Thanks For Last Night by Lauren Blakely

But I haven’t had the chance.

Which is a head-scratching travesty, but it happens, okay?

Like, if you get involved in a long-term relationship with a woman who’s only into sex every other Saturday night, and who only wants missionary, and only with the lights off.

That rule of the bedroom with my ex was, admittedly, bumpy to navigate. Because lights are awesome, what with the way they illuminate the female form and all its curves, dips and delicious valleys.

Also, what the hell was up with the nighttime-only law? I’m sure I’d be super into afternoon delights.

Morning bangs too. My dick certainly seems interested in the a.m.

But hey, I loved her, so I went along with the pencil-in-sex calendar approach.

Twice a month was better than, God forbid, the Gobi Desert of once every four weeks.

Or worse, the vast arctic wasteland of once a year.

My thoughts and prayers go out to all the dudes suffering from birthday-only boinking.

But I know that sex shouldn’t be on a schedule. Or if it is, the schedule should be part of the foreplay, like sending dirty daytime texts to your partner about what you’re going to do at ten o’clock at night when you finally see each other after a full day of being driven mad with desire.

That kind of planning is the hella sexy kind.

And when sex does happen, it shouldn’t be in the same position every single time. It should be imaginative.

It should be raw.

And I’m pretty damn sure sex should also be fun.

You know what’s not fun?

Finding my girlfriend and the dog walker brings new meaning to the phrase doggie style.

At least they weren’t using a leash.

Why didn’t Rex tell me he wasn’t getting walked? Poor pooch needed his exercise, and all he was doing was chasing his tail while the ex was giving hers away.

I can’t be mad at Rex, though. Not the little dude’s fault he was getting stiffed at the same time she was.

But hey, everything happens for a reason, right? I like to believe that anyway.

They say good guys finish last, but I don’t believe that. When a good guy finds the right woman, they can both finish. Together. A lot.

So, here I am, twenty-eight, single AF, and absolutely ready to find the right woman who’ll practice until perfect with me. And then practice some more: every position, kink, and dirty deed.

I’m positive my time has come. That my luck is due for a change. And it feels like I’m holding the winning lottery ticket when a sexy, sweet, sarcastic, brunette walks into my life, and all I can think is yes, yes, yes, it’s about fucking time.

Then I learn exactly who she is.

She is sexy, sweet, and sarcastic, but she is also . . . one hundred percent forbidden.

Which means I’m back to square one.

Until the night she issues me a challenge I can’t refuse.

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