Page 26 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

THE ANTI-CUDDLER

Axel

I’ve never written a rock-star romance, but I think I could pull one off now.

This must be what it’s like to perform an epic concert, bring the crowds to their hold-up-the-lighters feet.

What a rush. What a high. As I savor the view of post-sex Hazel, still sandwiched between the train door and me, her smile dopey, her skin flushed, I feel like a fucking hero.

Because of her. Her reactions. Her words. Her screams.

I’m dying to ask: Was that the best sex of your life too? Because holy fuck, that was more than the best sex of mine. It was you. I have been crazy for all of you—that smart mouth, that beautiful brain and your-bigger-than-you’d-ever-admit heart for far too long.

I should gather clothes and get ready for bed. But I can’t stop looking at her, searching for the answer in her eyes.

She blinks, then stares back at me, smiling, then laughing a little woozily. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. You’re not doing it anymore.”

Good. Maybe she’ll forget I stared at her like a lovestruck fool.

After a long exhale, she runs a hand through her lush red locks, “I feel like…”

I wait for her to finish. For a breathless moment, I imagine she says I feel like I’m falling .

I’d say join the club.

“A shower,” she says instead.

Right. Yes. I orient myself to the new task—wash up. “Shower’s good,” I say.

I dispose of the condom and follow her to the tiny bathroom, but I don’t touch her while we shower, and I don’t know if that’s good or bad, or just practical.

But at least we’re clean, so there’s that.

A few minutes later, I’m getting into bed with Hazel Valentine. We’re half-naked—I’m in boxer briefs; she’s in a tank top and undies.

What. Do. I. Do. Now?

Am I allowed to touch her under the covers? When I asked to share the bed, she said you better . But on the other hand, she’s told me she’s not a cuddler. Is the bed a no-touch zone?

This is why friends shouldn’t fuck.

It’s like doing math without a calculator—a surefire guarantee you won’t get the right answer.

I stall, adjusting the pillow, even though I know what I want to do next.

Curl toward her, kiss her neck, run my fingers down her arm, tease her.

Maybe tell her how I want to use Give me your dick in a book because it was the best combination of words any person has ever said to me.

I could tell her I want to make her feel amazing all the damn time.

She stretches her arms above her head, and I indulge in the still-surreal sight of this woman, including that bare shoulder I’m dying to kiss. But if I kiss her the way I want, will she know I lied when I told her I’d been attracted to her for years?

Fine, fine. It wasn’t technically a lie. But it was only the iceberg tip of the truth—this is so much more than attraction for me.

As she settles under the duvet, her ridiculously contented sigh answers one question. The sound is inviting. And hell, I earned that sigh. I drove her wild. I made her come hard.

Enough questions. I’m taking what I can get tonight.

I shift closer, my heart pounding, then I kiss her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m not a cuddler either.” I murmur against her soft skin.

“Good to know I won’t have to pry you off me in the middle of the night.”

“I’m very well behaved in bed.” I layer a trail of kisses down her collarbone.

While I’m here, I steal a few more kisses, like I’m stuffing food into my pocket to eat later when I’m cold and hungry.

She stretches and moves with me, encouraging me to keep going.

That’s not helping, her responsiveness. It only makes me dizzier, makes my tongue looser with words like you feel so good to me, and I want so much more .

But I wished on a fountain that I would make it through this trip without telling her the truth of how I feel.

The truth would ruin us all over again. I’m only now getting her back as a friend. I can’t lose her again.

I didn’t even realize how much I needed her in my life until a few days ago. Not gonna fuck up this repair job by blurting, You’re the one.

With that decided, I cease kissing, flopping back on the pillow so I can just enjoy being with her like this. “In addition to being opposed to cuddling, I’m not a cover hog, and I don’t snore.”

“I don’t steal sheets or saw logs either,” she says, chin up.

I laugh, shaking my head. “You are so competitive.”

She nudges me with her elbow. “It’s not a competition. It’s the truth.”

“You’re a competitive monster, Hazel Valentine.”

“So are you, Alexander Hendrix-Blythe, Esquire.” She’d call me that when we were writing and hit a scene that needed legal background, like an annulment or a contract issue. It’s nice to hear the nickname again.

“Want me to draw up a contract outlining the terms and conditions of sharing a bed?” I ask.

She laughs and then turns to me, her eyes sleepy but amused. “Do you ever wish you practiced law?”

“Not one bit.” Using my law degree for character research rather than a career was one of the best decisions I ever made.

“Dad wanted me to be a lawyer. I never did. Didn’t realize it, though, till I had that JD in hand.

Then bam . One of those moments of enlightenment where the heavens open and you get a message. ”

“From a higher power?” she asks curiously.

“Nah. More like from the gut, know what I mean?”

“I do.”

“I just knew I wasn’t going to practice. Super useful thing to realize after paying tuition for three years,” I say. But that’s what work is for—to pay off your past mistakes and prepare for future ones.

“So you joined the ranks of lawyers-turned-writers. It’s good company, at least,” she says, delivering the silver lining and a sympathetic smile. She knows I used our joint royalties to pay off my last loan. Good thing I went to a state school for that degree I never used.

“Now I can just use my JD to argue about important things.” I lean in, plant a hot kiss on her neck, then travel to her ear to whisper, “Like who’s a better bedmate?”

She scoffs. “I will win that contest.”

“You’re on. My bed skills will stun you.”

“So, you’re good in bed in all the ways,” she says with a wink.

And…maybe I puff out my chest. Maybe I beam a little. “I’d be happy to wake you up with my face between your thighs if you require more proof.”

“Generous,” she says on a yawn.

“Damn. Sex wore you out.”

She yawns one more time, bigger and deeper. “I’ve never been tired like this. I didn’t realize good sex would make me so tired.”

Wait. What did she just say? I prop my head into my hand. “You’ve never had good sex before?” That doesn’t add up.

She shifts too, turning to meet my eyes. The moonlight from the window spills across the bed, illuminating her bright green eyes and those kissable freckles on her nose.

“It’s been good enough.” She seems earnest but resigned to her lackluster bedroom life. “But not like that. Not book sex.”

I preen inside. I crow. But outside, I keep my cool since I have to go fishing for more intel.

“So, all those hot scenes in your books? The go-down-on-her-on-the-desk scene in Sweet Spot ? Not to mention the elevator, the stairwell, and the kitchen scenes in our first, second, and third books. Those were just…?”

“From my imagination?” she asks dryly.

“Well, were they?” Because I figured they were real.

She shoots me a challenging look. “Did you once sew up a wound on your shoulder with fishing wire? Chase a hacker into the Trevi Fountain? Hitch a ride on a zip line to apprehend the evil mastermind behind a sinister plot?”

Damn. She’d make a good lawyer. But she’s missing the point. The point is, tell me how happy my dick makes you .

“No, but the ones in?—”

I cut myself off before I mention Lacey’s story, the unfinished Ten Park Avenue romance.

Before I tell her that while we were writing that, I was sure she was modeling the hero after Max and it was killing me to hear about it.

How I was positive, too, that she was about to write a soul-shattering sex scene inspired by that cheating prick.

“The ones in what?” she presses. Such a bloodhound.

“Just…all the ones you’ve written.” Even avoiding our book, I’m unable to strip the jealousy from my tone. “They’re good. Hot. And I figured you’d felt that.”

Her grin widens with anticipation. “Axel, are you jealous of the imaginary sex you think I’ve had?”

Ah, hell. I might as well just admit something. I’ll burst from all these annoying self-secrets. “Yes,” I grit out.

“Really?”

“Like I said, I’ve been getting you naked in my head a lot.”

There. Covered it up again . Yup. This guy can wriggle out of any plot twist.

“Let me assure you, sex has always been better in my imagination.” Taking an important beat, she locks eyes with me before she adds, “Until tonight.”

Ohhh.

Holy fuck.

I preen visibly this time. Rock star indeed.

Plus, I’m learning something fantastic. Max was bad in bed.

That should not make me so happy, but it does. Oh yes, it does.

“Good. You deserve lots of orgasms,” I tell her. “In fact, I bet I could give you two more before you’ve even eaten breakfast.”

Her eyebrows shoot high. “You’re on.” She sticks out a hand above the covers and shakes mine, then drops a kiss onto my lips. “Like a hero in a book would do,” she whispers. A yawn cuts off the last word, and she lies back on the pillow, her eyes fluttering.

“I’ll have my breakfast in bed, thank you very much,” I say, wishing it were morning already.

Another laugh, and I’ll take that too. Bet Max didn’t make her laugh like I do.

“And listen,” she adds, her words getting slurry. “Since we’re doing the only-one-bed-in-the-room trope, this seems like the time for the lay-out-the-ground-rules scene.”

Right. Rules. Friends with benefits need sex rules. “Like how long we do this? Whether it’s a trip-only trope?” I ask.

“Yes. Ticking clock and all. But I’m too tired. Morning?”

“Morning,” I agree.

I’m not looking forward to that conversation. But it’s better we have it. It’s better if we adult.

Seconds later, she’s snoring. The little liar. She does too snore.

Then she’s tugging all the covers off me and wrapping herself into them like a little cover piggy.

Ha. She fibbed about that as well.

I don’t fall asleep right away. I don’t even try. Instead, I just stare out the window, and imagine a new story unfolding.

A feisty woman and a smart-aleck man. He’s got a chip on his shoulder. She’s been hurt.

They meet on a train, and somewhere, sometime after midnight, he uncovers another solution to his plot problem.

If he can win her over in bed, maybe, just maybe, he can subtly, so artfully she won’t even know it’s happening, get her to fall in love with him, day by day, until she’s as smitten as he is.

But when I settle back into bed with the anti-cuddler, she’s turned the other way, wrapped up in the covers and her own sleepy world, and I take that as a sign that the story will be better if the hero stops reaching for the stars.

She’s told him, for all intents and purposes, that she wants to be friends again.

Friendship will have to be enough.