Yeah, but you didn’t ask him into your office for intellectual conversation. You want to ogle his fine ass in that suit…
I did. I really did. And I was torn between thinking I was a genius for luring him into my office so I could stare at his ass, versus realizing I had reached an all-time low. The truth of it was, I hadn’t even been looking at Mitchell’s MRI—it just seemed like a good excuse to get him inside. But hell, it had been over a year since I’d last had sex, and Wes Lancaster had a really fantastic ass.
Yes, you heard that right.
One whole year.
Three hundred and sixty-five days.
Five hundred twenty-five thousand and six hundred minutes.
But who’s counting, right?
Obviously, me. I’m counting. And it’s a wonder my vagina hasn’t packed her bags and fucked off to somewhere else where single-mom responsibilities and work hours aren’t a priority.
The last time I had sex was a drunken night of regret with Lexi’s father. Nick had been in town for Lexi’s preschool graduation, and I’d caved on letting him spend the night at my house. And I’d justified it by telling myself I was merely letting our daughter have more time with her father before he left again for who even knew how long.
It wasn’t that Nick was a shitty father, he was just an absent father.
Needless to say, after our daughter had gone to bed, we’d shared a bottle of wine, and then another, and then another, until my brain had only been able to focus on how much I missed the feel of a man. In me, around me, I had just needed to be kissed, touched, fucked. I’d needed to feel like I was desirable again. I had needed an orgasm that didn’t occur from my own devices.
In that moment, with Nick, my ex-boyfriend from a relationship that ended in an unplanned pregnancy and a disastrous breakup, I’d just needed sex.
And that’s all it was. Sex, pure and simple.
It was an epically stupid choice, obviously.
Now that a full year had passed since that wine-fueled decision, my brain was starting to feel the effects, frequently fantasizing about what it would be like to have the kind of sex that made your hands fist the sheets and sweat trickle down your skin. The kind of sex that left you wanting more. The kind of sex that made sleepless nights worth the fatigue.
God, I want that kind of sex. I want it so bad.
“Not the only one?”
Wes’s voice pulled me from my sex-fogged thoughts, and I stared back at him in confusion.
Not the only one? What in the hell was that supposed to mean? He wanted to have sex, too? Right now? With me? “Huh?” I asked eloquently.
Could I have sex with Wes? No-strings-attached sex?
Naked. Rough. My hands clenching his hair. His hands clutching my ass as he thrusts inside of me. His lips to my ear, whispering dirty things that have my nipples tightening from the sheer audacity of his filthy mouth…
Welp, no need to phone a friend, there’s your answer.
He tilted his head to the side, and a slight smirk crept across his full lips. “You said Thatch wasn’t the only one nervous about Cassie’s pregnancy.”
“Oh…oh, right.” My cheeks heated in embarrassment. Sweet baby kittens, I had been three seconds away from ripping my blouse off and mounting him on my desk. I cleared my throat and rubbed my now sweaty palms down the top of my skirt. Shit, I was losing it, sitting here, fantasizing over visuals of Wes spreading me out over my desk and burying his face…
For the love of God, I needed a shrink.
Or an orgasm…from Wes Lancaster.
I pushed those thoughts aside and grabbed my phone from the top of my desk and unlocked the screen, my fingers quickly finding the group text conversation with Cassie and Georgia. I held it up for him to see. “Georgia has been demon-texting me and Cass for the past seventy-two hours. She’s not too happy Cassie is traveling so much.”
He took the phone from my hand and started to read a few of the texts aloud. “Goddammit, Winnie Winslow. You’re a doctor. Help me out here! Tell Cassie she’s not allowed to travel anymore. It’s not healthy for her or the baby.” His hazel eyes shone with amusement, and he glanced up at me with a grin. “How far along is Cassie again?”
“Three months. You’d think she’s forty weeks and ready to deliver with the way Georgia is trying to put the kibosh on all of her travel plans. She’s hell-bent on Cassie being put on bed rest for the rest of her pregnancy.”
“Wait…forty weeks? I thought it was nine months?”
“Ten months, actually. Due dates are calculated at forty weeks.”
“Damn,” he groaned while a small smile kissed his lips. “It’s about to be a long seven months for all of us.”
I laughed. “Yeah. It definitely is.”
My phone pinged with a notification as Wes continued to read the insane text messages Georgia had been sending Cassie and me. His brow furrowed, and he quickly averted his gaze from my phone. “Here,” he said, handing my phone back. His voice no longer tinged by warmth and amusement. Instead, his tone hinted at irritation. “You got a text message.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said, but I couldn’t help the confusion wrapped around my words.
What the hell? That was the quickest one-eighty I had ever witnessed in my life.
This man was a conundrum of surly mood changes and rare smiles. Well, at least around me, he was. I had noticed when his friends were around, his smiles were more frequent, and he never held back his witty retorts and sarcastic quips. But around me, and the public, he seemed less thrilled, less laid-back, and more jaw-clenchingly vexed.
I couldn’t shake the feeling of wishing Wes would give me more of his smiles, his laughter, that easygoing charm I knew lay beneath his broody layers.
It was stupid, I knew that much, but I couldn’t stop myself from feeling that way about him.
My phone pinged and lit up with three more text notifications, and I finally glanced down at the screen to find the group chat with my four older brothers flooding with their mindless chitchat, that generally revolved around razzing each other and asking me to do favors.
Remy: When’s Mom’s birthday?
Jude: The same day. Every fucking year, Rem.
Ty: I hope Winnie buys her something nice and lets us sign the card again.
Remy: Seriously. What day, you fucks????
Flynn: Winnie, how much do we owe you for Mom’s gift?
Jude: Yeah, Win. How much? If it’s over two hundred, I need to borrow money.
Ty: Says the idiot who just sold his “vacation home” in the Hamptons to buy a bigger “vacation home” on Martha’s Vineyard.
Flynn: How Jude can walk the fine line of cheap and pretentious is mind-blowing.
Remy: WHAT DAY IS MOM’S BIRTHDAY???
See what I mean?
I chuckled and typed out a response.
Me: The 28th and get your own fucking gift for Mom.
“So?” Wes’s voice pulled my attention away from my phone. “Are we going to look at Mitchell’s MRI, or are you going to keep texting with Remy?”
My brow furrowed at the way he said my brother’s name—until my brain caught up with his insinuation. He thought Remy was a date or a boyfriend or basically anything but a blood relation.