1
The last thing Dylan Stone expected at nine-fifteen on Friday evening was a knock on his door. He was equally surprised to find his best friend, Serena Fields, standing on the other side of the threshold, considering it was supposed to be the night that she'd intended to go all the way and seal the deal with her latest guy after holding out on him for the past five weeks.
She'd definitely dressed to impress and seduce her date. The sexy little red number she'd chosen to wear for the occasion molded to her curves like a second skin from chest to thighs, and it was all Dylan could do to keep his gaze from lowering to the upper swells of her breasts being pushed up by the tight, strapless band of fabric wrapped around her tempting body.
Don't fucking look, he told himself, because ogling his best friend's full, lush tits wasn't cool. And because he'd spent years keeping his attraction to her a secret from everyone around him, and especially from her, he managed to maintain that normal outward indifference to Serena as a desirable woman, despite the heated lust coursing through his veins. If she'd been any other female, he would have already had that fuck-me dress on the floor and his cock buried eight inches deep inside her.
Surprisingly, it was those dirty thoughts that made him aware of the fact that nothing about her appearance announced that her latest Mr. Right had enjoyed what she'd been offering. There were no wrinkles in her dress, her makeup wasn't smudged, and her honey-blonde hair looked impeccably styled and untouched by a man's hands—unless her date was one of those self-centered guys who had no clue how to please a woman in the bedroom.
Then he recognized the disappointment in her blue eyes and the discouraged slump of her bare shoulders. He was all too familiar with that look of utter defeat because he'd seen it dozens of times before. It told him that yet another douchebag had shattered those hopes and dreams she harbored of finding a husband, getting married, and having babies.
"I take it things didn't go well with Dick?" he asked, stepping back and opening the door wider for her to come in.
"No, it didn't go well at all, and his name is Darren," she corrected as she passed by Dylan, enveloping his senses in a soft, seductive perfume that made his lower region stir inappropriately.
"Darren . . . Dick." He shrugged unapologetically as he closed the door and followed her into his living room, doing his best to keep his eyes off her swaying ass. "Close enough."
She turned around to face him, the barest hint of a smile on her red, glossy lips at the nickname he'd given the latest guy who'd crushed all her expectations and had hurt his best girl. His attempt at humor in these situations—and there had been way too many of them—always helped to lighten the moment, and her mood. He was the guy who was always there to pick up the pieces of her fractured confidence, who bolstered her esteem and encouraged her to give dating a new guy another try. That's what best friends did, because she deserved a good man in her life and that fairy-tale ending she'd been chasing for years.
Her smile faltered as her gaze took in his naked chest, the old, worn sweatpants riding low on his hips, then back up to the hair he knew was all over the place because he'd run his fingers through it a few times while figuring out the glitch in one of the newest apps he was building.
Ironically enough, Serena’s dating woes had inspired the the Boyfriend Experience app he was currently working the bugs out of, which offered a woman the ability to choose the perfect man for her based on her ideals and qualifications—mostly for a temporary arrangement when they needed a quick, on-the-spot fake boyfriend for an event or other occasion. But this latest issue in the code was frustrating the hell out of him and putting him behind on launching the app.
"Umm, I didn't catch you at a bad time, did I?" she asked, her voice dropping a husky octave as her pretty blue eyes darted around the room, clearly looking for evidence that he had a guest over.
"If you're asking if I have a woman here, no, I don't." Not that it would matter. He'd always put Serena first, before any female he brought home for the evening. Which was all those dates ever were—casual, no strings, and usually one-night stands because emotional ties were so not his thing. “I was just working on the Boyfriend Experience app and trying to figure out where the problem is in the interface. You know, nerd stuff,” he teased.
Her expression softened with relief that he was alone, and she tossed her small purse on a chair in the living room and returned her gaze to his. "Good, because I really need to vent about my awful night. But first, this tight dress that I can barely breathe in and these stupid shoes that are killing my feet are coming off."
With that announcement, she whirled around and headed down the hallway to his master bedroom, making herself right at home like she always did. As soon as he heard her rifling through his dresser drawers, he headed into the kitchen to get phase two of her breakup routine started. He opened the side-by-side freezer and reached for the only thing that helped to cure her dating-night blues . . . a pint of Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream.
It wasn't a coincidence that he always had at least three cartons of the flavor on hand at all times. He was always prepared for a late-night visit, because inevitably, Serena's idiotic dates fucked up a good thing and she ended up on his doorstep to wallow in her inability to find a decent, honorable man—one who didn't come with any kind of obnoxious traits, offensive mannerisms, or disturbing personal issues that slowly, eventually, made themselves known over their time together.
He couldn't wait to hear what this latest moron had done to let such an amazing woman slip through his fingers, h
e thought with a smirk. Especially on a night that should have ended in hot, sweaty, multiple-orgasm sex. What guy in his right mind screwed up that kind of sure thing?
Dylan grabbed a spoon from the drawer and frowned at the unwelcome image that filled his head of another dude getting it on with his best girl friend. Okay, if he was honest with himself, Dylan had to admit that he was grateful that the night had been aborted, because he hated knowing or hearing about some other man kissing her, touching her, and doing all the dirty things he'd spent years privately fantasizing about doing with and to Serena.
And how awful was it that he could breathe a little easier when these guys did something stupid or didn't live up to Serena's standards, and she ended things with them? Not because he enjoyed seeing her upset or hurt, but if he was truly honest with himself, he was dreading the day when someone else came along and replaced him in her life as her best friend. It was inevitable that it would happen at some point, and he didn’t like thinking about the possibility.
With her carton of ice cream in hand, he headed into the living room and settled on his dark gray sectional couch, comprised of a large sofa and a chaise lounge attached at the end where he sat. Then onto phase three . . . turning on the Hallmark Channel on the TV so it was playing in the background for now. A few years ago, he’d subscribed to the on-demand service just for her because she loved watching the sentimental movies that gave her hope for the next guy, while he endured the eye-rolling, corny shows for her sake and tried to keep his snarky comments to a minimum while she swooned over the predictable romantic plot.
Down the hall, where the guest bathroom was located, he could hear Serena moving around and water splashing in the sink, then a few minutes later she returned, her now bare feet padding softly on the hardwood floor. He wasn’t surprised to see that she’d washed her face free of the makeup she’d worn for her date, or the fact that she was wearing one of his old T-shirts, despite having a dedicated drawer and closet space in the guest bedroom, where she kept spare clothes for these impromptu sleepovers.
And yes, he already knew she was staying the night . . . because it was a Friday evening and once her stomach was full of her creamy dessert and she’d finished raking her latest dating disaster over the coals, she’d eventually fall asleep on his couch while they watched one of the latest Hallmark movies. And when she woke up in the morning, she’d expect him to make her the chocolate chip pancakes she loved. It was a ritual they’d done dozens of times before.
He sank into the corner of the couch and stretched his arms across the back cushions, knowing he was probably going to hell for noticing the gentle bounce of her breasts beneath his shirt and the outline of her puckered nipples grazing the soft cotton as she approached. The shirt ended mid-thigh, and instead of taking a long, leisurely journey down her gorgeous legs, he commended himself for lifting his gaze back to her freshly scrubbed face.
But Jesus Christ, there was something so fucking sexy about a woman wearing a man’s shirt—specifically, his shirt—and little else, though Serena was the only female he’d ever allowed that privilege. The first time she’d changed into one of his shirts their freshman year of high school, she’d explained that she liked how the material smelled like him, and being wrapped in his scent made her feel safe and secure.
What she didn’t realize was, by the time she left in the morning and returned his shirt after sleeping in it all night long, it was her fragrance that lingered on the fabric. More times than not, he found himself reduced to his horny, fourteen-year-old self as he buried his nose in the material, inhaled her soft, powdery scent, and imagined the hand stroking his aching cock was hers, instead of his own. It was his one guilty pleasure, since those moments were the closest he’d ever get to satiating his desire for her.
With a heavy sigh, she plopped down onto the couch cushion next to him, causing her breasts to jiggle temptingly once again. She crossed her legs in front of her and tucked the hem of his shirt in between her thighs, but not before unknowingly giving him a quick, memorable glimpse of the red lace panties she’d worn to seduce her dipshit of a date.
After reaching for the pint of Ben and Jerry’s he’d set on the coffee table, Dylan pulled off the lid and handed her the carton, along with the spoon.
“Thank you,” she murmured, and dived right in to the ice cream.
He gave her a couple of minutes to enjoy a few bites and get all that chocolatey goodness into her bloodstream. When he could no longer handle her soft, husky moans of pleasure as she indulged in the treat, as if mere ice cream could make up for the fact that she’d been denied the orgasm she’d been hoping for tonight, he decided it was time to find why she’d ended up at his place instead of in her date’s bed.
“So, what happened with Dick? You’ve been dating him for five weeks now, so I can’t imagine what went wrong . . . unless he’s gay or likes to dress up in women’s lingerie?” he joked.
She shook her head, her lips pursing seriously. “No. Worse than that.”