By: Kendall Ryan

About the Book

Hard-core fucking.

It’s not what I really want, but it’s all he has to offer. He’s filled with turmoil and heartache and regrets, but for two hours every Wednesday all he feels is me. How much I desire him, how desperate he makes me, how much I’d like things to be different between us. Real.

He used to be my best friend back before he got married. And now? Now, he’s a young widower. It would be wrong on so many levels to expect something more from him, so I give him what he needs. Dark, delicious fucking.

But I know I can’t keep this up. I’ve already given him my body, my soul. I want him to have my heart. It might drive him away forever, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Wednesday is an angsty romp told from dual points of view. If you’re in the mood for something quick and dirty, you’ve found it. Proceed at your own risk.

Chapter One


The first time we fucked, I was actually ashamed to admit, was after his wife’s funeral. Her parents had hosted a luncheon at their home, fifty people comprised of various friends and relatives. Devastation had been written all over the faces of those who’d been close to her, while the distant relatives acted uncertain and aloof, nervously glancing at the floor and making small talk. Needless to say, it was a somber occasion and the mood reflected it.

I’d felt heavy, like I was moving underwater. A life lost so young—it all felt pointless. Mostly, though, my pain for him was what felt insurmountable. Shaw. Once upon a time, he’d been my everything.

He was standing in the corner talking to one of her great aunts, holding an empty glass that my brother had kept filled with whiskey all afternoon. I wanted to help—to do something, anything, to take that dark, stormy look out of his eyes—so I asked him if he wanted to get some air.

He took my proffered hand without a word, but instead of leading me outside like I expected—maybe to the front porch for a breath of the cool February air—he towed me upstairs. And straight into the bathroom. Without a word, he pulled my black cashmere sweater off over my head.

I stood there shocked for a few seconds. This was Shaw—my former best friend and secret lifelong crush. The man who once held my heart in the palm of his hand when I was young and foolish. And he had just been through the most traumatic event of his twenty-six years—losing his wife to a drunk driver. Yet here he was, singularly focused on getting me naked, and seemingly as quickly as possible.

He unhooked my bra and then his hot mouth descended, latching onto my nipple—sucking hard and pulling a cry from my lips despite my reservations. And even though I was twenty-five at the time, now twenty-six, I was new to this quick intimacy and raw, carnal desire. Sexual relations were always the result of the proper number of dates, and more out of obligation than desire.

My head was spinning as he unbuttoned the black dress pants I’d bought just for the occasion and placed me roughly on the countertop next to the sink. I should have asked him what he was doing, but honestly, questioning him never even entered my brain.

Then, before I could think, his mouth crashed into mine, hungry and demanding, and his fingers were in my panties. I’d groaned, palming his heavy erection through his slacks . . .

“Chloe?” My brother’s terse voice snapped me from my erotic daydream.

“Yeah?” I sounded breathless and my cheeks were flushed from that memory alone. Not just because of how crazy-good the sex was—I’d come three times around Shaw’s thick, powerful cock—but because the entire encounter had been laced with illicit undertones. It was forbidden and wrong on the most basic of levels. We could have been discovered at any moment, overheard by a nosy relative. But in that moment, we gave zero fucks.

Afterward, of course, guilt like I’d never experienced before slammed through me and kept me in bed for the next three days. I hadn’t known Samantha well, but that didn’t matter. I’d used Shaw in a vulnerable moment for my own pleasure. I’d gotten off on the whole thing, been totally out of my mind with wanton lust. What I’d done was wrong. And worse? I’d wanted to do it again.

“What the hell is with you?” Jason asked.

“What?” I tossed the laundered towels into a basket and hefted it up onto the counter.

“You’re as distracted and jumpy as a hooker at church. What’s up with you lately?”

“Nothing,” I lied.

Everything had changed over the course of a few short months. That somber day might have been how everything started with Shaw, but since then it had changed into something even darker.

“Well, I need your focus today. We have six groups checking in, and the McAlpherson party wants to charter a fishing boat this afternoon. You’ll have to call Shaw and see if he can take them out on such short notice.”

“Why can’t you?”

The thought of calling Shaw made my stomach hurt. That’s not how our interactions worked. I never asked questions—never demanded anything of him, in fact. Everything was on his terms. His schedule. His way. A chill ran through me.

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