Luke gives me a quick tour of his house on the way in. The interior is just as beautiful and carefully restored as the outside. Original wood floors, simple layout, clean, crisp color palette. It’s beautifully furnished, too. None of the usual man-child staples: not a mattress on the floor in sight. No crusty, heinous, science-experiment bathrooms.
A real man lives here. One who knows what he likes and takes good care of his shit.
We end up in the pretty kitchen, lined with white cabinets and dark soapstone countertops. It’s true farmhouse style, right down to the enormous vintage sink and blown glass pendants above the island, and it works.
“What’s that?” Luke says, nodding at the box I slide onto the counter.
I watch as he grabs two bottles from the fridge, popping the tops off with quick, steady movements.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the beer he holds out to me. I’m feeling better. Less unsteady. A beer will help keep me there. “And those are cupcakes Marie made with your sweet potatoes and rhubarb. I may have plundered your delivery to The Pearl yesterday.”
He smiles, his brows flicking together. “Really? Thank you, Gracie. That’s so thoughtful. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Technically I didn’t do it,” I say. “I wanted to. But then I remembered I had a pastry chef who makes delicious things for a living, so I asked her to whip up something on my behalf. But my intentions were good. I didn’t want to show up empty handed—had to bring something.”
Taking a pull from his bottle, he holds the beer in his mouth. Swallows. “I thought you were bringin’ your bucket list.”
I look at him. Now is the time I put the focus on sex and keep it there. Maybe once we start getting physical, the other stuff—this tug I keep feeling—will go away. Or at least fade a little.
I led three meetings today. I can do this.
I got this. I am going to make sense of this and keep this simple if it kills me.
“I have the list,” I say. “Want me to tell you?”
He shakes his head. “I want you to show me. Is it in your bag?”
I blink. Luke thinks I have an actual, physical list.
“Wait. Wait—Luke, I’ve never, like, written it down or anything.”
His brows come together again. This time in consternation.
“So you don’t have a bucket list, then.”
“It wasn’t a bucket list until you called it that.”
“You need to write that shit down. Why haven’t you?”
I think about that for a minute. Sip at my beer.
My heart has started to pound again. Why does he have to make everything so complicated? I ask him to fuck me, and he wants more. I bring him my fantasies, and right away he wants to make them real.
Because writing down my list would make this whole thing—my desires, my wants, my goal of taking back my sex life—real. There would be no going back. No opportunity to hide or fudge or deny.
I was afraid to make it real with Nick.
I promised myself I wasn’t going to be afraid with Luke.
I run through my reasons in my head. I have nothing to lose. If I scare him off, no biggie. There are other fish in the sea. Other dicks to be had downtown. I can’t keep smothering myself like this. Can’t keep trying to fit that square peg in a round hole.
It’s never gonna fit.
I remember that line from My Deal With the Duke—when Max told Jane not to be afraid to speak her mind with him. If our desires are not compatible, so what? We couldn’t make each other happy anyway.
If I turn Luke off with my bucket list, we weren’t meant to be together anyway.
And I don’t even want to be together. I want to come. I want intense. And like Luke said, the only way I can get it is to tell my truth.
And that’s what I’m going to do for once.
“Let me go grab my bag in my car,” I say. “I have a notebook—”
Luke turns and grabs a pad of paper and a pencil from beside the phone on his counter. Then he crosses the kitchen and sets them on the small round table in the corner.
“Come here.” He pulls out a chair. “If you need some space, just say the word. But I’d love to sit in on this bucket list session if you’re cool with it.”
He’s looking at me. Hair drying in these wild licks and waves, making him look like a deliciously rumpled, lumberjack-Jude-Law-lookalike.
Splash of Chris Evans to top it all off.
I cannot.
“Depends,” I say, sitting down. “Are you going to laugh at me?”
“What’s the first thing on your list?”
“Are you going to laugh?”
He flattens his palm on the table in front of me and leans down. Leans in. Surrounding me in the smell of Ivory soap and his skin.
The tension between us is so thick I can taste it in my mouth.
“Don’t make me ask twice, Gracie.”
“Please tell me you’re this bossy in bed, too.”
“Only one way to find out.”
I meet his eyes. Pulse pounding.
“Fine.” I feel like my heart is five seconds from popping out of my mouth. “Probably the first thing I’d put on my list is anal. I’ve never done it before, and it’s always something I’ve wanted to try.”
His nostrils flare. Just once. Revealing a flicker of feral.
Then he straightens. Reaches for my hand and without preamble brings it to his crotch. He presses my palm against an impressive erection. Curls my fingers around it.
A single, blaring pulse of heat impales me right between my legs.
Right where I want him.
“That feel like laughter to you?”
I swallow. Resist the urge to squirm as my pussy floods with heat.
It’s not just his dick that’s egging me on. I mean, let’s be real, this amazing, alarmingly large penis I’m touching right now doesn’t hurt. But his obvious arousal points to an obvious acceptance of, and even excitement for, my fantasies.
Well. One of my fantasies, anyway. Yeah, it’s not even that exciting or weird or interesting of a fantasy to begin with.
Still. It’s something I’ve never shared with anyone else. I took a leap. And Luke seems pretty damn willing to leap right beside me.
“So I guess my list isn’t scaring you off yet,” I say.
“Nothin’ scary about butt stuff. Clearly,” he replies, pressing my hand down a little harder. “Can I sit?”
I glance at the chair beside mine. At the small, neat pad of paper and sharpened pencil waiting for me on the table.
“Yes.”
He releases my hand. It shakes as I pick up the pencil.
He lands heavily in his chair. One hand on his beer. He spears the other through his hair, letting out a long, low breath that rustles the pages on the pad.
My body rises on a wave of awareness at his proximity.
“Why haven’t you written your list down?” he repeats, taking a sip of beer.
I take a sip of my own before replying. I’m catching a little buzz. It feels nice. “I was too scared. Too wrapped up in other people to think about myself.”
His eyes are fire when they meet mine. He nods at the paper, once.
“Let’s think about you now. You wanna try anal. Write that one down.” He waits while I do as he tells me. My handwriting is awful and uneven. But I get the word down.
I am writing my list down.
A thrill moves through me. This is weird. And awesome. And obscene.
And awesome.
“What else?” he asks.
I take a deep breath. Determined to ride this wave.
“Phone sex,” I say.
Luke’s lips twitch. “I’ve never actually done that.”
“Really?”
“Nope.” His eyes are smiling again. “We’ll be losing our phone sex virginity to each other.”
I let out a breath. Something about that idea—that he’s new to this, too, that he’s willing to try it—makes my confidence perk up.
Makes me hot as hell.
“How sweet,” I tease.
“Don’t lie. You like the idea of me bein’ your first as much as I like the idea of you bein’ mine.”
I do like it. A lot. And that makes me feel…
Things. Many confusing, overwhelming things.
I write phone sex underneath anal.
This time, Luke doesn’t have to prompt me to keep going.
“I’d like to have sex in public,” I continue, eyes on the paper as I write. “And sixty-nine-ing is something I’ve always wanted to try.”
Luke doesn’t say a word. I just hear him swallow as he drinks his beer.
I write down Domination—both ways? Because why not.
“Ever done that one?” I ask. I look up.
My breath hitches. I find before me a man transformed. He’s glaring at me from across the table—glaring, wickedness and war in those blue eyes—nostrils flaring as he breathes in short, uneven spurts.
He’s got both hands glued to the table. Like he’s trying very hard not to reach for something.
Someone.
Me.
Like my list is the biggest turn on ever, and not some weird, lame thing that some weird, lame chick wants to try.
He’s actually into it. Into me.
Cue more overwhelming feelings. I was always so scared that guys would think less of me for just having this list. That I’d disappoint them somehow. Never mind what they’d think about what’s on it. These line items—they’re a bit taboo, sure, but they’re not especially racy or original or unique. I thought it would put off someone more straight-laced. Someone like Nick. Hell, it did put off Nick. Same as it would’ve bored someone more experienced. Like Luke.
But Luke is clearly not bored.
“Yes,” he says. The word lands like a fist, knocking the wind out of me. “That’s a particular favorite of mine.”
“Which way? Do you like to be dominated, or do you like to dominate?”
He narrows his eyes at me. “You’ll have to wait to find that out, too.”
I stare at him.
“You’re killing me,” I say.
Luke scoffs. “You got no idea the kinda murder you’re puttin’ on me right now.”
I blink. Breathe. Glance down at the paper in front of me.
“Last one,” I say, willing the pencil to move. “Role play.”
He scoffs again. I look up to see him fisting his hair in his hand as his chest heaves in and out.
“Jesus Christ,” he growls.
“What?”
The look in his eyes—it’s savage and soft now. Like he’s in serious distress. The same achy hurt his acceptance and enthusiasm is making me feel.
“You got one hell of a list right there, honey.”
The heat in my blood spikes at the endearment.
“Too much?” I breathe. “Not enough?”
His gaze is steady on mine. “Just right.”
I drop the pencil as something shifts inside me. Tectonic plates colliding. Feelings exploding. Blood pumping hot and red inside tight skin.
He’s too damn good at this. Making me feel wanted and sexy and safe.
Which conversely makes me feel very, very afraid.
“Luke,” I say. A warning. Not daring to look up.
From the corner of my eye, I see him lift his hand off the table. It edges toward mine for a second before it goes still. He drops it, his fingers curling into a fist.
I imagine my hair in that fist. Luke would give it a quick, hard tug. Tell me not to make a sound as the fingers of his other hand slipped between my legs.
“I’m not apologizing for wanting you the way I do,” he says.
That makes me look up. “I don’t want you to apologize. I just want you to know that it scares me a little.”
“It shouldn’t.” He looks me squarely in the eye. “But I understand. I know where you’re at. Just keep talking to me, okay?”
I nod. “Okay.”
“Communication is key here. So let’s do a little lightning round of questions before we give your list a go.”
I feel a fresh stab of excitement-nervousness. We’re here. We’re gonna do this.
I am going to see Luke Rodgers naked. Finally.
I am going to be who I am in bed. Finally.
I lean back in my chair, digging my hands between my crossed thighs. If I don’t, I’ll be reaching across the table and grabbing this Jude Law lumberjack by the collar.
“Anything you need,” I say. “Tell me.”
“Kissing okay?”
My gaze darts to his lips. They’re Tom Hardy full. Beard making them look even fuller and more pink. A blush of sensation prickles through my own lips at the idea of kissing his. Of his lips kissing me between my legs, beard scraping the insides of my thighs raw.
“I like kissing,” I say.
“Good. What about protection? I got condoms and don’t mind using ’em. But just so you know, I get tested regularly. Last time was a month back. Clean bill of health. Haven’t been with anyone since.”
My pussy is positively singing right now. Lust clouds my thoughts, my body taking over. I don’t know how much longer I can make it without mauling this man.
“I got tested recently, too. I’m clean. And I’m on the pill.”
Luke nods. “We need a safe word. A lot of this stuff is new territory for the both of us. And with the domination thing—it’s important we be able to pull the rip cord if we need to. Any ideas?”
I’m blinking, hard. I’ve never had to have a safe word before. The idea is bewildering. And hot.
“What about watermelon?” I ask with a grin. “Gwen was saying your melons really have some size on them.”
Luke laughs, huge shoulders shaking as he shakes his head. “Perfect. And sorry about those two. They mean well, they’re just…completely inappropriate.”
“I hope that never changes. You know I adore your mamas,” I say. And then I stop myself from saying I adore you, too.
It’s up to me to draw the lines here. To let Luke know what’s okay and what isn’t. To delineate sex from serious. Blurring those lines won’t be doing either of us any favors.
But I do adore Luke. As a friend. And now as a sorta-kinda fuck buddy, too. Where is that line? Have I already blurred it without knowing?
I’m struck by the thought that I really couldn’t do this with a complete stranger. The level of trust it requires—there’s no way I’d feel comfortable sharing these parts of myself with someone I didn’t know.
So I guess in a way the lines were blurred before I even broached the subject with Luke.
That doesn’t mean I can’t keep other lines straight and clear. I have to. I want to. Because as much as this whole thing is about orgasms and anal and fruit-flavored safe words, at the end of the day, it’s about me being able to tell my truth.
It’s about making myself the star of my own story. The heroine. Whether or not I’m the star of someone else’s.
Truth, intensity, authenticity: those are the things I’m after. So those are the things I’ll focus on, rather than forever or for keeps or fervently perfect partner. I’ll keep reminding myself that it’s okay to be selfish. Because it is. As long as I’m not hurting anyone in my quest for light-filled cunnilingus, it’s okay.
I will be okay.
Luke tips back his beer. I watch the last of the suds slide up the neck of the bottle into his mouth. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. This assured, sensual dip I feel in my stomach. He looks so good sitting there, five sizes too big for the chair in his cozy white tee and jeans. Deeply tanned and freshly showered.
Oooof, looking at him makes me feel things. My life is push push push. Always pushing forward. Pushing through. Pushing myself to be someone or something.
But this? Sitting here and wanting Luke? This feels like a pull. One I have to make no effort for. I just have to allow myself to be pulled. To stop swimming upstream and let the current of his white-hot need take me instead.
Clearing my throat, I sit up. Making my thong slide up the length of my sex. I’m wet.
I tilt my hips, the seam of my jeans catching on my clit. Immediately my nipples harden.
I draw a sharp breath.
Luke glowers.
“You all right there, Gracie?”
I shake my head. “No.”
He’s smirking again. “Can I help?”
I need. Right now.
“Any—ah, anything else you want to talk about?” I manage.
One side of his mouth curls upward. “Nah. Naw, I’m done talkin’. You?”
“I’m done,” I bite out.
Luke stands. Slowly. Reaches for his bottle and mine, too. Slowly. Makes his way to the sink, and sets the bottles down inside it. Slowly.
Like this is just another Thursday night in his kitchen. Like the sexual tension in the air isn’t thick enough to cut off our oxygen supply.
He turns around. Slowly stalks toward me, hips and shoulders rolling. A predator with his gaze on my eyes, my mouth, my tits.
My nipples scream against the confines of my bra.
My eyes move to his erection. Poor guy doesn’t have a spare centimeter in those jeans.
I put my palm on the table to steady myself, and then I press up, standing.
I meet his gaze head on. Scared shitless and wet enough to fill an ocean.
But still looking him in the eye. Because by doing that, I’m looking myself in the eye, too.
No. More. Hiding.
He stands in front of me. Tall and broad. Twice my size. I reach out and run my palm up his ribs to his pec, gathering the material of his shirt in my fist. A shudder moves through me at the solid feel of him—the warmth of his smooth, hard muscles tightening beneath my grasp.
Holy shit I get to touch him like this.
Luke reaches around and puts his hands on my ass. Slowly presses me into him, into his body and his dick and his heat. My breasts melt into his chest.
It’s like pouring lighter fluid on a fire that’s already blazing. My body goes up in flames.
My mouth falls open. I stare at him, feeling my lids grow heavy.
He’s got me trapped. Big hands on me, eyes on my face. His body blocking any possible exit.
And in that sense of being trapped, being surrounded, there’s also this coil of energy. It winds tighter when he squeezes my ass, gently and possessively, rolling his hips just the tiniest bit. Creating delicious, frustrating friction between our bodies.
I roll back. Seeking.
He ducks his head. Scruff tickling my cheek as he murmurs in my ear.
“Tell me,” he says, pressing his lips to the hollow on the underside of my jaw. “Tell me everything, baby girl.”
I do.
I pull back, turning my head so our mouths are a tenth of an inch from meeting. My eyes flick to his.
I want you to kiss me.
A beat of heated silence. Then another.
His eyes search mine. So blue and so hot.
I feel my heart beat its way out of my body. Loud and obnoxious and very much alive.
Then, letting out a small breath, Luke nudges forward. Our noses brushing just before he tilts his head and his lips capture mine.
Because that’s what his kiss is. A capture, a claiming, a pull that has my whole body rising to meet him. His lips are soft. Mouth hot.
I get my first hit of his saliva. His taste is clean and masculine. Toothpaste and beer.
And the feeling of that taste—it’s like the heady buzz of cigarettes and brown liquor and late night gay porn, all rolled into one.
It sends me spinning out in the blackness behind my closed eyelids. I pulse and I plead and I let him guide my mouth open with his slow, hot tongue.
I make a sound. Something between a moan and a groan.
Luke’s hands glide up my sides, nice and slow, his thumbs lazily grazing my nipples—oh—before he takes my face in his hands.
He’s deepening the kiss, tilting my head so he can slant his mouth over mine.
His tongue is like velvet in my mouth and on my lips. He’s biting the bottom one now, this slow, soft nibble that makes the heaviness between my legs pulse brighter.
Aaaaand now he’s rolling his hips again, cocking them so his erection rubs lengthwise up and down my pussy as he kisses me senseless.
I fist his shirt tighter. Goddamn you.
How dare you.
More. Please. Now.
I’m wild. But he’s still moving slow. Taking his time.
He is going slow with me, and I want to fucking kill him for it. Hug him, too.
Because it makes me feel treasured. As silly as that stupid word sounds. It makes me feel like I can do no wrong. That whatever I want, whatever I do or whatever I say, it’s the right thing.
It makes me feel free.
The exhilaration of this sensation—so foreign I hardly recognize it at first—makes me smile against Luke’s mouth.
“I want you to keep tellin’,” he murmurs, feathering his lips across mine one last time before pulling back. Eyes on mine. “But I just want you to do it in my bed. C’mon, baby girl. We goin’ upstairs.”
I notice both his voice and his accent have thickened.
“Luke,” I breathe. “You okay?”
The look in his eyes darkens, like banked embers on the verge of flaring to sudden life.
“I’ll be better when I got you naked. You gonna spread those long legs for me, honey? You gonna let me see your cunt? See how pretty it is before I fuck it with my tongue?”
Jesusssssssss.
Other guys have talked dirty to me. I wasn’t into it. Came off as cheesy and forced.
But this—this turns me on so bad it makes me panic.
“I’m dying,” I say.
“I’m here,” he says.
And then he laces his fingers through mine and leads me to his bedroom.