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Instead of sending him a photo of myself in lacy lingerie, I ignored his text, which took the strength of The Rock.
I just wanted to wrap myself around Chase’s buff body like an octopus and suck on every part of him.
He was definitely an addiction.
Maybe I need rehab to help wean me off Chase Elliot.
After Ben Parsons cheated on me with my best friend, who no longer owned that title, I’d clammed up where feelings were concerned.
Screaming through an orgasm or even ripping a little flesh while in the throes of pleasure was one thing, but opening up my heart was another.
That was why I’d pushed Chase away that first time we’d met, a year ago. That hadn’t been easy. At all. Along with stamina, Chase also possessed heaps of bone-melting charm.
But from the word go, everywhere we went, there was some girl who knew him, rolling her tongue over her lips or whispering in his ear while practically sucking on his lobe.
So I’d ended it, cried my eyes out for a week, then moved on. Eight months later, Chase had snuck back into my life following one crappy date after another.
While I was weak and needy, I’d run into him at his favorite bar, Absinthe. And when he’d asked me why I kept ignoring his texts, I’d told him I didn’t want to be his fuck buddy.
Twenty minutes later, that was exactly what I became.
All it took was his expert tongue, and I went to liquid.
My mother said my chakras needed balancing, but then she would. New Age mumbo jumbo motivated her every waking moment. At least she didn’t drink or take heavy drugs, apart from the odd trip here and there when she celebrated the solstice.
Leaning against a spot on the wall that didn’t have someone’s DNA splattered over it, I pulled out my cell phone.
There was only one person to call during emotional crises, and that was Liam. I would normally call my friend Sara, but she was stuck inside a mommy bubble.
I pressed on a photo of Liam wearing a purple sequined jacket during his Elton John phase.
“Ivy,” Liam chanted.
“Hey. Are you busy? I need to see you. Something’s happened, and I’m going nuts.”
“Oh, really? Let me guess, Mr. Nine Inches?”
“Not this time.”
“Why don’t you come over? I’m home.”
“Really?” I sighed with relief. Since marrying into wealth, Liam had become a homebody, which helped when I needed a shoulder to cry on. “Okay. See you in a minute.”
Pushed along by a head full of thoughts, I hit Fifth Avenue, where I peered over at Central Park and sucked in a breath of air.
On good days, when the avenue wasn’t choking on car fumes and Chanel No. 5, I could smell the grass. Nostalgia clung to the air as I inhaled a deep, calming breath, which my lungs were probably unhappy about, even after imbibing that noxious cocktail for twenty-five years.
Liam and his husband, Ambrose, lived in a gorgeous Art Deco apartment on Park Avenue. I loved visiting that marble lobby with its beveled-glass fixtures and black-and-white images of historic Manhattan.
As I rode the elevator, smiling at the uniformed operator wearing a cute pillbox hat, I imagined slinky women in silk puffing on superlong cigarette holders.
As soon as I stepped out, I found Liam at his door, waiting for me. His big smile, followed by a hug, calmed my shakes.
He stepped away and looked at me, tilting his face to study me. “You look like you need a coffee.”
“Oh God, yeah.”
I followed him into his pink-tiled kitchen with its wooden benchtops, marble sink, and stained-glass French doors opening out to a small balcony. It was such a sunny, welcoming space that we often ended up there.
