I loved the power of having him in my mouth. I took my time, taking him deep and feeling him stiffen against my tongue, in the course of seconds, my oral ability proven in eight inches of reaction. I smiled around his cock and buried it down my throat.

Fifteen blocks later, only minutes before we pulled up to his Fifth Avenue residence, he moaned my name, his hand tugging at my hair, the shudder of his body the final warning before he thrust into my mouth and came. Hot satisfaction of which I swallowed every bit, the small aftertaste well worth the worship in his eyes as he pulled me into his arms and kissed me senseless.

“I love you,” he whispered, brushing the hair off my shoulder, the hair that had come undone somewhere around SoHo. “Oh Chloe. I love you so much.”

And that, in a cum-filled nutshell, was my ex. Vic Worth. His family’s name was plastered on buildings all over Manhattan. A billionaire trust-fund baby, we met sophomore year at NYU. Dated eighteen months before I walked in on him mid-thrust into his maid. I dumped him, and he popped the question with a six-carat ring amid a flurry of exorbitant gestures. I said “no” in about four different combinations, most paired with an expletive or immaturely presented middle finger. He wasn’t deterred, his pursuit impressive in its effort, a pursuit that I had hoped, with a two-month hiatus since his last contact, had finally ended.

Yet that afternoon, my high from my new job draining with every note of my ringtone, he called. I hesitated, then, despite my better judgment, dragged my finger across the surface and raised the phone to my ear.

I barely had time to speak before Vic’s voice came through the cell, his words barking out with some degree of urgency. “Don’t get on that filthy thing. The subway? God knows what you’ll catch.”

I spun around, peering up into the bright white square of sunlight, a swell of bundled New Yorkers pouring over its edge and hurrying down the steps, the vibration of the oncoming train pulsing under my feet. “Are you following me?” I hissed into the phone.

“Hell no. I’m at the Bellagio about to clean house in blackjack. But Jake just texted me that he saw you going down to the six. What the fuck are you doing?”

“Is this seriously why you called me?” The train approached, its brakes screeching as it came to a stop and was immediately surrounded, the crush of bodies swelling like a sea of maggots around a prize. I tapped my MetroCard against my leg, in no hurry to join the party.

He sighed into the phone. “According to Jake, you’re in heels—and I know your heels. They aren’t built for actual use. Trot your sexy ass up those stairs and get in the warm car; let Jake take you home. Please. Then I’ll hang up and never bother you again.”

“Never?” I challenged, the promise one I’d heard before.

“I’ll try my best.”

I twisted back and forth, my purse swinging with the momentum, from darkness to light. Though, in this twisted scenario, they were flip-flopped: the dark and dirty wheeze of the subway was where I should be going, the light and sunny street the path I should avoid.

“Come on, baby. Let me do this one thing. Just one.” The beg in his voice, the crack on the word baby. It reached up my skirt and teased my skin, probed into my brain and lured out all of the times his gorgeous mouth had whispered the words.

Come on, baby… his hand pulled me into a coat check closet, parting furs and pushing me back against the wall.

Come on, baby… his tongue, soft on my inner thighs, the scrape of his five o’clock shadow tickled as his hands spread my knees apart and his mouth moved higher.

Come on, baby… his hands up my dress, fingers digging into the meat of my ass, his mouth on my neck as we—tucked into the shadows of a club, music thumping, bodies everywhere—let passion override sense.

Come on, baby…

That was the problem with love. There was no OFF switch.

I ended the call and hurried down the steps into the cold darkness.

4. Girls Just Want to Have Fun

My home was Cammie’s couch, a red leather sectional that was super stylish but really uncomfortable. She had offered to share her bed, but I’d heard of the gymnastics that had occurred on its surface… so the couch would work just fine for me. The apartment felt lonely without her, my Instagram strike broken when I drank too much of her wine last night and gorged on their South Beach photos. I flipped through image after image of gorgeous selfies with brilliant blue water behind them, their bikinis depressing when I glanced out her window at the NYC snow. It was official. Being poor sucked.

Vic didn’t call back after I hung up on him. Which was a good thing, something that I needed to keep reminding myself. I doodled in the margins of my notebook.

STAY AWAY FROM VIC.

Putting it on paper seemed to help. The caps seemed a bit excessive but did properly emphasize the point. Maybe when I got an apartment, I could wallpaper the walls with that mantra. On second thought, that might scare off potential dates, give a bit of a crazy-girl vibe. I ripped out the notebook page and crumpled it into a ball. If I had any hope of finding love in this city, I needed to put my best foot forward. Outside, there was a short honk and I looked out the window, recognizing Cammie’s driver. The girls were flying home, and I was tagging along with the driver to pick them up. I grabbed my purse and cell, tossed my Vic resolution in the trash, and headed outside, waving a hello to the driver as I got in the SUV.

I settled back in the seat, tired from my first week of employment. It was amazing how long eight hours could feel—each day stretching interminably before me, Nicole too busy to teach me anything, my hours spent puppy-sitting Chanel.

Yesterday, I’d spent five hours looking at apartments, my lonely search through the snowy city a complete disaster. Every place was crap, the buildings old, rooms cramped, and neighborhoods sketchy. I never realized how expensive this city was before, never realized how a majority of New Yorkers lived, never realized how spoiled I was before. I decided to give Cammie’s couch a couple more weeks, get my bank account a little more flush, give my mind a little more time—then try again.

There was a loud honk, and the SUV swerved, my hand gripping the center console as I tried to open a text from Benta, my eyes glancing briefly up at the traffic before looking back down at my phone. The text was short, letting me know they had landed and were at baggage claim. Thank God. After a week alone, I was convinced I wouldn’t make it in New York without these girls. Life sans them sucked.

Granted, there were a few negatives about their return. I’d have to tell Cammie about the dress—her Nicole Miller number that I might have snagged slightly during my borrow. And I’d have to disclose the conversation with Vic. They had me on strict probation from answering any of his calls, so I’d be in trouble over that slip.

The SUV rolled into JFK, and I could already see them, their enthusiastic wave barely visible through the snow. Only minutes until their bronzed and relaxed selves would hop inside, and I’d be back in my rightful place: the pasty white stressball in our trio. Granted, I had that title before they spent a week sipping margaritas on a Miami beach. Cammie’s ethnicity had blessed her with perfect dark skin and almond eyes that made my blond hair and blue eyes look bland. And Benta was from Spain; she looked like a tanned, dark-haired version of me until she opened her mouth and a ridiculously sexy accent flowed out.

“I know you aren’t welcoming us back glued to that phone.” Benta crawled into the backseat, her gloved hand unsuccessfully swiping for my cell.