Page 122 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Maisie’s stability.

Her friendship with Blake.

Her heart.

The trip to Austin yesterday was supposed to be a welcomed distraction. A relief from her incessant thoughts of Blake and the chemistry between them. Whatever the combination of them coming together was made of, it sucked all the air out of the room and threatened to light whatever was left on fire.

She hadn’t expected to see Blake again so soon, but reaching out to her had felt inevitable. She’d been at least quelled by the thought that it’s what a good friend would have done. It was a kind gesture to invite her over, given that she’d really helped her out yesterday.

Genuinely, she hadn’t been expecting sex.

And sure, the hot tub wasn’t exactly a fair thing to do to Blake, but the idea of relaxing after the day she’d had had been too tempting to fight.

Maybe that’s what had made last night rocket to a whole other level.

Monroe’s body thrummed just thinking about it.

How Blake had been so responsive to her touch. The way she’d let Monroe fuck her outside in the hot tub, with the possibility that anyone could catch them.

Monroe could feel the color rising high on her cheeks when she thought about how Blake had liked to be called a good girl and worked through her orgasm with just as much praise as pleasure, one feeding off of the other.

Monroe hadn’t been able to stand it. Seconds after she’d made Blake come, she’d thrust her own hands between her legs and had rocketed herself off the cliff she’d been hanging on to for dear life. A few well-purposed strokes were all it had taken for her to cry out and scrape her teeth against Blake’s shoulder before placing wet, open-mouthed kisses along her skin, trying to muffle the sound.

Blake hadn’t even come into the house. They’d sat in the hot tub for a while longer, in the same position, Blake pressed against Monroe, and simply existed.

“Whatever you were just thinking about, I don’t know that you should be in a public place to do it.” Denny’s low voice cut through the ringing all around them—the ringing in her ears, too—and she looked at him, dazed.

“Holy shit. You’re sleeping together.”

Finally, begrudgingly, Monroe came back down to reality. “Keep your voice down,” she hissed, glancing over at Maisie to make sure that she was out of earshot.

“For how long?” he pressed, leaning forward so that he didn’t need to talk loudly to be heard.

Monroe needed to tell someone about whatever the hell it was that she and Blake were doing or she was going to turn inside out soon. Denny being that person would open herself up to a whole slew of teasing and gentle ribbing, but it was a necessary consequence.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

“Last Saturday was the first time,” Monroe admitted, feeling both the relief of the truth and the weight of whatever would come next.

Denny lifted an eyebrow. “But not the only time?”

Monroe ran her hands through her tangle of curls. “It’s happened four times.” The words rushed out of her, unbidden, as memories of the past week swirled through her mind. She pressed her legs together underneath the booth.

And that was a lot of times for something that was supposed to be casual.

Aghast, Denny held four fingers up and shoved them toward Monroe. “Four! As in the number of seasons. Cardinal directions. Elements. Car wheels. Beatles⁠—”

“Shut it, Denny.” It was a phrase she often found herself saying to him.

“So . . . sounds like the jury’s officially come to a decision on you know who being into women.” The tone of his voice sounded like he was marveling, surprised even though the evidence had been spoon-fed to him from a platter.

“Yeah, Denny,” Monroe answered dryly. “I think we can put that question to rest.”

He reached across the table with one of his long arms and gently slapped her shoulder. “So, tell me.”

“Tell you what?” Monroe asked, even though she knew she was being intentionally obtuse.

Denny scoffed. “I mean, what's going on? Are you two dating?”