Page 462 of Not Over You

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

CAUTION : Panties may spontaneously combust upon reading!! The smut in this book is fire.

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(Please note, the author is not responsible for replacement of destroyed undergarments, dead batteries, or new toys. Sorry, not sorry. <3)

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*There are elements of BDSM play in this story, including but not limited to : sensation, impact, and breath play. Dante is not your average Joe. He likes to inflict and receive pain and pleasure in equal measures. BUT clear boundaries are set ahead of time and everything is always 100% consensual—even when it seems like it’s not.

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Recommended for readers 18+.

“I heard through the grapevine, aka Baxter, the office blabbermouth, that Nicolette is dating Johnny. My Johnny. Can you believe it? We’ve only been broken up for what, a month, and that witch already has her claws in him? No respect for girl code. At. All.” Harper waves her arm wildly through the air, barely missing her blond curls as she makes some angry hand gesture that I doubt any of us understand. The wicker seat she’s precariously sitting in creaks as she sways.

With about as much finesse as a bull in a china shop, she pours herself another shot, spilling precious drops onto the already sticky table top. “Down the hatch another goes, when I’ll forget him nobody knows,” she slurs, throwing her head back to guzzle the clear liquor. A satisfied ahhh passes through her slanted lips and she slams the empty shot glass down.

Using the back of her hand, she wipes away the liquid dribbling down her chin, and effectively smears her red lipstick even more. Harper’s oafish mannerisms are at odds with the poised and collected girl I know and love—though not entirely surprising given the amount of alcohol coursing through her system. I can’t help the smile that slashes across my face. A comfortable booth, good food and great company. I love spending time with my babes. They’re the best bitches a girl could ever ask for.

“Harper, you need to slow down on the shots, you’re going to make yourself sick,” Lucy chides, narrowing her emerald eyes—ever the mother hen of our group.

Our intoxicated bestie belches in response and slaps a hand over her mouth, giggling. Lucy scrunches up her pert nose, a sour expression twists her dainty features like there’s an open carton of curdled milk nearby. She nudges the bread basket and a glass of ice water towards Harper, who of course ignores it.

“Harper, take a sip of your water or eat something to soak up the alcohol, please.” Lucy’s tone is firm, but not unkind.

Jesse, who’s undoubtedly drinking us under the table, grabs a slice of sourdough and shoves it in Harper’s face. “Eat this before Luce has a heart attack.”

Lucy tsks her, but it’s not hard to miss the uptick in one corner of her lips as Harper chows down on the bread, humming happily. Now that our resident mother hen isn’t as worried about her drunk bestie, she focuses her effort back on cleaning the immovable specks of dirt on the table in front of her. God, her fingers must be numb from the sheer amount of passes she’s done with that crumpled napkin in her hand.

“Who cares what Nicollete and Johnny are doing, just be happy he isn’t doing you anymore.” Jesse shudders and pauses the circles she’s drawing around the rim of her tumbler to point at each of us. “Bad sex is one hundred percent a real reason to kick your partner to the curb. Don’t ever forget that!” She swallows down a few fingers of whiskey, her sleek black braid brushing her seat with the tilt of her head. She pins us with a satisfied smile and we all gape at her—well, minus Harper who’s off in her own world, mesmerized by the neon sign near the entrance that says This must be the place.

I love alcohol as much as the next person, but it’s like Jesse thinks she has to live up to her namesake—Jesse James. She doesn’t, but damn if she doesn’t try. Even her clothing—currently a forest green leather motto jacket with matching lace up Doc Martens—exudes badassery, and I absolutely love it.

The light summer dress I’m wearing shifts against my thighs as I reach for a slice of bread. I blow a stray curl out of my face and dip the bread into balsamic vinegar, reveling in the rich tart flavor. Fuck, I love this shit.

“It’s just not fair. I gave Johnny three years of my life. Do you know how long that is?” Harper asks, bringing me back into the conversation.

“Three years,” Jesse quips, a smug grin splitting her face in half.

“No, well, yes. But like it’s so much longer because you know, we’re young and to be tied down at this age is a big thing. Like a really really big thing. I should’ve been partying it up in my early twenties, not staying home with him and his limp … member.”

“Oh my god, you still can’t say dick?” Scarlett teases, cackling like a damn witch when Harper flushes a deep red, frowning at us.

“Or cock?” Jesse puts in, waggling her brows.

I grin, twirling a loose red lock around my finger. “Penis, pecker, ding-a-ling, knob, johns—”

“Shut up,” Lucy hisses, at the same time Harper drops her head onto the table with a thud.

“How am I ever going to find a guy if I can’t even say … those words? I’m such a loser, aren’t I? The nerdy girl who works in tech—forever to be single, never to be mingle.” Harper’s words are muffled by the table, but the sniffle and hiccup she produces isn’t.

Oh god, she’s going to cry.

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