The Trade(87)

“God, it will hurt for a second and then be the best thing you ever stuck in your vagina. Trust me, sex will never be the same. When Freddie and I broke up that one time, and I went out and decided to prove him wrong, that I didn’t need him—so mature, I know—I had sex with that Darryl Connor from the corner store. Remember him?”

“Oh Monica, that’s . . . that’s not what I want to hear.”

“I know, I feel shame too. He had tattoos I thought were hot, but that was pretty much it. His dick was average and yeah, sure he knew how to work it, but after being with Freddie, my vagina was ruined for all other penises.” She pokes my shoulder. “That’s how it will be with Cory, but what have I said from the very beginning of this divorce? You deserve a bigger dick. And man, oh man, did you go for the Mack Daddy of all dicks. I’m so proud of you.”

“Uhh . . . thank you?”

She smiles broadly. “You’re welcome.”





“Hey beautiful.” Cory’s hand runs up my arm and then he quickly turns me around to face him. I can’t help the excitement that spreads over my face the minute I see him, and when he leans in, holding my chin still for a kiss. How he makes the sweetest sound in the back of his throat when his lips meet mine. “Sorry I couldn’t pick you up.”

“Don’t apologize,” I say, reaching up and linking my hand around his neck where I pull him back down to my lips and press another kiss across his mouth. I haven’t seen him in a few days and it almost seems impossible that he’s here, holding me. When I pull away, I rub my finger over his smile and say, “Welcome back.”

He kisses my fingers. “Glad to be back. Let me see you.” He steps away and then frowns playfully when he takes me in. “Natalie, you know I think you’re beautiful but what is that shirt?”

I glance down and then gasp in embarrassment. “Oh shit, Cory, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” Like a moron, I put on Bobbie for life shirt. When Cory told me to meet him at the indoor golf facility for some fun and to dress casually, I didn’t even think about it. “I was running late with some foundation work, and I didn’t have time to change.”

He chuckles and pulls me into another hug. “I’m just teasing you. I don’t care.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, feeling incredibly guilty. “I can go change. They have shirts here at the gift shop.”

“Nah, you’re good, plus your tits look amazing in that shirt. I plan on staring at your cleavage the entire night.”

“Of course you will, but you won’t do anything about it.”

“Nope. But just think when we do finally have sex, it’s going to be fucking phenomenal.”

“When we finally have sex, you’re going to blink at me, I’ll orgasm, and the night will be over. That’s how frustrated I feel.”

“Now that’s a party trick I wouldn’t mind performing.”

“Oh my God.” I start to walk away, but he pulls me back by the hand and wraps his thick arm over my shoulder, keeping me tucked into his side. “There are times where I think, you’re nothing like the immature men I’ve met or have to deal with, and then you say something like that.”

“Just keeping your opinion of me real.” He kisses the side of my head and we walk over to the counter where they set us up with a private driving suite.

I’ve always seen these driving ranges that are stacked on top of each other. Food and drinks offered, drive as many balls as you want, they always look fun, so when Cory asked what kind of activity I wanted to do, I suggested this, even though I have never golfed in my life.

After we picked out some clubs and chose our buckets of balls, we took a private elevator to our suite and were set up with food and drinks. The staff said they wouldn’t be checking on us unless we pressed the button next to the door looking for help.

We’re alone.

Cory is taking in the suite when I say, “Did you hear that?”

“What?” he asks, looking positively panty-melting worthy in his dark jeans and light blue T-shirt. It’s funny how we match today and didn’t plan it. But what’s not funny is the way his pecs press against the shirt, providing a clear outline of them, or how tight the sleeves are, capturing his sculpted shoulders and arms, or how his long legs look in his jeans. I’ve never seen a man fill out a pair of jeans like Cory, well-proportioned all over. It’s clear he works out for a living, and he’s earned the power that rests underneath his jeans.

Laughing, he says, “Natalie, you’re staring.” He’s gripping the back of the chair, his muscles rippling . . .

Blushing, I say, “Sorry, I uh . . . that shirt . . . it looks nice on you.”

His eyes turn soft and he walks over to the couch and takes a seat, he then beckons me with his finger. I make no hesitation in running up to him where he situates me on his lap. Hands on my thighs, he leans against the back of the couch and sighs.

“What are we doing?” I ask, hoping he says dry-humping rather than hitting balls.

“Just reconnecting for a second.” His hands slowly move up and down the tops of my thighs. “I didn’t think our relationship was going to be a whirlwind like this, but I’m leaving soon and I hate that I’m not going to be able to see you when I want to.”