and forward, pushing like he can’t get close enough, pressing in so deep I feel the liquid heat of him in my womb.

Golden stars burst behind my eyelids as perfect white-hot pleasure tears through my body and pulses in my veins. Dean drives into me one last time, groaning my name into my hair.

I come back to languid awareness with the feel of him nibbling on my lips. A minute later, I open my eyes to see that sexy, dirty-boy smile aimed down at me.

“I’ll be right back.” He pecks my nose. “Don’t fall asleep.” I wiggle a little underneath him.

“After that, I think we’ve earned it.”

“No.” He braces up on his elbows, looking down at where we’re still connected.

His hips slide forward in a shallow jab of a thrust. And he gets hard.

Again.

Inside me.

“We’ll sleep when we can’t move. Right now, we’re just getting started.”

And it’s official—in a past life, I must’ve been a very, very good girl.

~ ~ ~

My eyes creak open the next morning, only about a half hour after Dean let me close them. And I want the sleep—I need the sleep—I’ve earned all the sleep.

But my internal clock is an asshole, so once I’m up—I’m up.

I untwist myself from the cream sheet and slip out of bed, leaving the sleeping hunk of warm sex machine behind me. I scurry around the apartment on a mini scavenger hunt for my clothes, and then I head for the bathroom. In the trashcan beside the sink, I notice the used condoms—a

whole box’s worth of used condoms—and I grin like the filthy girl I never knew I was, remembering how each one ended up getting gloriously used.

I guess if you’re only going to have sex every five years or so, this is the way to do it. Like a camel—fill the hump.

The reflection of the woman who stares back at me from the mirror is wonderfully wrecked—tousled hair from strong, gripping hands, smudged makeup, swollen lips, flushed cheeks . . . shining happy eyes. There’s a dark red hickey on my right shoulder—and I remember how that got there too.

With my back to Dean’s chest, his hand covering my breast, and his mouth latched on to that spot as he came deep inside me.

After cleaning up my face and using my finger and Dean’s toothpaste to scrub away the morning breath, I step out of the bathroom. He lays on his back, one arm bent over his head, the other resting on his stomach, his spent cock—still impressive in its sleepy state—resting against his thigh.

And there’s a pull—that magnetic connection—that nudges me to crawl my ass right back in that bed with him.

But I fight it. Because I don’t know how these morning afters are supposed to work—but I know it always feels better to leave before being left. To get out when the getting’s still good—to not overstay your welcome.

So, I sit on the bed and run my fingers through the thick blond hair that’s sticking up in adorable angles.

His eyes open with a deep inhale of breath. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

He starts to sit up . . . and then lays right back down.

“Shit, I’m still wasted.” He covers his eyes with his forearm. “What time is it?”

The words just come out, I don’t really think before saying them. “Early. But I have to go. My son has book-club at eight.”

Dean drops his arm and blinks, looking up at me like he’s not sure he heard right.

“You have a kid?”

“Yeah. Well, a teenager now.”

Those ocean-blue eyes widen. “No shit?” I nod, smiling. “No shit.”

Dean clears his throat, but his voice is still scratchy. “Teenagers are cool. Amazing and totally irrational at the same time.”

I chuckle. “This is true.”

He glances around the room. “You want coffee? I can probably manage some scrambled eggs. Possibly toast if I really dig deep.”

A sweet warmth fills me. Maybe I’m setting the bar too low, but the fact that he offered to make me breakfast instead of rushing me out the door like the scenarios my sisters have described, is nice. He’s nice. More than nice.

And if I didn’t already know it before, I do now—I like him so much. But still, I shake my head.

“I already ordered a car. Stay in bed, go back to sleep. I can’t do breakfast.”

He nods slowly, his expression hard to read. He runs his fingertip gently up my arm. “Lainey, last night . . . it was intense.”

The word comes out soft, tender. “Yeah.”

“And awesome.” He meets my eyes, his mouth beautiful and earnest. “Last night was really fucking awesome.”

I run my tongue over my lip, remembering the taste of him. “It really was.”

In the pause that comes after, I wait for him to ask for my number, if he can see me again. If I want to grab a coffee sometime or dinner—at this point, an invite to some vague future brunch would make me ecstatic.

But he doesn’t.

And I guess that connection I felt was a one-way street.

Though disappointment creeps in, I refuse to let it take hold. Because last night was amazing and hot and perfect—and I don’t want to taint it by hoping for more.

My phone dings with the notification that my car is here. “I gotta go.”

Dean leans up on his elbow. His other hand slides under my hair, gripping the back of my neck—and I love that too—the feel of his hand on me.

He brings me down close to him and he kisses me, slow and gentle, one last time.

His forehead rests against mine and he whispers, “Bye, Lainey.” I give him a smile. “Bye, Dean.”

I grab my bag and head out the door, and don’t tempt myself by looking back.

~ ~ ~

My Uber driver is a fan of Bob Dylan. I close my eyes and rest my head against the window as “It Ain’t Me Babe” plays on repeat during the drive home to my parents’ house in Bayonne.

The house is silent as I ease open the front door, knowing just where to stop before it creaks. I walk up the mauve carpeted stairs to my son’s room

—to check on him.

Rationally, I know Jason’s fine and sleeping—and any time you open a fourteen-year-old boy’s bedroom door without knocking, you’re risking seeing things that can never be unseen. But it’s a habit, a mom-compulsion I can’t seem to shake.

He’s on his side, wrapped in a cylinder cocoon of blankets with just his head sticking out, the way he’s slept since he was two. He’s got my honey- blond hair and delicate features. He’s long and lanky right now, but he’ll fill out.

I named him Jason after my dad. Because his father is an idiot, and a jackass, and not one of my better choices. He didn’t want anything to do with us—when Jay was born or in any of the years since. But it’s for the best—I don’t want someone so stupid around my kid anyway.

I close the door softly and go to my room, changing into an oversized sweatshirt and worn yoga pants. Then I pad down to the kitchen.

A few years ago, my mom went through a cock phase.

She redecorated the kitchen in barnyard-red and white with rooster accents. It’s not my taste, but that’s a big part of my excitement about doing Life with Lainey. The hook of the web series is I’ll be living in a house—an old house—while decorating it on a low budget, room by room, with my

unique style and sparkling personality.

Jason and I will be moving at the end of the summer. It’s an amazing perk—the first time I’ll have my own place, even if only just for the year.

I lift the tail of the cookie-jar rooster that I found at a yard sale in Hunterdon County, and take out a tea bag. Then Erin walks into the kitchen in gray polka dot pajamas and fuzzy purple slippers.

“What are you doing here?” I yawn.

“There was an accident in the tunnel and Jack didn’t want to deal with the traffic. Plus, he gets a cheap thrill out of doing it in my old bedroom with my cheerleading trophies watching us from the shelves.”

“That’s one twisted puppy you’ve got there. You should definitely marry him.”

“Is he paying you to say that?”

I nod. “Five bucks for every mention.”

Erin looks me up and down as she sits at the table. “Someone looks like she got some last night. Did you just get home?”

I sigh in blissful satisfaction, the orgasmic endorphins still flooding my brain.

“I didn’t just get some—I got it all. I had all the sex. The sweaty quick kind, the dirty rough kind, the slow lazy kind. It was ah-maz-ing.”

“Good for you. Are you going to see him again?”

“Nah.” I shake my head. “I didn’t offer and he didn’t ask.”

And for just a second, I let myself feel the sadness of that. The regret and disappointment. Then I shake it off, breathe it out, banish it away.

“I’ve got too much going on anyway—with the move and the show and all.”

“That’s true.”

Erin goes to the counter and starts to make her own cup of tea. “Hey— where’s the house you and Jay are moving to again?”

Like I said before, life can be bitchy and she’s never boring. Every once in a while—she also has a wicked sense of humor.

“It’s a small town, south of here.” I blow on the steam wafting from my teacup. “It’s called Lakeside.”