Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3) Read online

  I suck in a breath as the tip of my finger grazes the slick, swollen nub at the top of my sex. Sensation, tight and hot, bolts through me. My finger strokes my clit again and again, circling, slow, insistent caresses that have my back arching off the fluffy expanse of my giant hotel bed. My apartment for the semester won’t be ready for another few days, so my parents put me up at this five-star spot in the meantime. It’s ridiculous, I know, but I wasn’t about to turn down two nights at Madrid’s ritziest hotel.

  I watch Rhys slide tackle a guy on TV, sweat pouring down his face as he rips off his shirt when the game ends. My eyes settle on Rhys’s bare chest and torso. He’s got a leanly chiseled body, broad shoulders that move into a sculpted chest and washboard abs, his smooth, tan skin slick with sweat. An athlete’s body. A trail of dark blond hair arrows down the flat plane of his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his shorts.

  Yum.

  Even in his anger he moves gracefully, forcefully, the muscles in his biceps bulging as he clasps his hands at the back of his head in defeat. Digging his teeth into his bottom lip, he yells something to no one in particular.

  Something that looks a lot like fuck.

  I almost come, the first stirrings of my orgasm slithering through my body, tightening the muscles in my legs.

  Fuck me, I plead.

  My eyes flutter shut and Rhys is there. Shirtless. Sweaty. Smirking his deadly smirk.

  With pleasure, love, he murmurs in his gorgeous Welsh accent.

  My orgasm hits me hard, a wave of potent, throbbing sensation.

  I smile. I’m getting there—I’m figuring it out, my sexuality, my likes. I’ve come more in the past few weeks than I have in the past few years combined.

  I’ve always had a boyfriend. I wouldn’t say I’m boy crazy, and I don’t intentionally seek out long-term relationships. But I dated a guy pretty much all through high school, and when we broke up my freshman year of college, I kinda fell into another relationship with the brooding music major down the hall. We split sophomore year. A week later, the cute dude I’d flirted with at a fraternity mixer showed up at my door, and a week after that, we were exclusive.

  I don’t regret dating any of those guys. Well—maybe I regret the music major, he was pretty douchey. But now that I’m single for the first time in, like, forever, I recognize how much of myself I sacrificed while I was in those relationships. I’m a bit of a people-pleaser, so whatever I thought my boyfriend at the time wanted, I made sure to give it to him. I put aside my own needs—orgasmic and otherwise—to make sure he was happy.

  My boyfriends never got me off like this. But delicious orgasms like the one I just had are, like, the best thing ever. Way better than fumbling my way through a hookup in a frat house.

  Speaking of orgasms, the one I just had was good. Really, really good.

  I close my eyes, let out a sigh of contentment.

  My semester of self-love and sexual awakening is off to an excellent start.

  ***

  After a post-orgasm nap and shower, I settle down on the bed and make a quick call to my bestie for the restie, Emily. She’s studying abroad, too, but she’ll be in London for a full year; her classes don’t start until late September, so she’s still at home in the states.

  While I wait for her to answer, I grab the hotel’s magazine on the bedside table. There’s a beautiful, curvy woman on the cover; I recognize her as Monica Cruz, Spain’s most famous plus-size model. She looks fabulous.

  “Why hello you world traveler,” Em says. “I miss you already. How is Madrid?”

  “I mean, I’ve only been here for a couple hours,” I say, flipping to Monica’s cover story. “But already I’ve had some awesome cheese at the airport and an orgasm, so I’d say Madrid is pretty great so far.”

  “An orgasm? Cheese? Holy shit, who are you? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you touch a piece of cheese, much less eat it.”

  I laugh. “It just felt like the right thing to do. New semester, new city, new me. Or something like that.”

  “I approve of this new you. I still can’t believe Mr. Frat Star never made you orgasm. I mean, you went an entire year without coming.”

  “And I mean to make up for lost time, believe me. I’m going to come twelve times a day, and eat so much cheese I develop a lactose intolerance.”

  I hear Em munching on something. I smile. She always eats when she’s on the phone, usually something bizarre and condiment-oriented—oyster crackers, cornichons, mustard on a spoon, an oyster-cracker-and-cornichon sandwich dipped in mustard on a spoon.

  “What about making a bucket list for your semester in Madrid?” she says around a mouthful of her condiment of the day. “You know, writing down all the things this ‘new you’ wants to do. Come, eat cheese, go to all the museums in Madrid or whatever. Could be a fun thing for your newly-single self to do. Maybe keep you away from the boys for a bit. It’s about time you started treating yourself better and getting healthy again.”

  I nod. Back at Meryton, my people-pleasing streak bled from boys to my body, too. Part of being the perfect girlfriend is—was, it was—being perfectly pretty. Which of course meant having the perfect body. I do not jest when I say I lost my entire sophomore year to the treadmill; I think I lived off hard-boiled eggs from the dining hall salad bar and iced coffee that year. It was not fun, and it definitely wasn’t healthy.

  I quickly scan the first couple paragraphs of the article on Monica Cruz. I can’t get over how happy she looks in these pictures, her smile wide, her eyes laughing. She’s healthy. Confident. Fearless.

  All things I want to be.

  Maybe I can be those things. Maybe I can be like Monica. Why not? This semester is all about fresh starts.

  “I like this bucket list idea, Em,” I say. “I like it a lot. I don’t know what else I want to do besides eat and come, but I’m sure I can think of a couple things.”

  “Awesome. Listen, I gotta run, Luke is calling me—”

  “Say hello to him for me,” I say. Luke is Emily’s longtime boyfriend; they met at freshman orientation and have been inseparable ever since. Even if he is a little full of himself—his dad is a senator, and Luke is confident he’ll follow in his footsteps—I like him, mostly because he seems to make Em so happy. They have plans to take the world by storm after we graduate: Luke is going to run for office, and Em is going to be his economic policy advisor. I mean, how cool is that?

  “Of course,” Em says. “But I’m glad you got to Spain safely and that you’re doing you, literally and figuratively. Keep it up. And call me! Love you.”

  She makes a kissing sound. In my head I can see the crumbs that always stick to the screen of her phone when she does this. A wave of homesickness washes over me.

  “Love you too, Em.”

  I head down to the hotel bar for a bite to eat. Our program warned us Madrileños like to eat late, but I’m still surprised to find the bar empty at a quarter til eight.

  The bar itself is swanky to the max. Dark lacquered furniture is scattered around the high-ceilinged space, and the walls are covered in antiqued mirrors that blur my reflection into a sexed-up version of my jet-lagged self. I feel seriously underdressed in jeans and a white top, but I’m too hungry to care.

  The bartender politely pretends not to judge me for ordering a Midori sour. My mom, a bourbon drinker, says Midori sours are “stupid cocktails stupid teenage girls order with fake IDs”, but my Auntie Janice and I respectfully disagree. It’s the first drink I’ve (legally) ordered; the drinking age in Spain is eighteen, which is fine by me as I turned twenty last February.

  Glancing at the menu, I order what I think is some sort of ham sandwich. My Spanish is a little rusty, but I’m proud of myself for not taking up the bartender on his offer to speak English with me.

  “No gracias,” I tell him. No thanks. I’d like to practice my Spanish.

  He grins. “Vale,” he says, which he then explains is Spain’s awesome mash up of �
�cool/okay/yes/let’s do it”.

  “Vale,” I reply, grinning back.

  Maybe, in addition to coming and cheese, I should make it a point to learn to speak Spanish fluently this semester.

  Sipping on my Midori sour—I know it’s not cool but yikes is it good—I start to think about all the fun things I want to do while I’m here. I’m going to try octopus and maybe ride a moped and of course I want to learn flamenco guitar and I’d really like to do some community service (maybe with kids?) and I am going to masturbate twice a day to Rhys Maddox…

  A list. Em was so right. I need to make a list—a bucket list, if you will—of Fun Things I Shall Do While in Spain.

  A spark of excitement catches in my chest. I grab a cocktail napkin from the bar and dig a pen out of my tote bag. Holding the corners of the napkin between my thumb and pinkie, I begin to write.

  MY SPAIN BUCKET LIST

  Orgasms. Keep having them. Keep exploring what I like sexually.

  Go see Rhys Maddox play in real life.

  Learn to speak Spanish fluently.

  Eat carbs, cheese, and weird things like octopus.

  Buy jeans in a bigger size without wanting to die.

  I turn the napkin over.

  Community service—tutor kids? Do literacy work?

  Tour of Madrid on a moped (preferably a pink one).

  Go see flamenco guitarist/learn how to play?

  I stare at that last bullet point for a while as I slurp the last of my cocktail. There are a million other things I want to do, I just can’t think of them at the moment.

  Another Midori sour will probably help. So will getting my food. I’m starving. It’s been a while since I ordered—I wonder if service is usually so slow in Spain?

  Setting my glass on the bar, I look up in the hopes of waving down the bartender. I jump when I see a guy standing next to me; I’m so startled I knock my pen to the floor. He must’ve sidled up when I was lost in thought writing.

  “Pardon me,” he says, ducking to grab the pen. His British accent is crisp, cut-glass. It sends a shiver down my spine.

  He stands, holding out the pen, and meets my eyes. His are blue, a shocking, urgent foil to his deeply tanned skin.

  “Here you are,” he says.

  My stomach drops to the floor with a squish. A starry rush fills my head.

  I know those eyes.

  I know that face. I also know the tattoos that peek through his starched white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck.

  Oh God.

  Oh God.

  Ohmigod ohmigod I am going to scream don’t scream don’t pee yourself play it cool ohmigod this can’t be happening don’t pee please don’t pee you are in public ohmigod.

  It’s the real Rhys Maddox. And in the space of three heartbeats I am more turned on by him than I ever was by his fantasy counterpart.

  Chapter 3

  Laura

  It’s like something out of a dream. I reach out in slow motion and take the pen from his hand, my heart hammering inside my throat. This can’t be happening. My first night in Madrid and I run into the super hot footballer I’ve been crushing on all summer?

  I mean, what are the chances?

  “Thanks,” I breathe. He smells delicious. The musky, clean scent of his cologne fills my head, surrounds me. A familiar heat tugs at the place between my legs. Whatever cologne he’s wearing, I want to swim in it.

  “Sorry to startle you,” he says.

  “It’s all right,” I say, my face burning.

  A beat of silence passes between us as his eyes search mine. I’d like to think the silence is heated, filled with sudden, passionate longing, but I know that’s just wishful thinking on my part. I’ve been getting off on this guy for a couple months—back home, I started watching Madrid matches after I was accepted to this study abroad program—so of course my brain is going to short-circuit to all things sex when I see him in real life.

  But those baby blues…goodness they slay me. Their translucent color is warm, liquid, less slate blue than warm-Caribbean-sea cerulean. They seem to glow in the low light of the bar.

  My face is so hot I’m worried I might faint. Thankfully the bartender appears; Rhys clears his throat and turns to him.

  While they chat, I check Rhys out from the corner of my eye. He runs a hand through his thick, dark blond hair. Tonight he’s wearing it loose, and it falls with Prince Charming-like elegance away from his face, grazing the top of his collar. His jaw and neck are covered in golden-hued stubble; his profile is strong, handsome, marked by a boyish, pert nose and invitingly full lips. I watch his lips move as he talks, transfixed by their softness, bowled over by the curiosity to know what he tastes like, how he kisses, if he’s as good with those lips as he is in my fantasies.

  As if his face weren’t gorgeous enough, he’s dressed to the nines. Nothing fancy—jeans, white button down, navy blazer, sneakers—but the way he wears it all makes for a devastatingly perfect whole. The jeans hug his thick, muscled thighs in just the right places. His shirt and blazer fit him so well, so snugly, they must be custom made. His woven red belt matches his pristine kicks, making him appear at once casual and sexily slick. A monogrammed Louis Vuitton roller suitcase is drawn up beside him.

  And don’t even get me started on the tattoos. I can only see them when he moves just so, peeking from underneath the sleeve of his blazer or the collar of shirt. A hint of script there, the bottom half of a star here. There’s something tantalizing about only getting a glimpse of his tats. Like, even though I’ve seen him shirtless and I know what they look like, I’m turned on by the tease.

  I also can’t help but think his tattoos are somehow incongruous with his polished, almost preppy outfit. The tats say bad boy, but the custom blazer says well-to-do businessman who also happens to be super hot.

  So which one is Rhys—the bad boy or the businessman? Is he both? Neither?

  I really, really want to find out the answer. Which is ridiculous, because—hello!—he is Rhys Maddox and I am an American nobody.

  I’ll just have to settle for a little after dinner sesh with fantasy Rhys. Not a bad gig, considering he makes me come, hard, every time I ask him to. I should actually thank real Rhys for providing such excellent inspiration for hours upon hours of orgasms.

  Rhys orders a porterhouse steak I don’t remember being on the menu to go, and vodka on the rocks to sip on while he waits. No well liquor for this guy—he asks for Belvedere.

  I watch him reach for his back pocket, pulling out a wallet that matches his suitcase.

  I should thank real Rhys.

  My pulse thumps, and the idea appears, fully formed and insistent, inside my head. I shouldn’t—I mean, yeah, this is my chance, I’ll never see him again, but it’d be weird, wouldn’t it?—I can’t just come out and say—

  “I got it,” I blurt, reaching around my chair for my bag.

  Their gazes—Rhys’s and the bartender’s—snap to my face.

  “I’m sorry?” Rhys says.

  “Your drink.” I pop open my wallet and dig out my debit card. “Your dinner, too. Everything. All of it. I want to pay for all of it.”

  I’m about to pass the bartender my card when Rhys holds up his hand.

  “That’s kind of you, but I can’t let you do that.”

  I manage to wiggle around him, placing my card in the bartender’s hand.

  “Too late,” I say. “Let me buy you a drink.”

  “For what?” he replies. “Winning? Because we didn’t win today. I was complete shit out there, as a matter of fact.”

  His accent dips, softens, when he says shit. It comes out sounding more like shite. My heart skips a beat.

  I like it.

  “No,” I say, swallowing. “Not for winning.”

  He looks at me, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he narrows them. Good God he’s gorgeous. “Are you a football fan?”

  “Not particularly.” My face is going up in flames again. I turn to the bart
ender. “Another drink for me, too, please,” I say. Eff, I forgot to use my Spanish.

  “Then why do you insist on treating me?”

  I watch the bartender scoop ice into a short, wide glass. “Because.” Because I want to thank you for all the orgasms. “Um. It’s a way of thanking you, I guess?”

  “Thanking me?” he says. He nods his thanks at the bartender as he grabs his vodka rocks. “For what?”

  He’s looking at me, I feel it. I resist the urge to pick up my bucket list napkin and fan myself with it.

  The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  “For the good times,” I say.

  My eyes flick to his. Oh, he’s definitely looking at me. But his eyes have changed. I could be imagining it—who am I kidding, I’m definitely imagining it—but they’re alive in a way they weren’t two minutes ago, the blue shaded with a spark of something warm. Interest, maybe? Amusement?

  His perfectly kissable lips part, like he’s about to say something. But our food arrives, and suddenly we’re surrounded by a phalanx of waiters. His dinner is ready at the same time mine is, naturally, even though I ordered mine half an hour before.

  I pick at the french fries on my plate and watch the waiters fawn over Rhys. Would you like us to have this sent up to your room?, one of them asks, pointing to the tidy boxes of food on the bar. I’ll have all our sauces sent up as well, another adds, snapping at a busboy.

  “Actually,” Rhys says. He sets his wallet on the counter pulls out the bar stool next to mine. “I think I’d like to eat here, if that’s all right?”

  I almost choke on a fry. Uneasy silence settles over the bar, and it hits me that Rhys is waiting for my response—not the waiters’.

  “Um,” I say. “Sure. Yeah. Yes, of course.”

  “Brilliant.” Rhys sets his glass on the bar. His elbow brushes mine as he places a napkin on his lap. I think I’m going to have a heart attack. “But first, an Instagram.”