“That’s right,” I say, throat tight but smiling.
Nancy just smiles—soft, a little awkward. I get it. Telling people you don’t have family makes them feel sad and uncomfortable. I’m totally used to that.
“So how long have you been dating John?” I ask Nancy, casual as hell.
Nancy chokes a little on her margarita, coughs, takes a sip to cover it. Maggie tries to hold back a laugh, cheeks puffing up, eyes bugging out at me like I just dropped a bomb.
“Oh, we’re just good friends,” Nancy says quickly, shaking her head. “I was best friends with his wife— Maggie’s mother—and just stuck around to make sure everyone was taken care of. We’re not dating.”
Maggie and I look at each other, then back at Nancy, and we both lose it, laughing so hard my sides hurt.
“Oh, you girls hush,” Nancy says, but she’s laughing too, cheeks pink.
It gets quiet for a second, just the music and the soft lap of water. Then Maggie leans in. “How are you and Cole?”
“Oh, we’re just friends,” I start. “We’re not like dating or together or—”
Maggie and Nancy interrupt me with a burst of laughter, full, delighted, like I just told the best joke.
I blush instantly, heat rushing up my neck. “I like him, I do, but whenever I try to give clues… Like, for instance, I wanted his phone number to text him while he was gone. And he said he doesn’t text.”
Maggie snorts. “Give me your phone.”
I unlock it, hand it over.
She types fast, smirks, hands it back. “Now you have it.”
“He plays hard to get like a female,” she adds, winking.
I smile, small, hopeful, a little embarrassed.
The rest of the night is girls drinking and dancing to music, partying. Margaritas flowing, us swaying to the beat on the pool deck, laughing until our stomachs hurt.
Nancy eventually rolls back to the main house—tired but happy, waving goodnight. Maggie and I stay out until we’re completely plastered. She passes out on a lounge chair by the pool, insisting she’s fine when I try to move her. I stumble my way back up to the guest house, world tilting a little, giggles bubbling up.
When I get inside, it’s cold from the AC after being in the warm night air and pool water. I peel off my swimsuit—tan lines stark against my pink-burnt skin, nipples hard from the sudden chill. I sit on the side of the bed, still buzzing, still missing him, still drunk enough to be reckless. I snap a pic, breasts bare, hair messy, lips parted, eyes glassy from tequila and want.
Start typing a message to Cole.
Me:[picture attached]
Missing you.
Cole:Cole liked the picture you sent.
Are you fucking kidding me? He liked it. Didn’t reply. Didn’t say anything. Just a heart. I’m waiting, staring at the screen, heart pounding, thinking of him—his hands, his mouth, the way he growls my name when he’s close. Maybe he’s busy… with the show and everything. Maybe he doesn’t know it’s me.
So I send another text.
Me:it’s Layla
No response—just delivered. It’s 2 a.m.; he’s probably sleeping. I need to stop overthinking.
I’m laying in bed and all I can think about is him. I’m drunk and horny—aching, needy. I pull my vibrator out of the side table, let it hum to life against my clit, slow circles at first, building. Thinking of the other night when I had Cole’s dick in my mouth—thick, hot, stretching my lips—while he rubbed my clit and fingered me deep.
Then he said the sexiest thing, voice rough and low: “Cum on my hand, Layla. I want you to cum with my dick down your throat.”
God. Here I go again. I explode—back arching, thighs shaking, a broken moan slipping out as the vibrator pushes me over the edge. Waves crash through me until I’m trembling, spent.
