Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend

Amelia left to meet Elijah for dinner, but only after I’d promised her three separate times that I really and truly and honestly wanted her to go. I also had to promise her I’d tell her what I wanted from now on, without her having to drag it out of me.

As I went to bed—alone—I resolved to voluntarily make requests of Byron, if he still wanted me, and of Amelia, to justify her belief in me. But also of myself. I deserved better than never expecting anything from anyone.

In the morning, after a long night of tossing and turning and checking my phone, I dragged myself from bed and stared at my list of text messages for the hundredth time. Still nothing from Byron. My heart sank even though I’d been certain it had nowhere left to sink. It must’ve been in the earth’s core by now.

I wanted him to talk to me! I wanted him to come back and give me a chance to make everything right. I wanted him to—

. . . wait a minute.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes with one hand, I began to type with the other.

Winnie: I want you to talk to me. I want you to come back to the suite and give me a chance to make everything right. And I want you to forgive me.

Rereading the message several times, I decided that about covered everything I could communicate without him being here in person. I hit send and I waited, checking the time at intervals. But when five minutes became seven and he still hadn’t read the text, I placed my phone back on the nightstand. Instead of crying, I took a shower.

This was the dawn of a new Winnie, one who freely spoke her wants and needs instead of swallowing them and burying them under worry and fear.

It was an odd and fortuitous thing to have experienced basically identical conversations with both Byron and Amelia yesterday. Although, the discussion with Amelia had ended better than the one with Byron, a fact that made my heart hurt all over again and allowed that yawning, cavernous, endless source of pain and misery to surge to the forefront.

Scrubbing my face with hot water and face wash, I told myself that if he didn’t listen to me, or refused to see me, or if my honesty was met with rejection, or if Byron stopped wanting and loving me because of it, then maybe we weren’t right for each other. I supposed I would cross that bridge when the time came. Being brave enough to cross the bridge—despite whatever heartache that may await you—had to be so much better than this half life of never approaching the bridge at all.

Steam from the shower had fogged the mirror, and I wiped it with a hand towel in order to see my reflection for a pep talk. “If being yourself and asking for what makes you happy—not making demands or ultimatums, but asking in good faith—makes him stop loving you, then did he ever really love you? Or like you?” I pointed at myself, then wagged my finger. “No. He didn’t. And no matter how much you feel for a person, you will not be with someone who doesn’t appreciate you as you are, not even Byron.”

This was a difficult possibility to face, especially since I knew my feelings for him were real. He’d always been honest with me and asked for what he wanted. Whereas I hid my wants and desires. How could he know me, trust his feelings for me, if I didn’t fully share myself with him? My chin wobbled, but I firmed it.

No more crying.

Towel wrapped around my body and clutched to my chest, I exited the bathroom and crossed to my suitcase. While digging around for a bra and underwear, I heard the sound of the suite door opening and I straightened, my brain alert to the noises coming from the living room.

“Hello?” I drifted toward the open bedroom door. “Byron?”

“Yes. Byron.”

Thoughtless of my current attire, I sucked in a steadying breath and forced my feet to march out and meet him, steam cloud of courage swirling around me. Right now, I felt brave enough to be honest. Who knew if this daring would last long enough for me to get dressed.

“Hi,” I said as soon as he came into view, my voice less certain than I would’ve liked.

Do it. Do it now.

He was crouching next to the mini fridge, still wearing his suit from yesterday. It looked rumpled, the tie off, the shirt wrinkled. I noticed he hadn’t yet shaved as he turned his head toward me when I entered the room. But his stern frown quickly evaporated, much like my steam cloud of courage, and I couldn’t have that. I couldn’t let my bravery evaporate.

So before it slipped away, I said, “I hated it when you left Seattle for New York without talking to me first. I hated it and I missed you and it made me sad. I don’t want you to leave me anymore.”

Eyebrows arched and eyes wide as they moved over me, Byron slowly stood and closed the mini fridge.

I wasn’t finished. “I can appreciate that you need a bit of space from time to time, I do too, and that’s fine. But leaving all night after an argument, or flying to New York or wherever, is unacceptable. You come back the very moment you can. You don’t go flying off to different cities without talking to me first.”

He drifted closer as I spoke, features open and slightly dazed. “Sounds good,” he said, voice light.

“Also, I love it when you make me dinner, but I want to make you dinner too. You have to let me cook sometimes. And sending me home with five steaks is ridiculous. I had taco steak casserole in the freezer for three weeks. I’m not saying I don’t appreciate it, but you have to admit, five steaks is excessive.”

“Agree.” His attention trailed from my lips to my legs.

Okay. Now for the harder ones.

“And please don’t take this the wrong way—I honestly loved every part of going down on you today except this one little thing—but the taste of sperm does not agree with me. I do not like it. When, or if, we do that again, I’d prefer not to have it in my mouth.”

“Great. Makes sense.” Byron nodded, his gaze on my hands where they gripped the two ends of the towel to my chest.

This was going so much better than I’d anticipated. I should have told him what I wanted weeks ago!

“And I didn’t want you to go down on me because I don’t want you to have to taste gross bodily fluids.”

This statement made his eyes jump to mine and narrow slightly, the first sign of resistance.

I rushed to add, “Listen, I’ve thought a lot about this, okay? When a man ejaculates, it’s all at the end. There’s a bit of pre-cum during, and that’s actually not bad. It’s watery and salty and the taste is a nonissue.” Ignoring the instinct to feel embarrassed by discussing sexual bodily fluids with him so openly, I tightened my fists on the edge of the towel and forced the rest of the words out. “But a woman is, uh, making lubrication the whole time, not just at the end. It’ll be spoiled fish and mayonnaise in your face for five minutes straight, and I’m not going to be able to relax knowing that.”

Byron’s lips pressed together, his eyes brightening with apparent amusement. Clearly, he was fighting either a giant grin or a laugh.

I would not be deterred from this frank and open discussion. He wanted honesty? Well, he was getting honesty. All of it.

“Maybe you don’t hate the taste as much as me, but even if you hate it a little bit, I won’t orgasm, and I won’t enjoy myself. My brain needs to believe you love what you’re doing, that you’re just as turned on as me—even more turned on, in fact—in order for me to get there. I’ve been masturbating for a long time. I know how my brain and body works in this arena.”

His amusement seemed to fade but a small, pleased-looking smile settled in its place, and he said, “Thank you.”

I frowned, confused, skeptical of his sincerity.

I didn’t think he was being sarcastic, but his expression of gratitude was unexpected. I wasn’t sure what he was grateful for. And most everything he said was delivered deadpan. Even with my Byron-whisperer skills, I still had difficulty reading him.

He must’ve perceived my confusion and concern because he added with a hint of earnestness, “I am entirely serious. Thank you for those details—regarding your reasoning, the inner workings of your brain related to sexuality and arousal—thank you. I consider them a gift, one I intend to use wisely.”

I would trust him, but my scowl remained. “Then, I guess, you’re welcome.”

Smile persisting, he shifted closer, entering my personal space. I had to tilt my head back a little to maintain eye contact.

“I understand your concern,” he said haltingly, his tone sounding conversational yet careful. “But may I propose that you allow me to be the judge? Since I’ll be the one with my head between your thighs, my tongue licking your pussy.”

His words, and the imagery they conjured, knocked the wind from my lungs and made my body tighten deep inside. “Uh . . .”

“What if I love how you taste?” he asked, the question arriving with an air of logic and reason. Byron reached for one of my hands, gently prying it from the front of the towel and holding it, his thumb pressing against the center of my palm.

“You really think that’s going to happen?” I croaked, reminding myself that this was just a discussion and we weren’t about to test his theory.

Settle down, Win. You still have a lot to discuss.

“I will never know what you taste like if I’m not given the opportunity.” Bending his head toward mine, he turned my hand and threaded our fingers together. “And you’re assuming female arousal tastes like male sperm, which is a faulty assumption.”

“That’s—that’s a good point.” My mind felt muddled by his talk of tasting me, touching me, and I still had more honesty to share, unrelated to cunnilingus. “Well, what does it taste like then?”

“I have no idea. But I promise, if I don’t like it, I’ll tell you.”

I blinked at him, my frown returning. “Wait, what? You’ve never. . .?”

He shook his head, dipping it to brush his lips against mine. “No.”

“Oh.” I was fighting a two-battle front, the butterflies and lovely twisting tightness low in my belly and a cloudy haze of lust behind my eyes. “I’m sorry, I just assumed you had.”

“Why?” he asked on a whisper. “You think I have more experience because I’m a man?” One of Byron’s eyebrows hitched, and the right side of his mouth—the side that always seemed poised to curl in distaste—curled instead into what looked like a sardonic, self-deprecating smirk. “As I’ve told you, you have a lot more experience than me.”

“With relationships?” I couldn’t seem to catch my breath with him so close. Narrowing my eyes, I stared at him, pondering his meaning.

“Correct,” he said. “And everything related to them.”

Everything related to them . . .

“Byron.”

“Yes?” He kissed the inside of my wrist and then reached for my other hand. The realization of what he was about to do eclipsed my ability to process his statements.

I tightened my fingers on the terry cloth, trying to think.

He placed his palm over my fingers but made no move to remove my hand from the towel. “I’ll ask you before I do anything. About this, now that I understand your reluctance, I’ll check in.”

“Wait.” I closed my eyes, breathing deeply through my nose. And that was a mistake. He always smelled so darn good, even after twenty-four hours in the same suit. “Wait,” I repeated, working to get my bearings. “You were so mad when you left.”

“Yes. I was.” His stubbly cheek brushed against mine, and a moment later, he placed a feather-light kiss on my neck.

I closed my eyes tighter, swaying toward him. “But now you’re not angry with me?”

“I’m not sure.” Still holding my hand hostage, he wrapped his arm around my waist such that mine—the one not holding the towel—was now behind my back.

“You’re not sure?”

“I’m not sure I can be angry with you . . .” His softly spoken words just under my ear made goose bumps bloom over my skin. “When you’re wearing nothing but a towel.”

My eyes flew open, and I stiffened. “You’re being agreeable because I’m basically naked?”

Tugging on the hand holding the towel in question to my chest, he tightened his arm around my waist, bringing me flush against him, saying between kisses placed on my shoulder, “That sounds like a trick question. I’m not answering it.”

Lifting my eyes to the ceiling, I untangled my hand from behind my back and pressed it against his chest. “We need to talk until you’re sure you’re not angry with me.”

“Okay.” He began walking, backing me into the bedroom, still placing savoring kisses on my shoulder and neck, the swirl of his tongue making the muscles in my stomach clench. “You talk. I’ll listen.”

I huffed. He made me so incredibly hot. I told my unsteady legs to stop moving, but they disobediently allowed him to lead me to the bed. We paused at the edge of it.

“I don’t want you to be angry with me,” I reminded him and myself. “I don’t want to do anything physical with you until everything between us is good again and you know I trust you, that I’ll be honest with you.”

I felt his body still, and he sighed. Then he released me and turned away, pushing his fingers into his hair. “You’re right. We should talk. We should talk.” He sounded like he was speaking to himself.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who needed reminding.

“Okay. Yes. I will talk.” I rubbed my forehead and tried desperately to regather my scattered thoughts. “Where were we?”

“Cunnilingus,” he said, pacing, then added on a mumble, “Or, that’s where I’m hoping we were.”

His words flustered me, but after closing my eyes and taking a brief few seconds to find my bearings, I was able to remember the remainder of the issues we still needed to discuss.

“So. I’ve told you some of what I want. And there’s more. But you’re right. We were talking about why I don’t want you to go down on me. I was—I am—trying to be honest about my concerns.”

He stopped pacing while I spoke and shoved his hands in his pockets. “And I believe I said something about checking in with you, asking before I take action, and I will.”

“Good.” I gulped in a breath. My brain may have been ready to discuss serious issues, but my body was still confused as to why Byron stood way over there on the other side of the room and I stood over here by the bed, alone.

His gaze, still heated, turned wary, and the caution bleeding into it helped the lust cobwebs clear.

“What’s wrong? What is it?”

“Win.” Byron’s chest rose and fell. “In all seriousness, I really want this. I don’t know why, I can’t articulate my reasoning, only that I do with you, and have for a very long time. But something about me you should know if you don’t already, I will always tell you what I want. Even at the risk of you interpreting it as me pressuring you. I don’t know how else to be other than either silent or honest.”

I nodded, absorbing this information and all the ramifications of it. Given what I knew about him, and learned through our conversations, this all tracked as both true and unsurprising. Still, it was good that he’d stated it all so explicitly.

The heat behind his gaze dampened completely, his stare turning grave. “Which is why it’s so critically important that you always be honest with me. Don’t worry about injuring my feelings. I push when I don’t know I’m pushing, which is one of the reasons I avoid people. I don’t like hurting people, but I do when I speak, so I don’t speak. I speak what I believe to be a benign request while others seem to consider it intimidation. If I could change, I would.”

“Don’t change.” On instinct, I crossed over to him and grabbed his arm, my grip tight with urgency. “Please don’t change.”

His mouth curved with a wry smile. “I should change. It would do me well to learn how to live in this world—for me and for those I encounter—but that’s not my point.” He pulled his hand from his pocket, his gaze studying the progress of our fingers as he twined them together again. “My point is, in our relationship, in and out of the bedroom, if you won’t enjoy what I’m asking for or what I want to do, or if it’s something you don’t like, then—similar to your feelings on the subject—I won’t enjoy it either. And then I’ll hate myself for pushing you into it.”

“I don’t want you to hate yourself.”

“And I don’t want to railroad you into doing something you don’t wish to.”

Biting on my lip, I chewed on the problem, considering how we could move forward without either of us constantly fretting about the other person’s wellbeing, and a thought occurred to me. “How about if we expand the check-ins? Not only before you want to do something new or different that’s sex related. How about you ask in our day-to-day life—every once in a while—and I promise to tell you the truth.”

Byron’s forehead wrinkled. “So you want me to check in? While we’re—”

“At first, yes. I think it would be a good idea, now that we’ve talked more about it. And I’ll have something like the opposite of a safe word. If I say . . .” I searched my brain for something that sounded sexy or wouldn’t pull us out of a good moment. But then I told myself not to overthink it. “If I say I love it, then trust me that I’m telling the truth. But if I say sheep-biting footlicker, then stop.”

He looked at me like I was strange but also lovely. “Why not just say stop?”

“What if we’re role-playing?”

He seemed to grow several inches taller at my question and his features brightened. Byron cleared his throat, then licked his lips, looking like a kid on Christmas. “Yeah, okay. Yes. I like this.”

My Byron-whisperer skills told me what he was really thinking was something closer to, hell yes. His enthusiasm for the idea made me feel warm and giddy.

But we had a long way to go before we did anything like that, which reminded me of the main point of honesty I still needed to share.

“I have to tell you this last thing before we move on, before we call this good, okay?”

“Sure.” He was leaning toward me, and I could sense his restlessness. “But I feel I must inform you, standing here and producing reasoned thoughts and coherent sentences while you’re wearing only a towel might be the most challenging mental task of my life thus far.”

Pulling the terry cloth tighter around my body, I internally rolled my eyes at the disobedient part of myself that found this information delightful and dared me to drop the subject, and the towel.

Instead, I backed up a step. “Should I go put on some clothes?”

“I’m never going to answer yes to that question.”

“Byron—”

Grinning—which made my heart do somersaults—he brought his hands to my upper arms and said softly, “Go ahead. Say what you need to say. I’ll listen, and I’ll be good.”

I shivered, disobedient Winnie wishing he’d be bad.

But I managed to focus. This was important. Now for the most difficult part.

Gathering a deep breath, I said the words I’d practiced after Amelia left yesterday, all night as I tossed and turned, and this morning in the shower. “I understand that you want me to push you outside of your comfort zone, but I’m not very good at that, and I don’t think I ever will be. Pushing isn’t a strength of mine, I don’t enjoy doing it. I feel like I’m good at accepting and understanding people for who they are and providing encouragement and tools when they need help. That’s my strength, that’s fundamental to who I am. So, if you want me to be this person who is always pushing you to do or be something different, that will never be me.”

His features grew pointed with contemplation, like I’d surprised him and he needed to quickly readjust his worldview. Or maybe he just needed to readjust his Winnie-view.

My heart seized with worry and fear—that this last revelation of honesty might make him love me less, see me as less, as weak—but I forced myself to push past the fear. I excelled at compassion, not confrontation, and surely that was okay. Surely the world needed both?

Setting aside this existential debate, I soldiered on with my last point. “But I’ve never, or I don’t think I’ve ever, made excuses for you being an asshole. Before we started doing the challenges, I never made excuses for you. When I thought you were being mean, I would simply ignore you.”

“Yes. I remember.”

A shiver of unease chased down my spine to the back of my legs at his quiet, gravelly statement. But I couldn’t get sidetracked by guilt for my previous actions when I was so close to finishing what needed to be said.

Straightening my spine, I did my best to ignore that my hair was wet, and I was cold. “Then you should also remember that since we started doing the challenges, I have spoken up. I have told you when you’re being mean, or unreasonable—like during the first challenge when I told you to stop giving me unsolicited opinions, or before you left for New York when I yelled at you for your unwillingness to try.”

He nodded, his features distracted, unfocused. “That’s . . . true.”

“And I believe it’s unfair for you to say I’m never honest. I am honest when people treat me poorly. I do stand up for myself. Where I fail, where I need to do better, and where you were absolutely right, is actively asking for what I want instead of settling for what I’m given.”

Byron lifted his chin slightly. I got the sense he was processing this information, the line of his lips looked contrite but not unhappy.

Eventually, he said, “You’re right. I apologize.”

My muscles, which had been tense as I waited for him to respond, relaxed; my shoulders sagged with relief. “You’re forgiven. And thank you for apologizing. It’s taken a lot for me to get to this point, to be able to call out people when they treat me poorly, and it’s something about myself I take pride in.” Something that had been hard fought and hard won.

Cocking his head to the side, he studied me. “Why is that? Why has it taken a lot?”

An unpleasant memory surfaced, one of many involving my uncle. “You have your first interview in about an hour. Do you want me to go get dressed and we’ll talk about childhood trauma? Or do you want to make out and we’ll save it for tomorrow?”

“Childhood trauma,” he responded, no hesitation.

That surprised me. “Really? I thought—”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, and I know I’m contradicting myself, but yes. Please get dressed. We do need to talk.” He swallowed thickly, his tone suddenly strained. “And when you’re finished telling me about yours, I believe I may be ready to tell you about mine.”