My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(56)

Ah, hell. There she goes again with a direct plea that works on my heart and dick at the same damn time.

Quickly, I suit up, then I grab her hips, and I push against her entrance.

She gasps sharply, a high-pitched keen.

“Tits against the glass, baby,” I tell her.

She complies.

“You want all of France to see the romance writer getting fucked on a train,” I command as I ease in more.

“I do. I really do.”

I sink in, filling her completely.

She feels incredible.

She’s hungry, needy, and her sex drive matches mine.

I ease out, then back in, and soon, I’m finding just the right pace for the woman who’s been aching for me all day.

It’s such a privilege, a filthy, beautiful privilege, to be the man she craves. I don’t take it lightly. I treat it seriously, fucking her with purpose, with intent. “Want it harder? Deeper?”

“Yes. Please. Both,” she says.

I’ve learned a thing or two about Hazel over the years. She’s never let a heroine come magically. No man in her stories possesses a magical cock. The hero always makes sure he’s taking care of his woman right where she needs him.

I slide a hand to her clit, stroke her faster and faster still.

Like that, I give her the train fuck she’s craved, harder, deeper, and designed to make her come.

There’s nothing magical about my dick.

My ears and eyes deserve the credit. I’ve paid attention to her, and I’ve read both the lines and between them.

As she gasps and pants and I fuck and stroke, I take her over the cliff, with her tits pancaked against the reflection and her whole body trembling as the towns of France watch her come.

She cries out yes, yes, oh god, yes, and I’m right there with her, her sounds pulling me over the edge. I join her in bliss, wishing I could do it again tomorrow and the next day and the next.

But we can’t. I don’t need ground rules to know the game with Hazel has already changed. It changed in the bar car when we agreed to write together again.

There’s even more at stake now. We can’t disappoint our readers twice.

And if we fall into anything more than a brief train-trip fling, the two of us will blow up again. We just will.

After we clean up, and get into bed, I draw a deep breath, and begin another confession. “You know that photo of Max and that woman at the nightclub?”

The picture that broke them up.

She knows the pic. Knows I was in it, toasting with my writer bud, Vince Caine.

“Yeah?”

“I told Vince to take it. Then I told him to post it. I wanted you to see what Max had been doing, and I couldn’t stand it anymore, the way he was cheating. I couldn’t tell you face-to-face, so I engineered that picture.”

She props her head in her hand, looking perplexed. “You did?”

“Yeah,” I say, wincing. It felt noble at the time. Now it just sounds manipulative. But she deserves the truth. “I probably sound like a bigger prick now.”

Shaking her head, she smiles softly, then presses a hand to my chest. “No. You don’t. You sound like you were looking out for me. Like you were still my friend.”

She’s right. “I cared about you. I did, and I do, Hazel.”

No sarcasm, no teasing. Just the truth I’ve always owed her. Night by night, I peel back a little more. But I still keep my fountain wish in a cage. That won’t ever come free.

Hazel leans in and presses the most gentle kiss to my lips. It’s too tender, it’s too sweet.

It’s too dangerous because it nearly unlocks me.

But I can’t serve up the rest of my heart. She’s told me time and time again that she missed me as a friend. As a writer. As a creative partner. She’s made it crystal clear she likes my dick. But she’s never once even hinted she suffers from terrible things like feelings. I’ll just keep these wretched things to myself. Don’t want to lose her again now that I’ve got her back.

We need to be friends for a long time. The corollary is we can’t be lovers beyond this trip. It’ll fuck up everything. Most of all, me. “So this is the get-it-out-of-our-system trope? The trip-only trope, right? Those are the ground rules?” Someone has to say it.

For a few seconds, she’s quiet. Pensive. But a touch sad too. Then her expression shifts. She’s resolute. Or, as she’d say, resolute-ish. “Yes. Don’t you think?”

I think I want all of you. But I also know we could damage our careers now that we’ve publicly committed to finishing the final book in Ten Park Avenue. We have unfinished business at the computer, and that means we’ll have to finish our business in bed after a few more nights.

“I do,” I answer. Then I give her space to not cuddle.

Turns out she told another lie. Soon after she falls asleep, she wraps her lithe body around mine and stays like that, koalaing me all night long.

I don’t care for cuddling, but I will miss this.

I will miss her.



I wake in the morning to a text from my agent.

Mason: Normally, I’d give you a hard time for not telling me first, but when it’s news this good, even I can’t give hard times.





He links to the Book Besties’ posts from last night. The comments go on forever. Wow. I park a hand behind my head as I read them. It’s humbling. I still can’t quite believe anyone wants to read my words—or in this case, our words—let alone all these people.