Trophy Husband by Lauren Blakely Read Free Book Online Page B

perfectly – a night out on
the town, then we’d come home, turn on some torch music, he’d take
me in his arms for a slow dance. Touch my hair in a way that sends
sparks through me. Then a hand on the back of my neck, bringing me
closer, lips meshing with mine. He’d slide his hand down to the
small of my back, while laying a smoldering path of kisses down to
the hollow of my throat.
    We’d slow dance and sway, the kind of dance
that’s not for anyone else to see. The kind that’s a delicious
tease of foreplay, where every subtle move, every brush of the
fingers, and dusting of the lips on shoulders, is the promise of
what’s to come. That dress straps will be pushed down, that zippers
will come undone. Clothes will fall in the floor in a heap, tugged
off quickly, as the dance moves to the couch and shifts into
something horizontal. Slow and tender and tantalizing, each move,
each touch turning me higher, sending me further into a dizzying
state of longing.
    My breath catches at the thought. Not only
the prospect of kisses that ignite goosebumps all over me, but the
possibility of someone who wants only me. Who only has eyes for me.
Who wants to look at me, longing and lust in his perfect green
eyes, and then throw me down on my couch, strip me naked, and bury
his face between my legs.
    Okay, so evidently, I both want a boyfriend
and the kind of oral plundering that makes you quiver, and roll
your eyes in the back of your head, and grab the guy’s soft, shaggy
hair, and shout his name over and over into oblivion.
    Then curl up in his arms, safe and warm, and
know he’ll be there the next day and the next and even then
some
    Is that so much to ask for?
    Love, and a talented mouth?
    I close out of Craigslist. I’m not going to
find what I really want there anyway.

Chapter Four
    I model for the camera a cute little ‘50s
style bateau neck blouse. Then, I step out of the shot, swap that
shirt out for a form-fitting black V-neck with one purple shoe
design emblazoned on the front. I step back in front of the camera
that Andy holds as he shoots today’s episode in my living room.
    “What’s it going to be, my fellow fashion
hounds?” I point to the camera – the viewers. “You get to vote on
how I’m going to dress for my first ever date with a Trophy Husband
candidate. And be sure to watch the outtakes from my very first
phone call to a potential candidate.”
    I pause for a second or two because this is
the spot where Andy will edit in a few choice clips from my
iCam-captured conversation with the Meter Boy. The clips include my
awkward ask-out: “So should we meet in the Golden Gate Park near
Shakespeare Gardens on Saturday?”
    Am I the world’s biggest dork or what? I
couldn’t have just asked Meter Man out for a cup of coffee or a
glass of wine, or even, God forbid, something as simple as lunch.
Nope, I had to go nuts and ask him to meet in the frigging park.
He’ll probably bring champagne and strawberries too.
    Anyway, after my three-count pause, I give
my traditional sign off, with a tip of the hat to my dog, who sits
dutifully by my side. “That’s all for today, you fellow fashion
hounds.”
    Andy turns off the camera and I ask my usual
question. “How was it?”
    He gives me a thumbs up, his standard
cameraman-slash-videographer response.
    “That’s why I like working with you. For the
wordless thumbs up,” I tease as I wind the cord to the microphone
around my fingers, barely paying attention, doing the routine by
memory. Then I hand Andy the microphone and wipe one hand against
the other. Done.
    “I’ll have that online in thirty minutes,”
he says as he breaks down his gear, carefully folding up the tripod
and shutting off his camera. His curly brown hair is a little
shaggy as it hangs close to his brown eyes. Andy clucks his tongue
a few times but says nothing. Uh oh. That’s what he does when
something’s bugging him.
    “What is it, Andy? What’s bothering
you?”
    “I