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“I don’t know if I can convey to you the magnitude of this situation,” Hanna says. “Easton and I are out at a restaurant together, and I just got a call from the babysitter that she needs us to come home because—and this is verbatim—something has gone wrong with her TikTok account and she needs a hundred percent of her attention to address it.”
“Did you tell her to go to hell?”
“No!” she says. “Because I don’t want her to give a hundred percent of her attention to her TikTok account when she is supposed to be watching Eloise! Can you please, please, please, please, pretty please with sugar on top take over for her and let me finish this absolutely fucking delicious dinner and order at least two or three of the desserts on this menu?”
I’m laughing because holy shit, I love my sister. “Yes. I will go take over for your babysitter.”
I end the call and look to Ivy, who is watching me, amused.
“Did you hear any of that?”
“I got the gist,” she says. “You should go. Take over for her. She was really looking forward to this date. And Shane?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad we’re friends.”
“Me, too,” I say, meaning it more than I’ve meant anything in a long time.
But when I’m back in my car, hands on the wheel, contemplating the starter button, I begin to hate myself just a little.
Because that? What just happened back there with Ivy? That was amazing. And I want more of her. And I’m pretty sure I’m not going to stop wanting her.
So in my efforts to be a better human being, I’ve basically friend-zoned myself out of what I know would be some of the best sex I’ve ever had in my life.
24
Ivy
“Party favors!”
The exclamation comes from one of Hanna’s sisters-in-law—Amanda, I think—as she pulls a lipstick-sized vibrator from a pretty pink bag full of crinkled-paper confetti.
We all dive into our bags and retrieve our own vibes, an array of absurdly bright colors. I push the button on the bottom of mine and touch it to my fingers; the little buzz sets up a quiet answering tingle between my legs. Huh. I’ve never owned a toy—I’ve been lucky enough to orgasm easily, so the hassle of tracking down the right toy, procuring it discreetly, and using it without alarming my neighbors never seemed worth it. But now I’m curious.
“Who’s gonna go home and try it out?” Amanda calls.
Hanna rolls her eyes. “That mosquito buzz? Most of us need more power to get off, like the Magic Wand…”
She’s referring to the forearm-sized vibrator her sister-in-law Rachel demoed to us tonight, along with a slew of other toys.
Best bachelorette party ever.
And I really needed it as a reward for the epic amounts of self-control I’ve exerted this week not to go to Shane and beg him to rethink his stance. Not only because I desperately want more kissing and more of his thigh between my legs—because seriously, if that man can get me off that efficiently and that hard without even using his fingers or his tongue, there is much, much more he can do.
But every time I almost go running to him begging for more, I remind myself that I need to be absolutely clear in my head about what I can and can’t expect from him.
Can expect: kisses that make me stupid and orgasms that make me boneless.
Can’t expect: anything else.
He’s just a fake fiancé, and after that, he’ll be no one to me.
That’s usually enough to sit me back down in my seat, to leave me stuck trying to recreate the feel of his thigh between my legs with every last fluff-stuffed household object from couch cushions to foam rollers (do not recommend).
I’ve gone around and around this hamster wheel a few thousand times, but in the end self-control has won out.
And luckily, right now, I am smack dab in the middle of the coolest group of women, and I have loads of distractions to keep me from feeling annoyed with myself for letting Shane into—or at least onto—my pants.
