Out on a Limb E-Book

Hannah Bonam-Young

• Herausgeber: Bedford Square Publishers
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 519

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

'Warm, sexy, and vulnerable... Hannah Bonam-Young needs to be on your romance radar' - Hannah Grace 'A beautiful love story, full of joy from beginning to end!' - Sarah Adams Independent, confident, and not held back by her disability, Winnifred McNulty has been determined to prove to herself and others that she can do anything without needing anyone. That all changes when Win meets Bo at a Halloween party, a charming boy in a pirate costume who has more in common with her than she realises. Bonding over the fact that they both have a visible disability, Win and Bo develop an electrifying connection with each other that they just can't ignore. After a one-night stand leaves Win with the biggest decision of her life, Bo is more than happy to join her in sharing this new experience - on the condition that they remain strictly friends. Win and Bo embark on a journey together, discovering more about themselves than they thought they knew. But the chemistry between them is unavoidable, and the plan they put in place soon gets thrown into question as feelings begin to surface.

Leseprobe

Praise for Hannah Bonam-Young

‘Warm, sexy, and vulnerable… Hannah Bonam-Young needs to be on your romance radar’ Hannah Grace, author of Icebreaker on Next to You

‘Funny and huge-hearted and romantic and real’ Talia Hibbert, author of Get a Life, Chloe Brown on Next of Kin

‘Tender, thoughtful, and deeply touching’ Chloe Liese, author of Two Wrongs Make a Right on Next of Kin

‘You know when you read a book and it feels like there’s a fist around your heart and your stomach drops and your throat goes tight? Everyone needs to pay attention. Hannah is going to do incredible things’ B.K. Borison, author of Lovelight Farms on Out on a Limb

‘No one is doing it like Hannah Bonam-Young’ Lyla Sage, author of Done and Dusted

‘[Next to You] was phenomenal, adorable, sexy and romantic, hilarious, gasp-inducing! I will never be over it!’ Clare Gilmore, author of Love Interest on Next to You

Reader Reviews for Out on a Limb

‘There’s this sincerity to Hannah’s stories that creates such vulnerability and depth. She puts such care into her stories and characters that you can’t help but fall in love with them’

‘This author’s writing has always felt like home, and the joy she instilled in Bo and Win’s characters drove home why I’ll always root for her books!’

‘This book is an absolute standout, and I can’t help but gush about it. From the hilarious banter to the heart-warming moments, it leaves you grinning from ear to ear’

‘It’s hard to describe what you experience when reading a Hannah Bonam-Young novel. I think the best way to put it is that her writing is unbelievably emotionally intelligent’

‘This is one of the purest, most achingly beautiful books I have ever read’

‘The way that Hannah is able to tell stories through one point of view, but make you feel like both the female main character and male main character are speaking to you is absolute magic’

For Ben, for always being my right-hand man.

I’m sorry you’ll never win at rock, paper, scissors.

I love you.

Author’s Note

Dear Reader,

Only five days after my first child was born, I posted the following caption on Instagram…

The only thing I have ever thought I couldn’t do with one hand was be a good mom. It might not be rational, but every time I heard some cliché comment about moms needing an ‘extra set of hands’, it would make my stomach churn. Growing up, there were often times when adults wouldn’t let me hold their babies out of fear, and at some point, I took that to heart. I have held on to this insecurity, and I didn’t really address it until this week. Now, I’d like to say that ten fingers are overrated, because this kid and I have got a good thing going on so far.

I had been a mother for less than a week, and yet I felt as if I’d experienced every possible human emotion under the sun. I was physically and mentally recovering from a traumatic labor experience and difficult pregnancy. My nipples hurt, my body ached, and I was convinced my vagina would never be the same. And yet… I was so, so ridiculously happy.

Not just because of the tiny baby we’d brought home (who’s pretty great), but because I was wrong to be afraid. Because they were wrong. I was absolutely capable of being a good mother.

I, like Win, was born with my limb difference. I have a less-developed right hand that is identical to Win’s as described in this book. And while I’ve tried my best throughout my life to not let it hold me back, it has certainly created challenges. I’ve always found myself attempting to perform things in private that I’ll be expected to do in public. Things as small as buttoning a new pair of pants or typing to take notes in class. I’ve spent hours upon hours thinking through daily obstacles, coming up with small adjustments, and planning out my days in agonizing detail in order to avoid any awkwardness or failure. Then, I found out I was pregnant, and suddenly I felt totally and completely unprepared. I knew that nothing could prepare me for what came next, and I was terrified…

I wanted to write a book for anyone who’s let fear of failure slow them down. Not just for those of us who choose to have kids, or those of us who are disabled, but for anyone who’s been thrust into something new that took them so far out of their comfort zone they no longer recognized their past, afraid self. I wanted to write something about two people who love each other so much that they’re able to change the negative thought patterns they’ve held on to and embrace their differences fully. Where love is shown to be validating, kind, considerate, joyful, patient, and gentle.

In this book, Win goes on a journey to motherhood via pregnancy. Because her pregnancy is entirely unexpected, I chose to include conversations between Win, her medical team, and her support system about the option of abortion. It’s worth noting that this book is set in Canada, where rights to abortion are not currently under threat as they are elsewhere, and therefore, her options are less limited. Ultimately, Win chooses to keep her baby, but it felt necessary to include those discussions, given that the fundamental right to access safe, legal abortions is constantly being challenged. Win’s choice is not superior, nor is she pressured into it. Win’s choice is just that. Her choice.

To end this note, I just want to say that I know that pregnancy in romance novels is a hot topic. It’s not for everyone, and that’s perfectly okay. But this book is a lot more than a one-night stand turned baby. It’s about learning to let someone see the messy, needier parts of you. It’s learning to be loved well as you are and accept help. It’s about challenging expectations and overcoming obstacles. It’s disabled joy. Which we all need to see more of, if you ask me.

I hope you love Bo and Win as much as I do.

All my love,

hannah bonam-young

CONTENT WARNINGS:

• graphic sexual content

• pregnancy and symptoms of pregnancy

• brief discussion of abortion (pro-choice stance, not performed)

• ableism in reference to a limb difference

• verbally abusive ex-partner (no reappearance)

• death of a parent (past, off page)

• depression and suicide (past, off page)

• cancer (past, not reoccurring)

• amputation (past, off page)

ONE

‘Did you know this song might be about an orgy?’ I ask the witch standing next to the punch bowl, pointing toward the speaker.

‘What?’ she shouts, using tar-black talons to pull her willowy silver wig away from her ear.

‘The song – “Monster Mash”.’ I point toward the speaker again.

‘What about it?’ she asks, louder.

‘An orgy!’ I yell just as the music comes to an abrupt stop – my friend and host of the evening, Sarah, hopping onto a dining chair to address her guests.

‘No, thanks…’ Witch woman sends daggers my way as she slowly turns around and walks, funnily enough, toward the archway decorated in bloodied weapons.

‘You should be so lucky,’ I mutter under my breath as I fill my cup with an undisclosed neon-green substance, successfully avoiding the floating candied eyeballs.

Sarah, my lifelong best friend, is giving her yearly thank you so much for coming to my Halloween party; it’s the only thing I care about speech while I’m debating about whether anyone is secretly keeping track of how many hot-dog-mummies I’ve eaten thus far.

Nah. And so I reach for another.

‘Aye, aye, Captain Winnifred!’

Fuck, I’ve been spotted. I drop the mummy into my drink and cover the top of my cup with my hand.

‘You okay?’ Caleb, Sarah’s husband, asks, eyeing my cup with suspicion.

‘Never been better,’ I say sweetly. ‘It’s another successful year,’ I say, admiring their home, decorated with professional precision.

Caleb does the same, and when his expression turns to subtle pride and admiration for his wife’s work, I place a bet to the universe that the next three words out of his mouth will be…

‘Anything Sarah wants,’ we say in unison. He smiles into the top of his beer with a hint of guilty shyness, but mostly resolve. Sarah and Caleb met in the ninth grade. He’s been carrying her textbooks, literally and metaphorically, since.

I love Caleb. He’s like a brother to me. A brother-in-law if Sarah and I were actually sisters like we used to boldly claim (see: lie) in school. Turns out, according to a DNA test a few years back, we’re fourth cousins once removed. Sarah simply says we’re cousins now, when given the chance.

‘You know, my friend Robbie is here. I thought I might introduce you,’ Caleb says after a long sip of his beer.

Yeah, absolutely not.

I’ve been successfully avoiding the guys Caleb wants to set me up with since my date with his buddy from work. Winston cried while describing his – very much alive – mother and the ‘beautiful bond’ they shared. He also brought me an orchid, which could have been a sweet gesture – I do love plants. Unfortunately, it was in a large ceramic bowl with rocks and bark, and it weighed a ton. I couldn’t just put it on the ground, lest a server trip over it and meet an untimely death, so it had to sit on the table between us – blocking our view of each other. Then, after a dull dinner, I had to carry it home with me, clinging to it in the back of the taxi as I wrote a kind but firm let’s-not-do-this-again text.

If anything, that date only solidified my desire to remain casual and stick to dating apps where I could properly vet the men for myself.

‘Maybe later,’ I answer Caleb. ‘I’m just waiting to talk to our hostess.’ I tilt my chin toward Sarah, who’s dressed as the Princess Buttercup to Caleb’s Westley.

‘Okay, fine. This one is different, though. He even has a dead mom,’ Caleb adds far too excitedly.

‘Oh, bonus!’ I say, matching his energy. ‘I love when their mom is dead. It makes things so much easier around the holidays.’

Caleb laughs, turning to fill a cup with lime punch. ‘Here.’ He holds it out to me before taking my mummified drink and tossing it into the trash can. ‘Eat however much you want, Win.’

I take the drink, leaning toward him. ‘That might be the sexiest thing you have ever said to me, Caleb.’

Just then, someone slaps my ass. ‘Is he flirting with you again? God, I’ve told you both so many times – if you’re going to have an affair, at least be discreet.’

‘Buttercup! So nice of you to join us,’ I say, smiling broadly.

‘Love the costume… again.’ Sarah sighs, pointing with a limp wrist to my elaborate pirate get-up.

‘Until I grow a hand, this will still be prime comedy.’ I jab her boob with my hook until she giggles, swatting me away.

‘We have to go talk to a bunch of people, but do you want to sleep over tonight? I made up the spare bedroom and—’

‘Yes, I will help clean up. I do it every year, babe,’ I interrupt. ‘Go! Entertain your masses.’

Sarah jumbles the words thank-you-you’re-the-best into one long sequence as she tugs Caleb away like an extremely willing puppy on a leash.

‘Great costumes,’ an exceptionally drunk woman dressed as a red crayon slurs, walking toward me. The blue crayon next to her adds, ‘Think you might win the couples’ contest,’ as they pass by.

Couples costume? Me? Single Winnie? Puh-lease.

They must have mistaken Caleb for a pirate and my betrothed. Westley was the Dread Pirate Roberts, after all. So it’s not a far-off presumption. But my pirate style is a lot more of your classic wench-whore. My boobs are practically earrings at this height, and my fishnet stockings are ripped from years of re-wear, giving them the perfect accidentally slutty look. My waist is cinched with a wide pleather belt, and I’ve tied a red bandanna around my shoulder-length black hair. That’s a new addition after my accompanying pirate’s hat was lost during last year’s debauchery. May she rest in peace.

I will keep wearing this costume until the joke gets old. That wasn’t a lie. But it’s also because – let’s be real – I look hot in it. Additionally, I’m too broke to buy something new. But let’s not talk about that.

There’s another layer of Sarah’s genius. Lock down the cutest computer geek as early as possible, make them fall madly in love with you, and then wait for them to become filthy rich. Now Sarah’s the fun friend full time. Party hostess, event planner, voracious reader, a childless housewife with a maid. She’s currently trying to decide between themes for my thirtieth birthday party, which still isn’t for another eighteen months.

‘Pardon me?’ a low, sardonic voice calls from behind me, making me turn.

Oh, there he is. The other pirate I’ve been unknowingly paired with. Though this one, I would certainly not make walk the plank.

My first thought? He’s tall. Really tall. As if his body was stretched out with a rolling pin before being placed into whatever magical golden boy oven he was baked in. He’s got that tousled, nineties-boy-band, middle-parted hair that’s suddenly back in style. It’s dark blond, which I can choose to forgive. He has a crooked smile that says get out while you can under a not-crooked but rugged nose and soft eyes. The juxtaposition of which is strikingly adorable.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he says without any sincerity, ‘but one of us has to change.’

‘Oh my god,’ I say, flattening my skirt before resting my hands on my waist. ‘This is so embarrassing… What are the odds?’

‘Right? I mean there’s no way either of us is winning the singles costume contest this way and’ – he leans in to whisper by bending over at the waist, and he’s still taller than me – ‘I’m not wearing anything under this.’

I fight the laugh, not wanting this bit to end. I so rarely get a new sparring partner. Never one this cute.

‘Well, that’s unfortunate. You should have planned better. I have a few costumes under this one.’

The corner of his lip twitches, but he seems to resist giving me any reaction beyond that. Challenge accepted.

‘Such as?’ he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

‘A Viking,’ I answer.

‘Now that you mention it, I do see a horn peeking out just a little.’ He motions to the side of my head with a bent finger.

‘That’s actually standard issue for all of Satan’s spawn, but I could see how you got confused.’

‘Concerning. What else?’

‘A sexy maid, of course,’ I say, batting my lashes.

‘Well, that I have to see,’ he quips back far too quickly.

Here, I think, is where I win the laugh-off we’re pretending not to have. Shock value always wins.

‘But I must insist on keeping the pirate costume, I’m afraid. You see’ – I let go of the hook’s inner handle and pull it away in my left hand, revealing my smaller, less-developed right hand underneath – ‘I am in need of a hook.’ I wave at him mockingly, my tiny, curled fingers, shorter than the first knuckle, waggling as best as they can.

He doesn’t break like I want him to. But he does grin mischievously. His eyes crackle with humor, pulling me in at a concerning speed. I’d be frustrated if his expression wasn’t so damn intriguing. Something about his amusement signals that, perhaps, he’s one step ahead of me.

‘Oh, I see. Well, then… maybe we can come to some sort of compromise.’ He sticks out his foot between us.

You’ve got to be joking.

TWO

He’s got a prosthetic leg. It’s covered, loosely, in a vinyl sticker made to look like wood, the kind you’d use to line your kitchen shelves, giving the illusion of a pirate’s peg-leg underneath black trousers he has tied up at the knee with thin, corded leather rope.

‘God dammit!’ I yell. Which finally gets him to laugh. And it’s a great one too. A hearty, deep, boisterous sound from the back of his throat that makes his jaw tense and his neck jump. Uninhibited. And, dare I say, sexy.

‘I really felt like I was going to win this round,’ I say, my voice unsteady.

He hasn’t stopped laughing – harder than I am, actually. I’m not used to that, and it’s honestly refreshing. I’ve been told I laugh obnoxiously loud. Some have even gone so far as to compare me to a baby seal calling for its mother. Some meaning more than one person – in two separate instances – have expressed that exact sentiment.

‘This is a couple’s costume. The crayons were right,’ I say through breathless fits of joy.

He clutches his chest as if to steady himself, his laughter finally beginning to die down. Then I’m treated to the view of a boyish, tilted smile and sincere eyes sweeping over me from head to toe and back again.

I wonder if he likes what he sees. Actually, I’m hoping he likes what he sees. Because I certainly like what he’s got going on. The longer he looks me up and down, the more I consider him approving of my appearance.

My black not-quite-straight but not-quite-curly shoulder-length hair. My thin eyebrows from merciless plucking in my teenage years. My sharp-edged nose, with a simple gold piercing on the left nostril, set between glacier blue eyes. My body is shoved and tucked into this costume to prop up my tits and shrink my waist, but that’s mostly illusion.

I would describe my frame as fairly average. I enjoy long walks, swimming, and dancing, but I equally love rainy days plastered to the couch, pastries, and overly sweetened coffees. My arms and back are strong and sculpted from years of training in butterfly and breast strokes, but my hips and stomach hold the pleasure of a well-fed, comfortable woman. I don’t try to force my body to be something or deprive it of pleasantness. It just is. And I like it, enough, as is.

But what does this seemingly perfect specimen before me look like on an average day? He strikes me as someone who grew up beautiful. The small tilt of arrogance of his chin combined with the naïve sweetness in his smile that I wish wasn’t so disarming. He’s probably a foot taller than me, and I can’t help but wonder how hard I’d have to yank on his pleated pirate blouse to bring his lips down to mine.

‘I’m Bo.’ He extends his left hand – which my body hears as would you like me to fuck you? Because there’s nothing more awkward than shaking with my right hand and nothing more attractive than a man who could have anticipated that.

I shake his hand enthusiastically. ‘Win.’

‘Is that short for something?’ he asks, dropping his hand and sliding it into his trouser pocket.

‘Winnifred, but no one really calls me that. What about you?’ I make a point to emphasize the stretch of my neck, staring up at him as if he’s some sort of fairy-tale giant. ‘Are you tall for something?’

He can’t stop laughing now. I can’t stop wanting to make him.

‘What?’ he asks, eyes lit with enjoyment.

‘Seriously, what are you? Nine feet tall?’

‘Six.’

‘Six what though?’

‘Six-five.’

‘Wildly unnecessary for daily life. Do you play basketball?’

‘Eh, used to.’ His smile falters only a touch – but I notice. I notice, too, that he – perhaps subconsciously – moves to rub his knee, just above where his prosthesis begins.

I wince. ‘Sorry,’ I offer plainly. ‘I was born with my hand. So I stupidly forget other people—’

‘No worries,’ he interrupts me, smiling with his chin pushed out.

‘I ruined that. But this was nice before then, wasn’t it?’

He looks away, smirking yet visibly shy, his eyes shifting and his body softly swaying. ‘It can still be nice. I could even the score? Make fun of your hand, if you’d like?’ he offers, clearly unserious.

‘Yes, please do. That would actually help a lot,’ I say, calling his bluff.

He turns to face me, staring me down with crescent eyes and an ever-growing smile that has the blood rushing to the surface of my skin. I raise a brow in challenge when he appears to be calculating his next steps, his head tilting to the side.

‘All right.’ Bo holds out his palm, then crooks two fingers, gesturing for me to move closer. ‘Let me see it then.’

I narrow my eyes on him playfully as I present my smaller hand to him, placing it in his open palm that is about double the size of mine. I swallow on impact, the brushing of our skin shooting sparks up my veins.

‘Shit…’ he whispers under his breath, turning it over with a grip on my wrist that I love. ‘It’s adorable,’ he says, studying it intently. Then he tuts and lets go, practically tossing it aside. ‘What am I supposed to say?’

‘Right?’ I agree, throwing both arms up in the air. ‘It’s impossible to make fun of. It’s too damn cute. It’s official. I’ve ruined the evening.’

‘The best I had was a sarcastic “nice hand, Finding Nemo”, but that’s sort of endearing, isn’t it?’

‘He’s an icon,’ I agree.

‘I loved that little fish.’ He rubs the back of his neck, looking past the archway and hallway to our left. ‘Want to sit?’

I nod, leading the way to the tufted yellow two-seater couch in Sarah’s den. The walls are covered in Sarah’s many books and maps of various lakes up in Northern Ontario. It’s a cottage-inspired room. Because rich people have themed parties and rooms.

‘So how do you know Sarah and Caleb?’ I ask, curling my legs under me to face him. This close to Bo, I can see that his eyes are hazel with the smallest smattering of green. He’s got more stubble than I originally noticed, but that’s because it’s fairer than his hair. He also smells very good. Like cinnamon and something else that’s musky and warm and delicious. Like someone who could build a campfire and bake me a birthday cake too.

I keep studying him unabashedly. I can’t help it, so I don’t resist. And, eventually, when my eyes leave his surprisingly attractive collection of costume rings below his black painted nails, I realize he’s looking straight down my blouse. He’s doing some unabashed admiring of his own.

I smile to myself, pride lifting my shoulders and, in turn, my chest. I give him a few more seconds of leering before I clear my throat delicately.

‘Sorry.’ He shakes himself. ‘What did you say?’ He blinks like a caught, guilty man.

‘Shameless!’ I cry out, laughing. ‘You ogled me.’

He chuckles nervously. ‘I know, fuck, sorry. I’ve never – well, I’ve never forgotten to pretend I’m not checking someone out before.’ He cringes bashfully, the corner of his lips still upturned. ‘This costume has an intended purpose.’ I shrug, fiddling with the hem of my skirt.

‘I really am sorry. I’m not—’

‘How do they look?’ I ask, interrupting him.

He looks up to the ceiling as if he’s searching for some deity to help him handle me. I like that a lot.

I watch as a slow smile forms, the corner of his bottom lip tucked between his teeth. ‘They, like every other part of you, look great,’ he says slowly. Now it’s his turn to clear his throat when I’m left blushing with my eyes stuck on his face. ‘But… what did you ask?’

I fumble, forgetting everything I said. But when I look around the room, blinking until I focus on my surroundings, I remember whose house I’m in and, therefore, what I asked. ‘How do you know Sarah and Caleb?’

Bo shuffles back against the couch, his hand playing mindlessly with the loose, ruffled collar of his shirt, tugging it away from his neck. ‘Caleb and I met through a mutual friend about six years ago. We reconnected earlier this year for a work thing. He’s a good guy. What about you?’

‘I’ve known Sarah my whole life. Our moms were best friends in high school and they both got knocked up accidentally during their senior year. They raised us together as pseudo siblings.’

‘Damn, so you’ve known Caleb since—’

‘Grade nine, yeah,’ I interrupt. ‘We all went to the same high school. I’ve been third wheelin’ ever since.’

‘Third wheeling,’ he repeats. ‘So, you’re not…’ His smile quirks to one side. ‘I was going to ask if you were here with anyone, but let me rephrase. Is there someone who would deck me for checking you out the way I just did?’

‘Nope.’ I cover my smile with a curled pointer finger, tracing my knuckle along my lip before I gather my confidence once again. ‘No one. Here or in any room.’ That sounded a lot more suggestive than I intended, but it works in my favor when I notice his smile inching back up and his eyes darting to my lips for a second.

‘Any room.’ He nods, chin tilted up. ‘Noted.’

‘What about you? Have a girlfriend I should know about?’ I ask before swallowing.

He looks offended that I’d even suggest such a thing, his brows jolting upward. ‘No!’

‘You’d not be the first unavailable guy to act totally available,’ I argue. My ex, for one, did that often.

‘Fair.’ He settles down. ‘No, no girlfriend. Here or in any room,’ he taunts.

‘Right.’ I get comfortable, leaning against the couch – pushing my breasts together, which Bo briefly makes note of. ‘Then… tell me about yourself. Who are you?’

‘Why does that question always feel so intimidating?’ He brushes his knuckles against his cheek, swiping his thumb along his jaw.

‘Because human experience cannot be summed up in a few sentences,’ I offer, ‘but it’s still polite to try.’

He nods, side-eyeing me in a totally curious, stirring way that seems effortless to him despite the way it makes my heart pound. ‘Fair enough,’ he begins. ‘I’m twenty-nine. I’m a financial analyst.’ He puts up a hand, as if to stop me from interrupting – which I was going to. ‘I know, it’s a riveting career choice, but I actually love it.’ He scratches his nose with the back of his thumb, looking sideways across the room. ‘I’m an only child,’ he adds. ‘My father lives in France, so I don’t see him all that often. But he’s, rather pathetically, my best friend. My mother passed away when I was young.’ He laughs dryly, as if maybe he’s unsure of whether he’s oversharing.

‘Uh… I worked as a barista through university, and it made me agonizingly pretentious about coffee. When I was a teenager, I read a book about healthy brain habits, and now I do a sudoku puzzle every day because I’m paranoid about my brain rotting. My favorite animals are dogs, but I’ve never had one as a pet. Um, my favorite color is purple?’ he asks, as if he’s unsure of where to stop.

‘That was great, thank you,’ I say.

‘Yeah? I pass?’

‘Yes, very informative. Though I do have some follow-up questions.’

‘Don’t you have to tell me about yourself first?’ Bo asks, raising one brow.

‘Oh, right, okay,’ I say, reaching for the cup that I placed on the table in front of us.

Bo waits for me to speak, his eyes intently focused as he leans farther against the back of the couch.

‘I’m twenty-eight.’ I take a sip of my drink. ‘I work at a café, so I’m also a bit of a coffee snob. I work as a lifeguard seasonally, which I love. I’d spend my whole life outdoors if I could. My mother used to affectionately refer to me as her pet squirrel because of that and because I tend to hoard things. Currently, that’s plants. My mom lives in Florida now with a string of boyfriends who are nice enough… I try to visit her once a year, but we aren’t exactly close. I never met my dad. And…’ I try to think of one last thing. ‘Oh, my favorite color is green.’

‘Well, it’s good to meet you, Fred.’

‘Please don’t call me that,’ I say forcibly, half joking.

‘What? Why not?’ He looks comically offended.

‘It’s not a particularly sexy name,’ I say. ‘Winnifred is bad enough, but Fred? I sound like the creepy uncle you don’t invite to Thanksgiving.’

‘Agree to disagree.’

‘Imagine crying out “Fred” in the bedroom.’ His smirk grows, and I glare at him, deciding to make my point clear. ‘Oh, Fred,’ I moan. ‘Yes, Fred!’ I cry, probably a bit too loudly, in fake passion. ‘It’s awful.’ A few of the other party guests, confused and perhaps the tiniest bit offended, turn toward us. I salute them before they go back to their own conversations, my eyes held on Bo.

It’s horribly cliché, but his smile is beaming – far brighter than the sun. I feel myself bloom with it, as if it’s my own personal version of photosynthesis.

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ I ask, feeling suddenly shy.

‘You’re funny,’ he says matter-of-factly, his expression remaining.

Huh.

I do my best to look around the room, pretending the other guests and their costumes are suddenly much more interesting to me. I’m hyperaware that I’m blushing at the compliment and wishing, desperately, that I could stop.

When I do finally look back, Bo’s attention is focused on the back of the tufted couch. With his hand around the top of my seat, the tip of his thumb traces one of the fabric buttons in a small, circular motion over and over.

I shouldn’t be affected by it, and I’ll deny it if ever confronted, but there’s something inherently sexual about the motion. I watch, feeling far too enraptured, as he circles the button tenderly. My throat tenses as my lips part, imagining his thumb working me over in a similar way. It’s been months since a date went well enough that I allowed a man to touch me like that – not that it was all that great when he did. Still, judging by the rattling of stuttered breaths in my chest, I think I’d let Bo give it a try.

‘So,’ Bo says, dragging my gaze from the button toward his face, ‘you’re not here with anyone…’

‘Is that a question?’ I ask, regaining my voice with a noticeable rasp.

He rolls his eyes. I like that too.

‘I suppose,’ he says, drawing out the word, ‘the question is: Why?’

‘Oh, so we’ve gotten to the what-are-your-faults part of the evening?’ I ask.

‘I was thinking more along the lines of how-is-someone-like-you-single? But sure,’ he says.

‘Ah, well, thanks.’ Despite my sarcasm, I feel my face heat again and curse myself for it. Three blushes in one evening? It has to be a record. One that I hope to never beat. ‘Honestly, the answer isn’t all that interesting. I’m just not looking for anything permanent. I’ve been told by Sarah that I’m independent to a fault.’

What I don’t say is that I grew up watching my mom bring home loser after loser, knowing damn well we’d all be better off without them. It only took her boyfriends a few weeks into dating before they started acting like they had some sort of authority over her – our – life. They usually started off small, like my mom’s favorite brand of coffee being switched out for their preference. Then it slowly escalated. Our soap-opera evening marathons became Well, sweetie, the game is on. Why don’t you go finish up your homework in your room? Or No, we’re not having tacos tonight. Insert-boyfriend’s-name-here doesn’t like them. Then, eventually, they’d leave, and we’d reset. Sarah, her mom, and I would enjoy the brief interim before Mom’s next man came through, and then we’d look after Mom when that inevitably went to shit again. Because of this, I learned quickly that in order to preserve the life I wanted, I had to avoid inviting a man in.

But, like most hopeless-romantic idiots, I forgot my self-appointed golden rule in my early twenties and moved in with my boyfriend Jack – who wanted everything his way and didn’t care how he had to act to have it. That, of course, also ended terribly. I’ve been picking up the pieces since. My self-esteem and life plans are still, mostly, in shambles.

‘What about you?’ I ask. ‘In search of a wife?’

‘No.’ Bo laughs, his eyes flicking up to the ceiling momentarily. ‘I am not.’

‘Well, that’s certainly… compatible.’ I chew my bottom lip, hoping he catches my not-so-subtle suggestion.

He catches it, all right, and stares at me a little too long. To the point where I start to feel my heartbeat pulsating in my neck. I wanted this response, sure, but for some reason, from Bo, it feels a little overwhelming. Perhaps it’s the way his eyes search my face like he’s trying to place me. Like we’ve met before. Or maybe as if he can’t believe we haven’t.

Whatever this look is, I need it to stop. It’s causing too much blood to rush to my head – making me warm and flustered and dizzy.

‘I like your pirate’s leg,’ I say in a truly horrific attempt to take the attention off me. ‘I-I meant – your costume. Not just your leg, obviously. The whole thing,’ I say, floundering.

‘Oh, well, good. I was worried you only wanted me for my leg for a second,’ he teases.

I choose to ignore his flippant use of the words wanted me and take a sharp turn away from my blunder. ‘Has that happened to you yet?’ I ask, reaching for my drink, praying it can cool me off. ‘I got a doozy of a message last week on Instagram. Reese24 told me his dick would look huge in my baby-hand.’

‘Oh my god.’ Bo’s face distorts as he laughs in horror.

‘Yep.’

‘That’s so many layers of fucked-up.’

‘Truly.’

‘But…’ Bo lifts two palms, mimicking a tilting scale.

‘No,’ I say, punctuated by a shocked laugh. ‘No. Don’t you dare.’

‘I mean,’ his eyes turn teasing as he shrugs, ‘he’s right. It probably would.’

‘Oh my god.’

‘It would do a great deal for the ego. Reese24 may be onto something.’

‘Awful,’ I sputter through a laugh. ‘You’re both awful.’ I curl my lips up to my nose like the room stinks as Bo sits back comfortably, his arm once again resting behind me.

We continue to make small talk for enough time that Sarah’s playlist has now replayed ‘Monster Mash’ twice. Bo laughs at my theory around the song, unlike witch woman, and eventually decides he’ll need to do his own research with a thoughtful analysis of the lyrics once he gets home. The party is starting to die down when our conversation does too. A slow fade to contented quiet and a third round of drinks fetched by me.

But, oddly enough, our lull in conversation isn’t uncomfortable. I’ve been on plenty of dates where the banter stops flowing and it’s easier to either call it quits or take things back to someone’s apartment than it is to wait for the next quippy exchange to roll in. But tonight, there’s no shortage of topics and no fear of some forced, humorless conversation.

These quiet reprieves feel more like intermissions. As if we’re performing for each other. Taking turns being the entertainment and the entertained. Keeping each other laughing. Keeping each other guessing. It’s fun, and part of me wishes we had more time before Sarah and Caleb decide to kick everyone out for the night. But maybe I could convince him to stay a little longer.

Given everything I’ve learned about Bo so far, I’ll have to take the lead. He’s so completely unaware of his own charm it’s comical. He’s shy, almost. I could see him asking for my number, but I doubt he’d be bold enough to ask me to come back to his place. Which, I’ve decided, is what I want to do.

‘Is this a wig?’

I don’t notice until I feel the back of Bo’s finger brush my cheek, but he’s holding a strand of my hair between his thumb and finger, twiddling it mindlessly.

‘No, that’s all me.’ I gulp as his thumb grazes the underside of my chin.

He continues twisting my hair through his fingers, curling it around the backs of his knuckles as if it’s a snake he’s charmed. I fight the urge to crawl into his lap and purr.

‘Sorry,’ he whispers, wetting his lips. I notice that he doesn’t let go, however.

‘I don’t mind,’ I answer softly. What I should say is: keep touching me. Anywhere you’d like.

‘It’s beautiful,’ he tells me, looking at me with an unsteadying lack of humor. He releases my hair and leans back, taking a long breath that flares his nostrils. ‘I’ve had too much punch, probably.’

‘I really didn’t mind.’ I lean in, trying to catch his gaze. Attempting to plead with him, silently, to ask for more. But it’s no use. He’s so gorgeous, yet clearly oblivious of that fact. It’s as endearing as it is frustrating.

So I decide enough is enough. I can take charge. I’m a modern woman, dammit. I can go after what I want, even if I don’t exactly practice that concept in my daily life. I can do this.

‘Bo, would you like to go upstairs with me?’ I ask, my voice a touch louder than intended, as I’m forcing myself to speak with confidence.

His eyes widen in surprise, and his head tilts. ‘Upstairs?’

I didn’t count on having to repeat myself. Or clarify. I feel like covering my face with a couch cushion, but screw it. I’m in it now. ‘Would you, maybe, like to go have sex with me? I have a room here,’ I explain, trying my best to keep my spine straight in order to not shrink into myself. The illusion of confidence is key.

‘Here?’ His brow twists in confusion.

‘Yes?’

‘Do – do you live here?’

‘No, I just stay here a lot.’ I wait a few seconds, hoping he’ll put me out of my misery, but he appears far off and a little stunned. Was I truly misinterpreting all of this? I’ve been off before, but never this much. This seemed like a sure thing.

He laughs nervously, his head hanging. ‘Uh, actually, um—’

Blame the neon punch, I tell myself. ‘Sorry. Forget I said anything.’ I will lie to myself in order to move past this. Bo is a virgin. Celibate due to his solemn lifelong vow. I’ve been the most tempting offer he’s ever had, but he must stay strong. It’s not me. It’s not me! It’s not –

‘No,’ he says a little too forcefully. ‘Don’t – don’t forget it. Uh, sorry, it’s just’ – he shakes his head – ‘I haven’t since…’ His eyes fall to where his hand rests on his knee, right above where his prosthesis begins.

Ah.

I should think. I should absolutely think before I speak. But I don’t. I rarely do, unfortunately. ‘Did something happen to your…?’ I finish the sentence I never should have spoken by pointing to his lap.

Winnifred June McNulty, you cannot ask people if their junk is broken. What is wrong with you?

‘Oh, no. Nothing. Top shape.’ He winces at his choice of words. Or perhaps just the conversation overall.

I have to fix this. I’m not this person – the one who pries and fumbles and makes someone feel uncomfortable about their body or its differences. I cannot be that person. That’d make me a massive hypocrite.

I approach gently, resting my hand on top of his. ‘Then I’m sure it’s not all that different.’ I hesitate, waiting for him to make eye contact with me. ‘I’m willing to try, if you are. It could be a lot of fun.’

He turns to face me, with his eyes darkened, enlarged pupils, and tight-knit brow. ‘Why was that so hot?’ he asks, whispering, his voice near disbelief.

There it is, I think. A sliver of my pride returns.

‘The moment you shook my hand with your left, I was ready to do this.’ I bite down on my smile. ‘I imagine it’s something similar to that? Knowing I get the holdup, to some extent?’

His eyes dip down to my lips again as he nods, eyes entranced and glistening.

‘So what will it be?’ I ask, leaning close enough that I can count the exact number of freckles on his cheeks that spread across his nose like a bridge between them. ‘Because if I have to inquire again, I may attempt to drown myself in the punch bowl.’

Without hesitation, Bo closes the distance between us and kisses me, tender and brief, with his hand across my jaw. His lips are plush and warm and damn near intoxicating. ‘Yes,’ he says, inhaling hungrily, his forehead pressed against mine. He laughs lowly, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear before letting the same hand drag down my neck, shoulder, and arm. ‘C’mon,’ he says, taking my hand in his as he moves away to stand.

‘Wait,’ I say, pulling him back. ‘I’m going to go upstairs first. I’ll make sure no one else has gotten the same idea and is defiling the guest bedroom. You go to the kitchen and get us some water or something. It’s the last door on the left.’

‘Okay.’ He nods eagerly, a few too many times for my liking. It reminds me of Caleb’s puppy-dog willingness, causing a quick thrill of panic to course through me.

I can’t handle one more guy being too nice in the bedroom. I need to know that all this chemistry between us won’t fizzle out the moment we get upstairs.

‘Bo, can you promise me something?’ I ask.

His bottom lip pushes out as he nods again, less eagerly. ‘Sure?’

‘I need you to promise me that we’ll both enjoy tonight. I’ve had a string of lousy hookups this year, and if I have to fake another orgasm, I think I’ll be legally required to become a nun or something.’ I bite my lip, anxious that I perhaps am asking too much from him, a near perfect stranger.

He doesn’t bat an eye, but his boyish grin comes back in full, brutal force. ‘Win, if you walk out of that room sturdier than me, I won’t be happy.’

A leg joke? Be still my beating heart.

I cover my mouth as I gasp, a singular laugh breaking through. ‘You did not.’

‘I did,’ he says, relaxing back on the couch. He raises his hand back to my hair again, playing with it as his eyes fall yet again to my lips with equal measures of desire and amusement. ‘Now… go upstairs and wait for me.’

THREE

‘That feels so good.’ I sigh blissfully, letting my belt fall to the floor of the en-suite bathroom. I open the drawer under the sink that Sarah keeps stocked with an obscene amount of toiletries and find everything I might need for a quick refresh.

I fetch floss, mouthwash, deodorant, and a few makeup wipes for a quick downstairs clean. It may throw off my pH balance, but that’s Win of tomorrow’s problem.

I hear a soft knock, followed by a creaking door opening, then shutting in the adjoining room.

‘I’ll be out in a minute!’ I call, removing some of the dark eye makeup I smeared on before the party.

‘This is their guest bedroom?’ Bo asks from the other side of the door, clearly impressed.

‘You’re in finance, right? How much do you think this house is worth?’ I ask before taking a shot of mouthwash and swishing it around my mouth, then trying to quietly spit it out.

He laughs but doesn’t humor me with a guess.

I toss my head forward, using my forearm and the crook of my wrist alongside my left hand to gather all of my hair into a high pony. I take off the leather skirt and boots but leave my white blouse – with extra buttons undone – and fishnet tights on.

With a few centering breaths, I apply some lip gloss, smack my lips together, and attempt to gather every shred of confidence required to open the door to the bedroom.

Sarah’s guest room is decorated in gray moody wallpaper and dark floors with a small chandelier in the center of the room. I dimmed all the lights to a soft, flattering glow before making a mad dash to the bathroom. In the middle of the room, there’s a queen-sized bed covered in a crisp white linen duvet, taupe knitted blankets, and throw pillows.

Bo sits on the edge of the bed, facing the doorway that I’ve yet to move from. The moment he spots me, he automatically lowers his hand to his lap and adjusts his trousers. Which does great things for my ego.

‘Damn,’ he says, his jaw working. He leans forward, chuckling to himself in an agonized, bittersweet manner before he looks up at me through half-closed eyes. I’m struck by the illusion of power born from the eager look on Bo’s face telling me that he’d ask how high if I simply said jump.

‘I took off some of the… stuff,’ I say, holding on to the doorframe for balance.

‘I can see that.’ Bo wets his lips. His hands rub up and down his own thighs as if they’re seeking out friction of any sort. ‘It’s a good look.’ He clears his throat, sitting up slowly. ‘Great – you look… great.’ He smiles, but his eyes don’t – they remain raptly focused on me.

I take five steps toward him on pointed toes, stopping between his parted knees. His hands find the backs of my legs, just under my ass. They’re tense as they roam over my skin covered in thinly netted tights. Even with him sitting down, my face is only slightly above his.

‘I guess you were kidding about the sexy maid costume, then,’ he says, his hands roaming from the backs of my knees to the crease below my ass, his thumbs playing with the strings criss-crossing my thighs like a harp.

‘Disappointed?’ I ask, leaning forward. The tip of my ponytail falls against the hollow of his cheek. Bo tilts his nose toward it, and his eyes close briefly as he breathes in.

‘Only a little.’ He moves one hand from the back of my thigh to the nape of my neck and pulls me closer, tilting his jaw up to press his lips to mine.

‘Maybe next year,’ I whisper just before our mouths collide.

Our kiss is exploratory at first. Gentle but intentional. It isn’t until Bo’s other hand reaches my waist that it grows heated – teeth tugging, hands pulling, mouths crashing. I climb into his lap, my knees straddling his hips, and moan unwittingly when he tilts up into me as he leans back – the feeling of him just between my thighs.

‘I fucking love Halloween,’ he practically growls against my lips, smiling even still.

All I think is off.

Take my clothes off.

Let’s get each other off.

Help me turn my brain off.

‘I can’t really do other people’s buttons,’ I say, peppering kisses along his jaw toward his ear, my voice raspy. ‘I mean, I can do it but… slowly.’

‘Take all the time you need,’ he says, words parted by tender kisses on my neck that have my eyes drooping, weighed down by heady lust.

I move my left hand to the center of his chest and find the first button of his shirt. I go down from there, one at a time, unbuttoning the best I can.

Bo begins undoing my shirt. At first, I think he’s teasing me with a slow, seductive unraveling. But then I realize he’s matching my pace purposefully, clearly slower than he’s capable of, for my benefit. Which is just as sexy as if he was teasing me. Maybe even more so.

It is also, tragically, one of the larger romantic gestures of my life.

Once his shirt is open, I push it off his shoulders and down his arms, kissing feverishly as I go.

Once my shirt is off, I lean back and let my hands wander across his chest as my eyes drink him in. He’s got freckles across the tops of his broad shoulders and chest, sprinkling down his biceps before fading to just a few spots on his forearms.

I trace them with my hand, like drawing out constellations in the night sky as I lean in to kiss him again. He stops me by ducking his head lower, sucking at the top of my breast that has spilled over the cup of my bra.

I whimper, pushing my tits out toward him. His eyes flick up to me, watching my reaction as he kisses across my chest. My breath turns short and shallow as he tugs my flesh between his teeth and grips my hips tighter.

I place my right hand on the back of his head, desperately trying to take hold of his hair and keep him in place. Then shame creeps in. I drop my smaller hand off his head and over his shoulder, hearing the words of my ex loud in my ear. Don’t. No, use your other hand.

‘I liked that,’ Bo says, mouth and nose pressed under my collarbone as he kisses his way up toward my neck. He places my hand back where it was among his hair. I try my best to thread my short fingers through it, gathering as much as I can between my thumb and the side of my palm to pull.

Bo groans in response, so I do it again as he sucks on my pulse point under my ear, his hair brushing softly against my chin.

‘I love how you smell,’ I say, conscious of the panting breaths between us growing more urgent.

‘You too. Like candied apples.’ He presses his nose into my hairline, his lips against the edge of my jaw. ‘It makes me want to…’ He tenses, his mouth opening and his teeth lightly dragging across my chin. ‘God,’ he breaks the word into two syllables, laughing without humor.

‘I want you,’ I say breathlessly.

‘Will you lie down for me?’ he asks, gentle tone spoken against my cheek. ‘I want to see all of you.’

I nod demurely, moving off his lap and crawling toward the middle of the bed. Lying down, I soak in the feel of the luxurious linen on my bare arms and back. It’s all so soft that it turns me on even more. The feeling of the sheets against my skin and the sound of feather-filled pillows envelops me.

Bo moves to the foot of the bed, standing only in his black trousers. I watch as he takes off three rings without removing his eyes from my body. The rings clatter to the floor around his feet, but he doesn’t seem to care where they fall.

I rise onto my elbows, grinning in satisfaction at how Bo’s hair is already sticking up on all ends. It only gets messier as he rakes his hands through it again.

He’s losing his mind over me.

‘Win,’ he says, my name an anguished plea, shaking his head. ‘Fucking look at you.’

‘Yes?’ I ask, feigning innocence as my smirk only grows. I didn’t even say he couldn’t touch me or move closer, yet he’s distressed. He’s using all the self-control he has to make this last as long as we both want it to.

Admittedly, I love this feeling. The power I’ve harnessed while laid out on my back. The way my body can turn someone crazed. It’s the most in control I ever feel, next to being in the lifeguard tower on the beach.

He points at my knees with both hands. ‘Open those for me, honey.’

Honey? Hmm, I think I like it.

I dig my heels into the mattress, popping my knees up as I slide my legs apart.

‘Like this?’ I ask sweetly.

‘Yes,’ Bo answers, teeth bared around his knuckles. ‘Just like that,’ he says slowly before flicking his hair out of his eyes.

I splay my fingers across the band of my tights around my waist and follow the side seam down to my hips. Then I trace a string cutting against the thickest part of my thigh. ‘Would you take these off?’ I ask, toying with them.

Bo nods like a man possessed, bending over the bed to reach for my waist. He pulls the tights down in one strong, fluid motion until they’re off and resting over his shoulder. I thought that was an accident, and he’d soon discard them to the floor, but he’s keeping them close with a tight grip as he moves his opposite hand up the inside of my leg.

‘Win,’ he says, nearly whimpering. ‘Who are you?’

I’m more turned on than I have been in years, and the guy hasn’t even touched me yet. ‘Bo,’ I whisper longingly, my hands clinging to the blanket underneath me.

What I want to say is stop caressing my leg and bring your hand, mouth, dick, or any part of you, closer. ‘Come here please,’ I say instead, biting my bottom lip.

Bo walks around the bed, only giving up his hold of my tights when he sits to undress. Then he discards them to the floor.

I shuffle over to the right side of the bed as Bo undresses down to his boxer briefs. With his trousers and costume gone, I get a clearer view of his prosthetic leg. It looks more futuristic than I was expecting – metallic, with silver hinges and joints under a gray plastic socket.

Then I remember what he said downstairs about not having had sex since… since whatever happened. I want him to feel totally safe to choose what to do next, but this is uncharted territory for us both.

‘You can take your prosthesis off or leave it on. Whatever you’re most comfortable with,’ I offer, trying to keep my voice indifferent, making an effort to remain breathy so he doesn’t think I’m any less turned on than I was just moments ago.

Bo nods with his back to me before using his arms to help twist himself onto the bed. He lifts and adjusts until his back is straight against the headboard and both legs are out in front of him.

I waste no time getting back to it, moving my mouth from his biceps to the top of his shoulder and across. Once I lift my leg over his lap, straddling him once again, we come alive. The glorious sensation of nothing separating us but two thin, matching black layers of cotton is exhilarating.

‘Call me honey again,’ I say, grinding myself against his hardness.

‘You liked that?’ he muses, his voice cocky. ‘It sorta just slipped out.’

I don’t answer. Well, I do. Just not with words.

We fall back into kissing intuitively. Rough and greedy but coordinated – no bumping noses or awkward slips of tongue against teeth. Just two people winding themselves up higher and higher with the hope that they’ll eventually fall, crash, and burn.

I continue writhing against him, grateful that he doesn’t seem to be in too much of a rush. Dry humping is so underrated.

I’m starting to feel my body float away to that perfect edge when he reaches around my back and unclasps my bra. Two large hands find my tits immediately, playing with them until I’m gasping and moving for him like a puppet on his string. Bo drops his lips to my chest as I arch my back for him. He plucks my nipple between his thumb and finger before sucking it into his mouth and flicking it with his tongue.

‘Yes,’ I hiss, my hips’ rhythm picking up speed.

Moaning around me, Bo splays his fingers across my lower back, pressing me into him with his mouth passing between my breasts greedily.

‘Lift up,’ he says, his voice forceful through his teeth, his hand placed at the base of my neck.

I go onto my knees without question, lifting off his lap. He smoothly guides himself down the mattress until he’s flat on his back, his face perfectly positioned between my thighs.

‘Good,’ he says, scratching my inner thigh with his stubble as he pulls my panties to the side with an unexpected roughness. ‘Now sit for me… honey.’ He throws in the honey at the end like he’s trying to sweeten the deal. I needed no additional persuasion.

Before I even have time to lower myself fully, Bo’s got both of his hands on my hips and he’s dragging me onto his face. His fingers dig into my sides until it almost hurts.

‘Relax.’ I breathe out as he burrows into me. But my smugness doesn’t last long. I gasp when his mouth begins working against me. My knees tremble, then give out entirely until I’m actually sitting on his face and holding on to the headboard for dear life as he presses his tongue exactly where I want it.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ I whisper, my voice rough.

He reaches up with both hands, taking my hands from the headboard and placing them behind my back, holding them together in one strong, unrelenting fist. My body is entirely at his mercy, and I simply do not care.

He hums against me in response to every sound escaping my lips. A rewarding, prideful groan rumbles from the back of his throat each time I gasp, moan, or cry out.

I’ve had a fair number of men eat me out. But none have done it like this. Like they were truly starved for me. Like they enjoyed it just as much as I do.

Pleasure builds and builds and builds until I finally come undone, shuddering out one long, grateful whimper as I orgasm. Equal parts relief and pleasure cascade over me.

Bo gently releases my hands as he continues to lick me, sending shudders up my spine with each languid swipe. I wipe the sheen of sweat off my brow with my wrist, twitching as he works me over delicately with his tongue.

‘I can’t,’ I whisper, attempting to pull myself up and off him. Bo shakes his head between my thighs, groaning his displeasure at me trying to move. He attempts to hold me in place with a hand clasped around the back of my knee, but I break free.

He bites – not nibbles, but bites – the softest part of my inner thigh when I lift one leg to move off him. I yelp, laughing in surprise and sobering immediately, falling onto my ass next to the pillows.

‘Sir!’ I call out in shock. As in, how dare you?

I look over at him and find myself momentarily stunned. Bo’s parted lips are sparkling wet and slightly swollen, and his eyes are satiated. ‘Oh, hell yeah.’ He breathes out with a laugh. ‘I could definitely be into being called sir.’

I roll my eyes, though I can’t help but smile.

Attempting to catch my breath, I lie next to him. He moves a piece of hair out of his face before bracing his weight on his forearm to suspend himself over me and kissing me leisurely. I get off on the taste of myself on his lips, and based on the way he keeps brushing his tongue against mine, he does too.