Page 1 of Roommate's Guide to Love

prologue

Quinn

I am a weak,weak woman.

Both in the head, heart, and because of the positions I was just put in, legs.

I thought I was strong. I live on my own. I kill spiders. I build IKEA furniture without help—and sometimes there aren’t even pieces left. But there’s something about the moment that I step back into Rolling Hills, Tennessee, that makes me a weak, horny woman.

And that something is Porter McCoy.

“Jesus Christ,” Porter says, both of us still panting after the round we just went through. “I think you nearly killed me.”

“No murder charges here,” I say, making no attempt at moving or rolling over from my spot on his mattress. “I’ve gone this long without an actual arrest record, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Really?” he says as he kisses my shoulder before rolling to his side. “Hurricane Banks has never been arrested?”

I hate that nickname, but I’m too orgasm-drunk to fight him on it. I barely have the energy to turn to face him. Though I’m glad I do. The sight of a shirtless and sweaty Porter is never a bad one. “I haven’t. Close, a few times, but I technically have a clean record.”

This makes him laugh. “I think that might be a bigger surprise than you showing up at the bar tonight.”

I smile as I brush my finger up and down his sternum. I rarely take the time to just lie back and admire Porter’s body. His muscles are defined but not intimidating. There’s a smattering of chest hair that I love feeling against my skin when he’s on top of me. And even in the darkness of his bedroom, I can see a twinkle in his brown eyes.

The weak woman thing is starting to make sense…

“You can thank my new brother-in-law for that one. Surprise wedding dinner for him and Maeve required each family member to be there. And I figured since I was in town…”

“You’d come to your favorite bar for a nightcap and chicken wings?”

I smile at his use of our favorite code word. “Exactly.”

“Well, thank your new brother-in-law for me. Tonight was very, and I mean very, unexpected. And very, and I mean very, pleasant.”

Porter leans down to kiss me again, and because the theme of the night is me being unable to stop myself from doing things that probably aren’t the right decision, I let him. And I deepen it. Because eight years ago, when we started this, Porter put a spell on me. But instead of a wand, he used his dick.

And fingers.

And mouth.

God, that mouth…

I don’t know how I got so lucky as to have a fuck buddy who makes it his mission to make me his snack every time we’re together, but I’m not one to look at gift horse in the mouth.

Especially if he’s not tired of it after all this time.

Eight years is a long time for anything. Many marriages don’t last that long. But yet, Porter and I and our perfect arrangement have stood the test of time. Probably because we have our formula down.

I come home from where I live and teach in Arizona at least twice a year. Once around the holidays, once in the summer, and the occasional drop in, like tonight.

While here visiting my family, at some point I end up at The Joint, the neighborhood bar where everyone knows your name. There, I see the owner, Porter McCoy, who not only knows my name, but knows how to make me come in point-five seconds.

Each time I’m in said bar, I give myself a pep talk that just because I’m home doesn’t mean Ihaveto fuck him. Then he gives me a look. Or a wink. Or he just exists as I sit back and remember that no man knows my body better than he does.

So, eventually, I saunter up to the bar, trying to look as nonchalant as possible, and tell him that I’d like to order chicken wings.

Which means sex.

I order sex.

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