Free Trophy Husband by Lauren Blakely Page A

thread their way into my
hair, and I lean into his hands, reveling in the way they feel
against the back of my head, as if he’s holding me in the exact way
he wants me, in the exact way I want to be held. My breaths grow
louder as he kisses me hard, craving the taste of my lips crushed
against his. A groan escapes him, telling me he doesn’t want to
stop; he only wants more of me.
    He breaks the kiss, stands, and reaches for
my hips, quickly pulling me up. I sway, still lightheaded and
probably will be days. But he steadies me with one hand on my
waist, and he looks at me with such dark desire in his eyes, with a
fierce kind of hunger as if he has to have me, touch me, be with
me.
    One look like that and I am his for the
asking. For the taking. My heart pounds harder and my pulse
speeds.
    It’s clear we’re not playing Candyland
anymore. We’re going off the board, he’s shoving the game and all
the pieces to the floor in one strong sweep of his arm. The cards
and the markers scatter, clinking on my floor, and I don’t care
about anything else except the the way he lifts me up on the table,
and moves his hand from my throat to my chest to my waist, as if he
knows instinctually how much I love having my hips touched, like he
knows all the spots on my body that can drive me wild without me
even having to tell him. He can find them in the dark, without a
map. He needs no direction. The playbook to my body is in him, his
head, his heart, his hands. He knows what I want. He knows how I
like it. He wants to give it to me. Soon, I’m breathless, and we’re
chest to chest, hips to hips, and I’m grasping at him, my hands
sliding around to his perfect ass, so round and firm, and I grab
hold of him, desperately needing the friction of his body against
mine, even though we’re fully clothed. His hands explore me,
feathering against the exposed skin of my thighs, then sliding
inside the hem of my skirt. Teasing, tempting, inching higher, and
if he keeps going like this I am going to lean my head back and
gasp in pleasure. Something I’m dangerously near to doing as his
fingers reach the deliciously agonizing point where I want him
most. Discovering how ready I am for him. Wickedly delighting in
knowing I am full of a crazy kind of longing for him, that my body
calls out for his. Oh, I could so cry out his name right now, let
him have me, take me, taste me. Let the world know he drives me
wild.
    Then I stop the fantasy from going any
further. A guy like that – funny, charming, into video games –
would never be into a gal like me.
    Besides, there is no moonlight.

Chapter Six
    I stare at my computer screen, as if the
solution to finding a guy who’ll fill my heart with gladness and
take away all my sadness lies somewhere in the machine. Because
Meter Boy was a bust, and Craigslist is not my cup of tea, and I
don’t know where to go next. It’s not as if I’m terribly good at
the bar pick-up scene. Does that even work anymore? I haven’t a
clue about how to date, let alone how to run a dating contest. Why
did I ever think I could pull this off? I’m a fashion blogger. I
know which shirts go with skirts, and where to find the screaming
deals. I don’t know about men anymore.
    The doorbell rings. I straighten up and head
over to the front door, quickly checking my reflection in the
nearby mirror. All clear. I peer through the peephole.
    The Fedex Guy is back.
    He really is cute. He has blond hair and
brown eyes, a combo I love. I’m reminded of Lena’s suggestion that
I consider him as a candidate. Maybe the eight-year-old was
right.
    “Hold on, I’ll be right there,” I shout,
then I peek at the mirror, fluff my hair, bite my lips for color,
and smooth my tee-shirt, a pale yellow number that I picked up at a
little shop in Petaluma that’s my best source for quirky cool
tee-shirts. This shirt has an illustration of a mechanical horse
and the words “Saddle Up and Ride” on the front. I’ve worn it a few
times