Chapter 1
Lacey
An open document, a blank page—every author’s worst nightmare. So much for plotting a new story before classes start tomorrow.
I let my head fall back onto the tree trunk. Its stately limbs are usually inspiring when slipping into whatever fantasy scene I’m scribbling, but today the angled knots irritate me.
Relax, Lacey. It’s just a tiny case of writer’s block.
A ping sounds on my tablet, and a new email notification flashes on the bottom right of my screen.
Giselle’s name sits like an omen at the top of my inbox, sending a spike of anticipation—or anxiety—through my veins. Is it a good sign when an editor gets back to you within three hours of receiving a manuscript?
I click the email to open it and read the first line.
What was that?
I cringe. A bad sign, apparently…
I’m a little confused. Romance is supposed to inspire, titillate… to make me need a fresh change of panties. But that… I couldn’t even get past the second chapter.
I love ya, lady, but… that was boring as shit. What happened?
Closing my laptop, I squeeze my eyes shut, but her annoyingly honest comments flash behind my lids as though burned into my retinas… or soul.
Lacey Wright, college student by day, boring-as-shit romance author by night—now there’s a tagline to kill a career.
What happened?
Olly. Olly happened. With his cocky smirk and dirty mouth, it was only a matter of time before my crush turned to obsession and every scene I wrote became an explicit fantasy I could never act out.
Because we are just friends.
Giselle is right. That manuscript sucks, but it’s the first draft I’ve written while trying not to picture Olly as the love interest.
Buzzing tickles my thigh. I pull my phone from my pocket and check the screen.
Olly.
My heart slams against my ribs, competing with a hamster sprinting on a wheel, careening toward a finish line that never comes.
Except with Olly, everyone comes.
Careful, Lacey.
I turn off my naughty author’s mind, press the phone to my ear, and hope my voice sounds even. “Olly.”
“Ask me if he swallowed.”
My best friend’s voice is a low, soft purr that hits me straight between the thighs. I hold back the groan, close my eyes again, and try not to picture myself on my knees in front of him, contemplating swallowing.
I let out a breathy chuckle, the uptick in my pulse making it harder to funnel oxygen into my lungs. “Good night, was it?”
“It was a very, very good night, Lovely Lacey.” My nickname slides off his tongue with seductive ease.
Friends.
Just friends.
A shadow falls over me. I look up to find Olly standing above me, the afternoon sun hitting his back, giving him an ethereal, godlike glow—devilish gleam more like it—unconsciously luring admirers with the sharp angle of his jaw and devastating hearts with a smile.
No wonder he was my muse before we ever met.
He arches one dark brow and a slow smile spreads across his full mouth. “See something you like?”
My stomach clenches with the truth.
Okay, so the luring part isn’t unconscious—Olly is gorgeous and he knows it. “It’s hard to see anything over the size of your head.”
“You should see the size of my other one.”
And… my internal temperature shoots up ten degrees.
Olly flirts with everyone. It doesn’t mean anything.
I roll my eyes, willing the heat out of my skin, and pack up my things before holding one hand above my head.
Olly takes the invitation and tugs me to my feet.
We’re so close now I can smell the sweet tang of cherry cola on his breath, reminding me of the first day I saw him sitting a few rows in front of me during a lecture, a soda can to his lips.
Since that day, I’ve had an insatiable need to know if he tastes just as sweet.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Olly slings an arm over my shoulder, breaking my moment of secret infatuation. I should crumple beneath his weight—his body thick and enticingly powerful compared to my tiny frame—but his touch is light and gentle.
“Aren’t you working today?” I ask as we walk across campus in the direction of my apartment.
“I am.” His lips brush the tip of my ear. “But I wanted to see your face first.”
My stomach flips at his honesty, my silly crush forming scenes in my head that will never play out in reality.
“What storyline is your dirty mind plotting now?” he asks, peering down at me.
Heat blooms up my neck, coloring my cheeks.
His grin widens. “You blush so easily for a woman paying her way through school by writing about fucking.”
“I write romance. The bedroom scenes are… necessary.”
“The fucking scenes are the best part.” His lids lower in a smoldering look that should only be reserved for movie stars.
And my skin invents a new shade of where’s-a-hole-I-can-bury-myself-in red as I look for eavesdroppers.
He kisses the top of my head, chest rumbling with laughter. “You’re too fucking adorable.”
I want to groan. He’s right—not about the adorable part. My nonexistent dating life proved that. I’ve written more than twenty full-length spicy romance novels, but I still blush like a shy virgin whenever someone mentions sex.
Unlike my monk-like existence, Olly has a very active social life, which he has shared—in graphic detail—since the first day we met two years ago.
I’d watched him from afar for most of my first semester at college, too shy to approach him and too stubborn to admit I wanted to. Because boys weren’t, and still aren’t, a part of my distraction-free plan to work hard and graduate school debt-free.
But Olly is a distraction I can never say no to.
After trying to finish a chapter between classes one day, I found my crush reading over my shoulder, grinning. He’d caught shy Lacey Wright scribbling a bodice-ripping, eye-popping scene.
I was mortified, but instead of judgment, he offered me his dirtiest smirk and described one of his hookups in nipple-hardening detail.
I’d finished drafting the entire book that night, and we’ve been inseparable ever since.
Olly became my muse.
Pages of plotlines infused with my imagination and Olly’s prolific experience gave my writing a new, spicier glow.
I managed to write decent novels before Olly came along, but after… with his confessions and my embellishments, I was able to give up two part-time jobs and focus on writing to pay my way through college.
It’s worked amazingly for two years. I’ve been able to bury my crush beneath the adoration of friendship—until one night a few months ago when Olly confessed to going home with two people.
I always knew Olly was confident with his sexuality and desires, but a ménage was on another level. A tendril of curiosity bloomed inside of me as I pictured myself in the scene, and just like that, my crush was back in full force.
The only way to cut it off was to stop picturing Olly in my scenes. But how am I supposed to do that and not write another boring draft?
“I know that look. What did Giselle say?”
The way he can read me is unnerving. “She didn’t like the new draft. It might be time for a genre switch. Women’s fiction, maybe.”
It’s relatively clean, so there is less chance of picturing Olly peeling open his zipper and telling me to call him Daddy…
“What are you talking about?” Olly asks, looking incredulous. “You’re not switching genres.”
I blink up at him in surprise, shocked by his outburst. “Don’t you get sick of having to recount all of your… extracurricular activities to me?” It’s a question but sounds more like a plea. If he says yes, life will be so much easier.
“Fuck no,” Olly murmurs. “Friends help out friends, and when helping you involves draining my balls… I’m all for it.”
An image of Olly draining himself all over my face imprints in my mind and sizzles in my veins. He is not making this easy.
I slip out from under his arm and turn to face him. “I need to make a living from writing; to do that, I have to know what I’m writing about.”
He looks confused.
So am I.
I should have prepped a lie before I blurt out the truth.
“Sex.” The excuse pops into my head and out of my mouth so quickly and loudly that a few heads turn in our direction.
“Are you playing at being a coy virgin?” He’s doing the smolder thing again. “Because your mind is too filthy not to know what cock feels like.”
“No, of course not.” But a few inexperienced fumbles hardly make me an expert. “I mean that I don’t know enough about sex,” I whisper the last part. “I’m going to switch to women’s fiction. I’m a woman who writes fiction. It can’t be that hard.”
Anything has to be easier than wanting what I shouldn’t.
Olly grips my shoulders, gently massaging the tension in my muscles before he slides his palms up to cup the back of my neck. “I don’t think this is about switching to a new genre. It’s about admitting what you want.”
Panic tightens my stomach. He can’t know. “And what is it that I want, Freud?”
His eyes darken as they roam over my cheeks and down to my lips. “Writing about sex isn’t enough anymore.” Olly tilts his head until his breath rushes over my ear and tingles down my neck. “You want a messy fuck that makes your toes curl and your pussy weep.”
His words slide through my veins like a promise, making my toes curl even more and something happen in the vicinity of my vagina. “My toes are perfectly happy straight, and my lady bits are… well taken care of at home.”
His wide grin is mortifying as I realize what I’ve admitted to. I clear my throat and step back, removing myself from his fluster-inducing orbit. “I don’t need sex. I need to write women’s fiction.”
“You’re killing me, Lacey.” He groans. “You write about sex like someone who craves it. A no-strings-attached fuck will give you all the inspiration you need.”
The thought makes me cold and clammy. I haven’t had casual sex—ever. “I’m… too busy.”
Too busy to screw up a friendship.
His mouth parts as he closes the distance between us, and his cherry-cola breath coasts along my lips in a slow exhale. “Too busy to come on something other than your fingers?”
My tummy flutters at his dirty mouth. I nod, no air left in my lungs to form words.
We stand there for a beat longer, and I try not to let my eyes drop to his mouth. Two years of friendship and my expectant heart still goes into overdrive whenever we’re within kissing distance.
He bites his bottom lip to hold in his grin and walks away backward. “Answer your phone tonight.”
I should refuse, but I’m a masochist, my body already thrumming with anticipation. “Why?”
He shakes his head and turns to jog away. “Just answer it.”
“Olly,” I call out before I can stop myself.
He spins around. “Yeah?”
“Did he?” I ask, remembering our phone call.
He winks. “Every fuckin’ drop.”