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  I roll my eyes. “Emme, it’s just for one night.”

  She shakes her head again. “You didn’t have to deal with you when you broke up with him the first time.”

  “It won’t be like that.”

  “No blue-binning.”

  I give her a questioning look.

  “What do you put in the blue bin?” she asks.

  “Recycling.” I take a sip of my margarita, finally getting her drift, and mentally catalog her term for a Fast Five post.

  “Exactly. There’s a reason you broke up, so no recycling your ex.”

  “We broke up because of distance, not because we hated each other.”

  “So what? The result is you broke up, and I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

  The waitress delivers my burrito, and I smile at her. “Want some?” I ask Emme.

  She shakes her head.

  “Why did we come here if you aren’t eating?”

  She lifts her margarita glass.

  “You know it’s stupid to drink all night on an empty stomach, don’t you?”

  “I have two responses to that. One, I’ll get drunk faster, which is the point. Two, I’ll tap into Axel’s weak spot: drunk girls.”

  “That’s like the stupidest, most immature thing I’ve ever heard.”

  She shrugs and twists her lips. “Don’t care.” She finishes her drink and signals the waitress for another.

  Sometimes I tag along with Emme when she works, and tonight is one of those nights. Her job typically makes for the most amazing material for the blog, and I’m sure tonight will be no exception.

  We walk over to Shrine, a fairly classy club in the heart of downtown San Diego. It’s walking distance to The Port, and tonight it’s where Emme plans to steal clientele to drag them over to her bar.

  She beelines for the bar first, and I follow close behind. She turns and takes a quick survey of the room before placing her order. I tell her to just order me one of whatever she’s having, and a moment later she hands me a glass filled with red wine.

  When I look around, I see that the majority of clubbers are also drinking red wine, so we fit right in.

  She’s good at what she does.

  She’s gorgeous with her wide blue eyes, high cheekbones, and straight, blonde hair that tumbles to the middle of her back. She’s the opposite of me in most of those aspects: I have curly brown hair, caramel-colored eyes, and a round face.

  People are always immediately drawn to her because she looks like a Barbie doll (but prettier) and she’s sociable. That’s another way we are opposites: I’m not unsociable, exactly, but I tend to be more standoffish. I have a horrible case of Resting Bitch Face, so I automatically turn people off without meaning to. My job tends to intimidate people, too; as soon people know what I do, they think my next column is going to be about them.

  They’re sort of right in assuming that, actually. I’m always looking for new material, and I’ve already made a few notes in my phone tonight. One was about girls who don’t eat before going out so they’ll be attractive to men who like to take care of drunk girls.

  Of course, I was rolling my eyes as I wrote that note, but I’ll probably write the article anyway. Observing Emme tonight should be interesting. She hates it when I write about her, but I always protect her with a fake name.

  Other people aren’t so protected.

  I follow Emme to a group of dancing women. It’s fairly obvious who belongs to the bachelorette parties Emme has targeted tonight because the bridesmaids are wearing matching shirts and the bride is wearing a tiara with a white veil adorned with plastic dicks.

  Even though it’s the maid of honor’s job to run the party, the bride is the one who makes the decisions, so Emme targets the bride first. She introduces herself to the lady with all the plastic penises, and I smooth my face out so I look friendly. It’s an act I’ve learned over the years just from being friends with Emme.

  I do my best to help. “When’s the wedding?” I ask the bridesmaid closest to me. Her shirt tells me her name is Beverly Sixty-Nine. Okay, maybe that’s not actually her name.

  “Next Saturday!”

  “How fun! Tell me all the details!” I say, faking enthusiasm. I don’t care about this girl’s wedding—I don’t even know her—but I’m willing to pretend for the sake of research.

  It takes a little longer than usual for Emme to work her magic. It’s nearly showtime by the time we get both bachelorette parties over to The Port, which is already packed with people. There’s a line outside waiting to get in, but Emme bypasses it with our two groups. Between the two parties, we must be bringing fifty or so women in with us. Kelvin, the bouncer, nods as he watches us file in with all the new ladies.

  I wonder if Liam is here. I scanned the line as I walked up, but I didn’t see him, so he’s either waiting for me inside or he bailed. Either way, I’ll be okay. I didn’t initiate the meet-up, and I didn’t tell him a time to meet, anyway.

  Axel’s eyes widen when he sees the crew we brought with us, and I watch as his gaze lands on Emme. His expression immediately softens. He’s got it bad for her, and whatever shit they’re going through—Emme didn’t elaborate at dinner as she promised to—I think they’ll work through it. If anything, she’s holding out on him. She likes playing the field, likes having a boy in her back pocket while still having the ability to be with other guys, but the connection between the two of them is undeniable.

  I scan the bar looking for Liam. Even though I keep telling myself it’ll be fine if he isn’t there, I feel disappointed when I don’t see him.

  It’s a bad idea anyway, blue-binning an ex.

  Then I remember the way he went down on me with all that talent and skill. A shudder runs down my spine, and the disappointment turns into full-blown frustration.

  I guess I’ll have to pull up those pictures of Carter King when I get home since it looks as though I’ll be diddling myself tonight.

  Just as that horrid thought passes through my mind, I feel hands on my hips and a lean body pressing against my back. His familiar scent envelops me—just the lightest smell of Polo cologne—and it takes me right back to the last time we had sex when he left that aroma all over my body.

  God, he’s good in bed, and it’s all I can think about, especially when he thrusts his hips against my backside. He’s clearly thinking about sex, too.

  I turn around, and his eyes are so dark and full of sex that they’re almost black as he looks down into mine.

  Another shudder rushes down my spine. I miss him, and the second our eyes meet, I know I’m going to disappoint Emme tonight with my recycling.

  He lowers his mouth toward my ear. “You want to get out of here?” he asks. His voice is all deep and breathy in my ear, and I hear him despite the volume of the music.

  A conversation first might be nice, but I don’t know that I have the strength for that. I’m weak when it comes to Liam, always have been. As Axel’s weak spot is drunk women, Liam is apparently mine.

  “Let me just take care of a few things first.”

  He winks at me, and I run over to Emme to say goodbye. Now that she brought all these ladies over to the bar, she gets to drink and party with them for the rest of the night.

  She rolls her eyes when she sees Liam standing a few feet behind me. “Blue bin?” she asks.

  I nod and grin. “Oh I’m blue-binning so hard tonight that you’re going to need to schedule a special pickup tomorrow.”

  Her brows knit close together. “What the hell does that even mean?”

  I laugh and shrug, and then I head back to Liam. “Ready?”

  He nods, and I follow him out the door.

  Once we’re in the parking lot, I ask, “Where are you staying?”

  “With my parents.”

  “Right. To my place it is.”

  He chuckles, and we start the fairly short walk toward my place.

  “So how’s Chicago?” I ask.

  He tosses an a
rm around my shoulders then leans in and nibbles on my neck. While what he’s doing is certainly arousing, we’re in the middle of the sidewalk, and he’s said all of ten words to me since we found each other at The Port.

  I push him away, but he’s like a damn octopus. I’m not sure when he sprouted six arms, but they’re all over me and I’m just not having it.

  “Liam, stop,” I say softly. He pulls back and gives me a look of irritation. “Can we just talk for a few minutes before we start all that?”

  I know we’ve done this before—lots of times—but we were dating. It’s different when you’re with somebody and he’s all over you versus running into somebody you haven’t seen for months. He’s making me feel like nothing more than a booty call, or, as I like to call it, rec sex. He’s using me for recreational sex, not for anything meaningful.

  I’m not only offended by this, but I’m stronger than this.

  I knew from the first text message he sent that he wanted to have sex with me, so is this partially my own fault for responding and offering to bring him back to my place? I’m not sure why I’m having second thoughts; I’ve had rec sex plenty of times and it’s never been an issue before, but Liam is rubbing me the wrong way tonight.

  Literally. His hand is inching down toward my ass.

  I reach for his hand and move it off me, and then I look over at him.

  He rolls his eyes and sort of shuts down, walking with his arms crossed over his chest the rest of the way to my place. I’m debating telling him to just go home, but I don’t.

  I dig through my purse for my keys when we turn onto my street as I contemplate what to do. It’s his damn body—he looks so delicious in jeans and a black shirt. I want to have sex with him, but I want him not to be a douche about it.

  I miss him—the him I dated before, not this version of him. He wasn’t such a jerk when we dated, I swear.

  Or was he? Was he always like this and I ignored it because I had such strong feelings for him?

  I’m confused; I guess that’s what blue-binning does to a girl. I’m starting to think Emme had the right idea.

  He stares at me for a long moment as these thoughts go through my mind. “Are we gonna do this or what?”

  I sigh. “Can you try to treat me like I’m more than sex?”

  He looks confused for a minute. “Isn’t that what this is?” He motions between us with his hand.

  “Liam, I’m still a lady. I get that sex is where this night is leading, but can we at least catch up and talk for a few minutes? We haven’t been together for a long time. We haven’t had any meaningful communication in months. You can’t just expect to walk in and have me strip down for you immediately.”

  He shrugs. “Why not?”

  I roll my eyes. “Go home.” I turn toward my door to unlock it. “I’m not doing this.”

  He grabs my elbow and tugs gently on it. “I’m sorry. Let’s talk first. You’re right.”

  I look up into his warm, dark eyes. I’m a strong woman, but the lust I see there is weakening my resolve.

  I turn back, unlock my door, and let him in.

  Oddly, Liam and I don’t have sex. It’s like whatever I said actually got through to him. We sit on my couch and catch up, and then he kisses me a little. He still makes my heart flutter, still makes me feel like butterflies are dancing around my stomach. He still looks at me with all the same intensity he always did.

  He’s moving back to San Diego.

  Turns out he hates Chicago, and I’m starting to think that even though we had a rough start to the night, maybe there are possibilities ahead for us.

  Nothing proves that more than when I invite him to stay the night and we don’t have sex. It’s late and we’re both exhausted. He hardly even gropes me when we slip into bed together. It’s sort of just like old times again.

  I like Liam. I was so close to falling in love with him the last time we were together, and I can see myself falling in fast and deep this time, especially now that we’ve got potential for permanence since he’s moving back.

  Just as I drift off to sleep, an idea for an article pops into my head. I jot down a note on the pad I keep on my nightstand.

  So we didn’t have sex tonight, but in the morning?

  The morning is a completely different story.

  CHAPTER 3

  I’m awakened by something hard pressing into my tailbone, and then I remember that Liam slept over.

  Memories of sleepy morning sex with him wash over me, and suddenly I’m hornier than a thirteen-year-old boy, or a thirty-year-old boy…any boy who has gone through puberty, really. I’m just ready for Liam and that gorgeous appendage he knows how to use so well.

  I flip over, and he’s still asleep.

  So, his boner is digging into my back while he’s asleep; it sort of makes me feel like the queen of the world for a few minutes. I suppose he could be thinking about anything—who knows what gets him off these days? I prefer to think he’s thinking about me while he sleeps, and that fact warms my cold heart more than it should.

  I slip quietly out of bed, use the restroom, and brush my teeth. I fumble around in my drawer for the spare “just in case” toothbrush I bought after Harrison and I broke up and leave it on the counter.

  I’m all for hot morning sex, but morning breath is in the top five things that disgust me most. I make a mental note to post the top five things that’ll kill a romantic moment before heading out to my laptop to type up the quick article I thought of last night. I’m feeling good about this one, and after talking to Liam for hours last night, I’m feeling good about him, too.

  Emme was wrong.

  She told me to be careful, that getting into bed with an ex was a bad idea, but this morning, all I feel is hopeful.

  Getting back together with someone you already dated is kind of awesome when you really think about it: none of that getting-to-know-you bullshit, no small talk, no awkwardness.

  It’s only been one night so far—and a very PG (okay, PG-13) night at that—but I can see us slipping back into old habits. He used to bring me fresh flowers every Sunday. I used to bring him a different kind of beer every Thursday. He’d take me to the beach with a picnic basket or a concert with local bands. We had fun together.

  He introduced me to his parents, and he met my family as well. I remember having beef tenderloin and red wine at the Carlisles’ house while Mrs. Carlisle regaled me with tales of young Liam playing lacrosse. Although they came off a bit pretentious, they were decent people with a rather large bank account. His dad’s a lawyer with political aspirations, and his mom is the perfect model of a future first lady.

  I remember Liam interacting with my parents while we sat eating shrimp at a restaurant near the beach. My grocery-store-cashier mother and accountant father loved him. He was sweet and gentle in front of them before taking me home and ramming his fat dick into me in the most non-gentle of ways.

  Last night he told me everything about Chicago. He confessed that he made a horrible impression at work because he had a bad attitude after our breakup. He told me he was miserable, that he hated his boss, and that he hated his new job.

  He’d been promoted when he went to Chicago, but he hated his new position and just wanted everything to go back to the way it had been—starting, apparently, with his relationship with me.

  I hear Liam rustling around in the bathroom, so I finish the article I’m working on, publish it, and head back to the bedroom.

  I take off all my clothes and lie on the bed. I’m as naked as the day is long, and I’m ready for Liam Carlisle to pounce.

  When he walks back into my bedroom, his eyes zero in on me. They turn from sleepy morning eyes into lusty, animal eyes, and desire brims from his every pore.

  “Good morning,” I say, using my low and sultry sex voice. I sort of want to ask if he used the toothbrush, but I hold back. I’m sure he remembers my idiosyncrasies—another benefit of blue-binning.

  “It’s about to be,”
he mutters, and then he stalks toward me. He pauses when he arrives at the foot of the bed, his eyes hot on my chest. “You sure about this?”

  “You treated me to a nice night after a rough start. I’m sure.” I raise my eyebrows in his direction, and then I watch as he tears off his boxers while somehow simultaneously yanking his shirt over his head. I’ve never seen the man move so fast.

  “You can take your time,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “I need to get in there before you change your mind.”

  I giggle, and then he heads over to my top dresser drawer where he knows I keep the condoms—yet another benefit of sex with an ex.

  We skip the foreplay. He pulls on the condom and kisses me once, and I realize I don’t need any foreplay anyway. I’ve been thinking about this moment all morning, so I’m more than ready to go.

  He kneels on the bed and hauls my legs toward him to align our bodies. I wrap my legs around his torso, and by the time he plunges into me, I’m so hot for him that I already feel the beginnings of the Epic Quake.

  Which reminds me…I need to write a Fast Five of orgasm synonyms. I always call it the Epic Quake in my head.

  Anyway, riding Liam is like riding a bike. My body awakens and responds to his just like it always has. He thrusts into me, holding me by my hips as he plows as deeply into me as he can. I always loved when we did it this way because the angle is incredible. He hits the spot very few men can find over and over and over. My eyes roll back as I take in every bit of pleasure he’s driving into me.

  Our sexual connection is magical. The way he’s screwing me doesn’t allow me to wrap my arms around him, so I dig my nails into the only thing I can grasp on to, which happens to be his thighs. He yells out with a sound so filled with pleasure that I start to come.

  And come.

  And come.

  It’s like my body can’t stop.

  The Epic Quake takes over, and it’s more epic than epic. Epic-er. I know I need to use my words here, but Liam makes me stupid.

  My body must be squeezing his because he yells out a string of curses, and I open my eyes to watch him screw up that gorgeous face of his as he comes. His eyes squeeze shut, his lips curl, and his nose does the cutest little scrunch. My eyes move down to his stomach so I can watch his abs quiver as his body comes down from his own epic release.