Page 8 of Savage in the Sheets
Weston:Great! Can’t wait to see you.
Jenna
“You have to wear green. It is absolutely your color,” Angela says as she holds up a tight, emerald-green dress against me.
“It just feels too obvious. All redheads wear green.”
“Because it totally works! Yellow is also a good color, but not as dramatic. Purple, however—”
“Let’s just move on from color.”
“We need to get you away from those pencil skirts as well. It gives off a ‘hot for teacher’ vibe, but that’s not really what you’re going for.”
“That would require me to go home after work and change—which I amnotdoing. I just need something for happy hour.”
“You will absolutely go home to change for happy hour because you are in training, and you always put maximum effort into everything you do.”
She’s right. I’m absolutely going to get off of work, go home, apply fresh makeup, put on my new outfit, practice my lines, and hit up the bar.
Angela’s tearing clothes off the rack, casually discarding them to the consternation of the retail attendant assisting us. We became friends after my firm took on a case against her family. We won, and one day she spotted me at a local cafe and read me the riot act. Then, something just clicked.
A crazy glint shines in her eye. “I would absolutely die if I had Weston as a wingman.”
I chuckle. “He’s actually really good at giving advice. A little bad with the delivery, but the advice is solid.”
Angela shoots me a smirk. “No, silly. I mean he’s just so hot. I swear, I stayed away from him because I thought you were low-key hitting it, but now that I know it’s really just a friend thing and it’s not breaking the Girl Code—I’m on it.” She rolls her hips seductively to emphasize her intentions.
The words are like a punch in the gut. Angela has been my friend for going on three years. I’ve known Weston for eight. I love them both dearly, but the thought of them together, even if only for a night, makes my stomach churn.
I force a smile and grab the nearest garment off the rack. “What about this?”
Angela’s face contorts in horror. “Light pink with palm trees? I have to say, you’re far worse at fashion than I thought.”
I grimace once I get an eyeful of the dress. “I was just kidding.”
“Uh-huh…”
Then it strikes me. Weston can give me advice from a male perspective, but Angela is just as valuable as she has loads more experience than I do.
“What’s sex like for you?” I ask.
“A cyclone of chaos and tangled limbs,” she says without thinking.
Of course, I can’t stop my mind from going to the biggest black hole I can find: would Weston prefer her or me in the sack?
I survey Angela from toe to crown. She has two inches on me, narrower hips, lean muscles. Graceful with no awkwardness. Her breasts sit high on her chest, proud and ever-excited, as shown by her perpetually erect nipples.
She’s a gym bunny, which very well might be what Weston prefers given his heavy workout regimen.
It seems obvious that Weston would prefer her. It’s a no brainer.
Don’t get jealous. Not for something so silly.
After eight years of professionalism, the wall I’ve constructed between Weston and I is crumbling, all because of a slew of cryptic text messages.
I had half expected him to show up at my apartment, rip my clothes off, and give me an education unlike any I’ve had before. And when his game plan was entirely strategizing, I felt bitter with disappointment. My logical brain knows with one-hundred-percent certainty that sleeping with Weston would be a huge mistake, and yet, I couldn’t stop picturing him naked with my legs wrapped around him the entire weekend.
But it’s only because sex is on my brain, I reason. It’s not like I truly want Weston. That would be absurd.
