Chapter 23
I like tacos
Cole
I look at myself in the mirror, fresh jeans hugging my legs just right, freshly showered skin still damp, nice button-down tucked in crisp, my new belt buckle gleaming silver under the bathroom light, and a spray of that cologne Maggie got me a few years ago for Christmas.
The scent’s woodsy and clean, filling the steam-filled room with notes of cedar and citrus.
Women seem to love it, always leaning in closer, eyes lingering.
But tonight? It’s not a date. Maybe a little.
I’m trying the friend thing out. Friends go shopping and get food.
Right? Whatever. I’m getting in my head, staring at my reflection like it’ll give me answers, jaw tight, stubble trimmed neat.
Maggie said friendly. I can be friendly. Although, Friendly, might kill me.
Maggie knocks on the outside of my door, sharp raps that pull me from the mirror.
“Layla is waiting downstairs.”
I open the door. Maggie looks me up and down. “You smell good.”
“Do I look alright?” I ask her quietly, voice low, rubbing the back of my neck.
“You look clean. That’s better than alright.” She says, smirking.
I jog down the stairs, my boots thumping heavy on the wood steps, echoing through the quiet house and there she is.
Layla in a Red sundress that hugs every curve with heels.
Her boobs look so plump and her hips fill out her dress perfectly.
Perfectly made for me. The fabric clings just right, dipping low at the neckline, swaying soft with every shift of her weight.
She smells like vanilla and flowers, sweet, intoxicating, hitting me as I get close.
“Heels?” I ask, voice rougher than I mean it to be.
“I like tacos.” She smiles and shrugs her shoulders.
I smile back at her, holding the door open for her to walk out onto the porch. The night air rushes in cool and fresh, crickets chirping loud, stars pricking the dark sky. I slide beside her and down the steps, unlock the truck with a beep. Before I can open the door, she pauses.
“I’m going to need your help. It’s hard to walk in these heels on the gravel.” She chuckles nervously.
I jog back over to her. “That’s my bad. I should’ve known.”
I walk her over to the passenger side of the truck, open the door for her, and as she crawls up and into the truck her ass is in my face.
Round, perfect, dress riding up just enough to show the curve of her thighs.
I just want to bite it—it looks so good.
She smells so fucking good, perfume mixing with the rain-damp air outside.
It takes everything in me not to fuck her right here and now.
My hands itch to grab her hips, pull her back against me, bury my face in her neck.
But no. Friends. I exhale slowly, force a smile while closing the door, metal clicking shut solid. Being friends might be harder than I thought.
We’ve been driving for a minute—the truck rumbling low over the highway, headlights cutting through the dark, radio humming soft country in the background—and here come the questions. Layla is a talker. I knew she wouldn’t last too long without opening that pretty mouth of hers.
“So… are we grabbing something to eat first or should we go to the store? I mean I don’t need much. I’d rather eat after if you’re okay with that.” She says nervously, fingers twisting in her lap.
“Yeah, that’s fine. Whatever works for me.” I smile, glancing over, her profile soft in the dashboard glow, lips pink and full.
“Great. I really appreciate you doing this for me, Cole. And letting me grab some dinner with you. I know things have been awkward between us since—”
“We’re friends, Layla.” I smile, keeping my voice steady, even though the word tastes like ash.
She smiles so big. Bites her lip. “Right. Well… I just wanted you to know it means a lot to me. It’s nice getting out of the house for a little. I love the seclusion but it’s not normal for me.”
“I can understand that.” I say, putting the signal on to turn into the grocery store—the blinker ticking loud in the cab. “What do you miss most about Seattle?”
“Not much honestly. I guess maybe a few people. But my best friend moved to Florida years ago and I travel there to see her twice a year but I’m much closer to her now.
Actually only 8 hrs away. Her and her husband live on a beach house there and they have a couple kids.
That’s what I miss—them. Not really Seattle. ”
“That’s nice. You should go see them while you’re here.” I say as we park—the truck settling with a soft creak, the lot lights buzzing yellow overhead.
She sighs. “I don’t really have the time nor a car but I will soon. I just need to finish this book.” She says anxiously.
We walk into the store together, the automatic doors whooshing open, cool AC blasting with that sterile grocery smell of fresh produce and baked bread.
“I’ll grab a buggy,” I mumble.
“Buggy.” She laughs, light and bright, eyes sparkling under the fluorescent lights.
“What do you call it?” I ask her.
“A cart.” She says with a smile.
“Buggy is better.” I say.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
She spends 30 minutes getting all kinds of things she needs, grabbing yogurt, fresh fruit, a bag of gummy bears she sorts by color in the cart with a quirky grin.
She forgets some things and goes back—even though she has a list—doubling down aisles, muttering to herself like she’s debating plot points.
She’s funny. Her mind is on so many things all at once—you can tell.
But that’s what I like about her, quirky and genuinely her. Unapologetic.
It starts to rain a little—soft patter on the roof as we check out—so I unlock the truck and tell her to get on in and that I’ll take care of getting the bags loaded.
I’m trying to be a gentleman. I’m trying to be a friend. She looks beautiful tonight—she dressed up and I don’t want her to ruin her outfit or her hair with the rain. I know how women are about that and I want her to feel confident and beautiful, especially at dinner.
“Thanks for loading those.” She says as I climb into the driver’s seat, rain dripping from my hat brim, shirt clinging wet to my chest.
“You’re soaked.” She rubs her hand down my arm, slowly, caressing, fingers warm and soft against the damp fabric.
And there’s a pause between us, I know she feels it too.
The air thickens, charged, her touch sending heat straight to my groin.
She wants me just as bad as I want her but we’re friends.
I need to be strong. Hold my own. Think with my head not with my dick or my heart.
I shake it off. “I’ll be alright. You hungry?”
“Starving!”
La Luna Roja, my favorite Mexican spot. The neon sign flickering red in the rain, parking lot slick and shining under streetlights.
As soon as we walk in, all eyes are on Layla.
It’s kind of like a bar and restaurant mash-up—jukebox pumping mariachi beats, pool tables clicking in the back, tequila bottles lining the shelves behind the bar.
But she stole everyone’s attention. That red dress, her dark features.
She’s beautiful and curvy. Very desirable.
Watching her eat and take in the night is awesome.
She’s happy, laughing, talking, dipping chips into the queso with little moans of delight that hit me low in the gut.
The cheese is hot and melty, spicy kick from jalapenos, her lips shiny from the salt.
“So, what do you want in life?”
She covers her mouth and lets out a chuckle. “That’s pretty deep and random.” She giggles.
I smile, chuckle back. “You were talking about your best friend and her kids, about how you miss them. Do you want kids of your own? To get married?”
She smiles. “Yes, I want all of that. Kids, a husband. All of that. Maybe three kids.”
That’s exactly what I want.
“What about you, Cole?”
“Yeah, we’re not getting any younger. I probably should start working on that part of my life.” I laugh.
She’s had a few too many margaritas—tart lime and tequila on her breath, cheeks flushed pink—and I’m over the waiter flirting with her, leaning too close with that sleazy grin.
So I help her back to the truck—arm around her waist, her body soft and warm against mine, heels clicking unsteady on the wet pavement.
When we get to the truck she moans when our bodies are against each other, low, needy sound that shoots straight to my dick.
And it sends a shiver through me. That I’m trying so hard not to pay attention to.
But that moan makes my dick jump. She turns around, the rain pouring down on us, her back against the truck door.
I can take her right here, having her dig her nails into my back. But no, we're friends.
“I’ve had so much fun with you tonight. Thank you.” She kisses me, lips soft, tequila-sweet, pressing insistent.
I don’t kiss her back. Her eyes are on me and I smile, reaching beside her, opening the truck door.
“Let’s get you home.”
She giggles, that tipsy giggle, light and free.
She sings and talks all the way back to the ranch, the radio turned low, her voice off-key but adorable, rain pattering on the windshield. I love this side of her. This fun, carefree side. I’m glad that I could be the one to make her happy tonight. We pull up and she drops down fast.
“Go on in, it’s raining. I’ll get your grocery bags.” I tell her, so she jogs down the sidewalk to the guest house, dress clinging wet, heels splashing puddles.
I grab all the bags—both hands full, plastic handles digging into my palms, rain soaking me through.
“Just sit them on the kitchen table,” she says, taking her heels off, feet small and pretty, toes painted red to match the dress.
“Thank you for such a fun night.” She says as she walks up to me, eyes glassy from margaritas, lips parted.
I have got to get out of here before I do something really stupid like fuck her right here and now on this kitchen counter like I did a few weeks ago. The memory hits hard, her legs wrapped around me, moans echoing off the walls, nails in my back.
“I had fun too. I’ll see you in the morning for the class.” I say as I’m walking toward the door.
“Oh okay. I’ll see you in the morning I guess.” She says, almost disappointed.
But my dick is throbbing, thinking of her in that dress, hair soaked, the way her feet looked so cute in those heels. I don’t have a foot fetish but damn, I could for hers. And If I stay here I will fuck her. I ran fast up to the main house and out of the rain.
“How did it go?” Maggie says as I pass her going up the steps, walking as fast as I can to my room. I don’t answer, just breeze by.
I slam the door behind me, pulling my shirt off, wet fabric peeling away sticky, unzipping my belt, the leather whispering through the loops, pulling my dick out of my pants.
It’s hard as a rock. Aching and throbbing for her.
Still standing up. I stroke it—rough, urgent.
Moaning low.. I think about Layla. Her perfect tits, that ass.
Her beautiful plump pussy and how it grips my cock just right.
I stroke faster, gripping harder until I burst all in my hand—hot spurts, breath ragged, the release sharp but not enough.
Future note, jerk off before going on a date with Layla.