Cosmo’s Sexiest Stories Ever

Three Naughty Tales

From the Editors of Cosmopolitan

Contents

Sex Under the Stars by Jane Green

Birthday Sex She’ll Never Forget by Jennifer Weiner

Falling in Lust at the Jersey Shore by Meg Cabot

Sex Under the Stars

by Jane Green

Maggie’s marriage fell apart three years ago—the guy was a dud. And the sex? Snooze. Plus, she couldn’t stop fantasizing about Aidan, her ex-hubby’s smoke show of a best friend. Even three years later, she’s still carrying a torch for him. When Aidan shows up on her doorstep out of the blue, looking all Gerard Butler–disheveled and irresistible, she’s never been so happy to be single....

Ringing Her Bell

The buzzer keeps ringing, but I refuse to go downstairs. Tonight is meant to be a lazy evening when I do nothing but hang out in my robe, slather on a mud mask, shove my face full of chocolate, and watch The Real Housewives.

After another series of buzzes, I go to the window. “Go away! I’m sick!” I yell, slamming it shut.

Bzzzzzzzz...

That’s it. I’ve had enough. I stomp downstairs and fling open the door to see a familiar face. Tanned from months in the sun, jeans loose, backpack slung over his shoulder. His hair messy, his smile exactly the same.

My hands fly up to my green cheeks, and I yelp in horror, running back up the stairs. “Wait!” I hear him call, laughing, behind me. “Can I come up?”

I don’t answer. I lock myself in the bathroom to scrub my face.

The last time he saw me, I was walking down the aisle on my way to marry the wrong man. I knew I was making a mistake, but it was too late. That I wasn’t in love with Josh seemed like a minor obstacle. Love will grow, I told myself. I will make it work.

That I was already in love with his roommate, Aidan, seemed irrelevant. Aidan would never go out with me. Wherever he went, women swooned. Models, actresses, gorgeous girls next-door. Even though I’m what the Jersey Shore guys would call a dime (translation: hot), it didn’t seem like Aidan could ever focus on one woman, no matter how amazing she was. Josh was my consolation prize. He wooed me, and I fell in love with being wooed.

When he proposed, after six weeks, I ignored the small voice that told me it was a mistake. I wanted to be in love; I wanted to get married; I wanted a wedding! I was so swept away in the excitement of planning the ceremony and reception, I never thought about life after the celebration.

Back from our honeymoon, we stopped going out. He barely spoke to me, and sex was so boring that I would fake orgasms just to get it over with. I wanted to leave, but I had made a commitment, and I knew I had to stay.

Hotter Than Ever

Locked in the bathroom, I stare at my reflection, pull my hair into a ballerina bun, and rub blush on my cheeks before going downstairs.

Please let me look even the tiniest bit like Natalie Portman in Black Swan.

Aidan looks up from where he is sitting on the sofa, with his casual smile. I catch my breath.

It’s been three years, during which I’d thought, Out of sight, out of mind, relieved that he wasn’t around to remind me I’d settled for second-best.

But if I thought distance had negated my feelings, the way my heart beats faster tells me I was mistaken.

“Where’s Josh?” Aidan asks, and I realize he hasn’t noticed that the apartment has been divested of all its Joshness: the movie posters, the 55-inch flat-screen TV, the brown leather sofa from his first apartment. All gone.

“He left me.” I make a face, attempting levity, even though it wasn’t funny.

“He...what?” Aidan is shocked, but not as shocked as I was.

Even more quickly than Josh fell in love with me, he fell in love with someone else: He proposed to her within three weeks. Apparently, he also forgot that he was already married.

I tell Aidan all this but don’t dwell on it. Instead, I focus on him, asking about his life. He tells me about working on boats in Saint Maarten, adventures he’s had, his voice lilting with endless tales of drunken parties and wild nights.

I smile, nod, and murmur encouragingly, but after a while, I notice I have drifted away. I’m watching his hands, his strong, tanned, long fingers.

How I always loved his hands.

I suddenly realize that he has stopped talking, and for a second longer than is comfortable, we stare at each other. I look away as a shiver of lust flickers between my thighs—something I haven’t felt in years. I cross my legs, flushed.

Aidan sits forward, watching me. “Want to see my boat?” he asks. “I hired a slip at the marina for the weekend. An old whaler. We could take her out.”

“Tonight? But it’ll be pitch-black soon. Isn’t that dangerous?”

He shakes his head and laughs, and I think to myself, Why not? I am divorced. Not dead.

Rocking the Boat (Wink)

An hour later, we’re coasting down the river; as water laps against the boat, we watch the sky fade from a fiery pinkish orange to the inky dark of night.

“I never thought you and Josh were right together,” Aidan says, his voice soft. We are sitting on a bench, Aidan steering as we both sip cold beer.

“You could have said something before we got married!” I attempt a joke. It’s gotten dark so quickly that I can barely make out his face.

“I didn’t trust myself,” he says.

Now that I’m finally hearing what I wished he would’ve said years ago, I’m too overwhelmed to speak.

We fall into an easy silence.

The bare skin of his leg touches mine, and the warmth sweeps up.

I can focus only on the electricity coursing through me, and I’m certain I am not imagining this connection.

My breath is short. I cannot look at him, although there is nothing to see other than the sparkle of a million stars. And in the darkness, I am suddenly aware of his fingers brushing over my thigh—slow and tentative.

I inhale sharply, and for a second, he freezes before moving farther up my leg as a moan escapes my lips.

The sound of a key. Click. The engine dies. We’re in the middle of the river, the boat rocking in blackness, his hands caressing under my shorts, gently stroking the fabric of my panties. I sink down and open my legs to welcome him.

Waves of Pleasure

His fingers fill me up and stroke me, and I am dissolving in wetness. His tongue is in my mouth, and the only sound is our breathing, our gasping. I reach down and run a hand between his legs, feeling the length and strength of him through his jeans, and he lets out a guttural moan.

Our tongues swirling, I unzip him and feel him sit back on the bench as I move down, set him free, and stroke him softly, before swiping my tongue over the head of his penis. Then I take him in my mouth, moving up and down, sliding my hand to cup and squeeze his balls as he groans.

I can feel that I am driving him to the brink, but in a flash, he gains control of himself and begs me to stop or he’ll let go too soon. Gently, his hands guide me up, and then he turns my body and lays me on the floor.

Aidan practically tears off my tee shirt and roughly pulls my bra aside. He tongues my nipples and makes his way down between my legs. Soon, I am the one gasping, and sparks of lust are shooting through my body. I am melting into his mouth, and I feel, at the edge of my consciousness, a wave that is threatening to build, threatening to wash over me. But right before it’s too late, he stops.

When he speaks, his face is above mine. “Are you ready?”

He moves away for a second, and I hear the sound of a condom wrapper tearing. A minute later, he pushes inside me, whispering my name as I sigh with pleasure. We move together, tongues intertwined, and he lifts himself up, thrusting harder and faster. The wave is back; this time, as it builds, I let go.

It washes into me, over me, through me, bursting as it lifts me up into the night sky. My voice, unrecognizable, whimpers from far away, and every nerve is alight as I come back to earth, Aidan above me.

I gaze at the sky over his shoulder, glad for his weight; otherwise, how could I believe this really happened?

Happy Endings

The shower door creaks, water patters down, and a shampoo bottle clatters to the floor. Then a muffled curse.

I lie in bed, listening, smiling to myself as I replay every minute of this perfect night, careful not to think about the future. Not this time.

Years ago, I wasted months dreaming about Aidan, praying he would notice me, hoping he would wake up one day and realize I was the woman for him. That was when I still believed in a perfect romance, when I still believed fairy tales could come true. That was before I was married, before my husband, who never deserved me in the first place, decided to leave.

Aidan is leaving too. In three days, he goes to the Bahamas. For a year or two. Or three.

I should be devastated, but sprawled on my bed as the sun filters through the blinds, I am overflowing with happiness.

This isn’t about Aidan. This is about me.

Since my marriage, I’d reached the resigned conclusion that I was just not a sexual being. I believed the orgasms I once had, before meeting Josh, were a stroke of luck.

I thought attraction, lust, and waves of desire were a factor of youth, that once you hit 25—and I have no idea why I decided on that number, other than that it was the age I married Josh—that desire would disappear.

I thought what happened to me happened to everyone: Sex becomes, as it was with Josh, dull, routine, inescapable. I thought I would never again feel the intense pleasure of every nerve in my body quivering with anticipation.

Last night, Aidan gave me the most precious gift of all: myself. He woke me from a deep sleep. I’d forgotten how wonderful it is to feel fully alive.

When he leaves, I will let him go with love. I won’t waste time waiting for him to come back. The gift he has given me is enough—enough that I know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that we must truly seize each moment and live with purpose, and passion, and joy.

About Jane Green

Jane Green is the chick-lit master, having penned 12 best sellers. Cosmo faves include Jemima J, Mr. Maybe, and her most recent, Promises to Keep. Check out Jane’s Steamy Beach Read picks at cosmopolitan.com.

Birthday Sex She’ll Never Forget

by Jennifer Weiner

Daphne’s turning 26, and instead of going out with her friends, she’s stuck at a wedding. Thankfully, she runs into a hot guy from her past...and they get reacquainted. And by get reacquainted, we mean tear each other’s clothes off, and make damn good use of that hotel suite.

I stood at the edge of a tent with my rain boots sunk in mud, listening to raindrops plink down on the roof of the tent, thinking that this was not how I wanted to spend the weekend of my 26th birthday. Ideally, I’d be back in Manhattan, making plans with friends. Instead, I was in the New Jersey suburb where I’d grown up, on the lawn of a fancy hotel, attending the wedding of my cousin Matt, a 40-year-old personal trainer with a ponytail and an attitude, to a 25-year-old who said she was an energy healer and claimed her name was Sunshine.

“You know I met your father at a wedding,” my mom reminded me that morning in the hotel room they’d gotten for the day, a place for my brothers and me to get dressed and for my parents to sleep if they opted not to drive home after the party.

“I know,” I said, turning so she could zip up my dark blue satin dress. I’d heard the story dozens of times—how she’d been a friend of the bride and he’d been the best man, how their eyes had met while the happy couple were saying their vows, how they’d danced until the band went home and talked until the sun came up, how they’d eloped eight weeks later. It was romantic. It was also, as far as I was concerned, impossible. These days, if you met a guy at a wedding, you’d sneak into the bathroom to look him up on Facebook and check him out on Twitter, and you’d probably have already seen pictures of his three most recent girlfriends by the time he’d crossed the dance floor with your first drink. There was no such thing as handsome strangers, only handsome men you hadn’t Googled yet.

I was reaching into my clutch for my cell when I felt someone tap my shoulder from behind.

“Excuse me, Daphne?”

I turned and felt my breath catch. The shoulder tapper was gorgeous, with thick black hair swept back from his high forehead and big, solid shoulders. He had strong features, a square chin with an adorable cleft in its center, and he was smiling at me, eyes crinkled in the corners.

Blast From the Past

“You don’t remember me?” he asked.

“Should I?”

“High school. We were in English class together for four years. You really don’t remember?”

I shook my head, groping desperately for a name, regretting the tequila shot I’d snuck while my parents and brothers waited in the receiving line.

“Caleb Armstrong.”

“No way.” I stared, trying to connect the good-looking, broad-shouldered man in front of me with the pale, goofy, bespectacled kid from English class who would memorize David Letterman’s monologue every night so he could recite it to our class the next morning.

Caleb shrugged. “What can I say? I was a late bloomer.”

“You look incredible!”

He was at least six inches taller and 50 pounds heavier than he’d been in school, with an air of confidence that he hadn’t come close to projecting back then. “You look good yourself.”

I shifted my weight, tugging at the top of my strapless gown, hoping that I, too, had improved since high school, where my look had featured a distractingly orange fake tan, high-waisted jeans, and belly shirts (in my defense, Jennifer Aniston had rocked all the above). In the past 10 years, I’d gotten more comfortable in my non-orange skin, realizing that my wide-set hazel eyes and shiny brown hair were assets, especially if I didn’t wear a pound of black eyeliner. A half dozen boyfriends, a little more confidence, rock climbing for my shoulders and Spinning classes for my butt, and I was looking better at 26 than I had at 16.

I sipped my wine to buy a little time. “Bride or groom?” I asked Caleb.

“Actually, I’m here on business.”

“What do you do?”

His eyes sparkled. “What do you think?”

“You write for David Letterman.”

“Close.”

“You’re a spy.”

He threw back his head and laughed, and finally, I was able to connect the dots back to high school. When he laughed, he sounded the same. “No. I sell television advertising.” He looked me over, not even trying to hide it. Over his shoulder, I could see my brothers approaching.

On impulse, I grabbed Caleb’s arm. “Hey, you want to get out of here and go somewhere quiet?”

He looked surprised but said “sure” and followed me.

Screw the Reception

In the lobby, every chair was taken, occupied by elderly wedding guests who’d come in out of the rain. The bar was crammed three deep. I hesitated only a moment before leading him to the lobby and pulling the key card for my parents’ room out of my purse.

It felt reckless, but I had known him, once...and it was my birthday. I deserved a treat. I unlocked the door and led him into the room.

“So...,” he said and let his voice trail off. He was looking at me like he’d already seen me without my dress...and like he loved what he saw.

I could have taken the chair in the corner and made small talk about high school. I could have sat at the desk and asked about his grown-up life. But on my birthday, I didn’t want to do either of those things. What I wanted was a present, an unexpected gift.

So instead of sitting on the chair, I lay down on the bed, lifted my arms, and slid the pins out of my hair. The wine I’d been sipping all afternoon had made me loose-limbed and lazy. I’d taken off my rain boots as soon as I’d stepped in the door, and my bare feet were curled up underneath me.

“Come here,” I said, patting the blanket. “Unzip me.”

He sat behind me on the bed and slid my zipper down. The halves of the dress parted, and I felt his lips on the back of my neck, his hands piling my hair on top of my head so he could kiss me just beneath my ear, then my cheek and then, finally, turning me around to face him, my lips.

Naughty Reunion

Caleb moved down my body. When he closed his warm mouth around my right nipple, I leaned my head against his chest, sighing. I didn’t resist as he eased me onto my back, sliding the dress down over my hips until I was naked except for my thong.

I opened my eyes a slit. He was on his knees, face flushed, hair messy, still fully dressed, but I could see his erection pressing against his pants. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, Daphne.” Then he practically dove on me.

First, his lips were against my neck, then sucking hard at one breast, then the other. His hands gripped my thigh, and his feet prodded at my own, spreading my legs insistently. He took his time, easing his body down on mine, placing lingering kisses along my neck and chest, pausing to suck at my earlobe. “You’re gorgeous.”

I ran my hands across his broad shoulders, down his back, cupping the tight curves of his ass. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He kissed his way down my belly, parted my thighs, and gently, slowly slipped his fingers into my folds until the tip of his index finger was right where I needed it to be. I gasped, lifting my hips. His lips curved against me in a grin as he moved his fingertip back and forth. When I felt his tongue where his finger had been, I groaned. It was so sweet, so good, his tongue trilling against me, fingers working in and out at precisely the pace my body required. How did he know? I heard myself sighing, chanting, over and over, “Oh, god, don’t stop. Oh, god, don’t stop....”

He didn’t. I felt the shuddering start in the depths of my belly and spread to my thighs, which clenched tight against him. My hips rose off the bed, pumping hard into the air. It went on and on, my body contracting against his fingers, his tongue working against me...and then, almost before I knew what was happening, he turned me over, pulled at my hips until I was balanced on all fours, and slid the length of his member against my hot and pulsing center.

I was still somehow collected enough to gasp, over my shoulder, “Wait...Caleb, are you....”

“Oh. Hang on.” Leaning back on his knees, he pulled a condom out of his pants pocket and rolled it on. “Push back against me,” he breathed, setting the sheathed tip at my entrance again. I pushed, and he slid inside me, both of us gasping...and then, with one hand on my hip and one hand on my shoulder, he began to move, pulling me back against him, filling every inch of me. I’d had plenty of sex, but it had never been like this—I’d never felt so good, so perfectly matched, and so perfectly filled. We kept moving together, the sensation and pleasure building and building, until at last Caleb shuddered, holding still a moment before collapsing on my back, driving me down.

A Sweet Surprise

He kissed my ear and whispered, “I have a confession.”

Oh, god. I felt my heart contract. “What? Are you married?”

He laughed. “No. And it’s not a bad confession. You might like it.”

“You better just tell me.”

“Well, I’m not here on business.”

I rolled away. “Let me guess. You don’t have a job. You live at home.”

Again, he laughed. I kept talking. “You’re in such good shape because in prison there was nothing to do but pump iron. And you’re going to kill me and use my skin to make a girl suit.”

He chuckled some more. “Paranoid much? No, I don’t live at home, and I’ve never been in jail. I was here because I knew you’d be here. My mom ran into your mom at the grocery store, and she mentioned that your cousin was getting married here. My mom knew I’d always liked you.”

My head was spinning. “Wait. What? You liked me?”

He turned me to face him. “I had a crush on you. You never noticed?”

I shook my head. I’d had a boyfriend my junior and senior years and hadn’t really noticed Caleb. But now....

“Your mom told my mom you’re single,” he said, nuzzling my neck.

“My mom’s got a big mouth.”

“But she’s right?” I heard the question in his voice, the teenage quaver, and I smiled, holding my arms open until his naked body was pressed against mine. “Happy birthday,” he said, and I kissed him until he stopped talking.

About Jennifer Weiner

Jennifer Weiner is the author of nine novels, including Good in Bed and In Her Shoes, which was made into a movie starring Cameron Diaz. Weiner’s latest, Then Came You, came out July 12. Check out our Q&A with Jennifer at cosmopolitan.com

Falling in Lust at the Jersey Shore

by Meg Cabot

Gemma needs a distraction from her heartbreak, so she heads to the Jersey Shore. She assumes every dude there will be a gorilla juicehead. Instead, she ends up meeting the hottest guy she’s ever laid her eyes—and hands—on.

I stared at the doormat in front of the beach house. No Shoes? No Shirt? No Problem! was written across it in bright yellow letters. Every part of me wanted to turn and run back down the steps to the taxi that had just left me there. Unfortunately, it had already sped away.

When Rich, my boyfriend of six months, dropped the bomb that he wanted to “take a break for the summer,” I was devastated. Not just because I cared about him, but also because I didn’t see it coming. Rich and I worked at a deadly dull marketing company in midtown Manhattan. Being together was the only thing that made the job fun. As far as I could tell, things were A-OK between us. But then, out of nowhere, Rich told me he wasn’t sure he wanted to be in a relationship. I should have told him to shove it, but I didn’t want to seem like a bitch, so I said okay.

“Could anything suck more than trying to take a break from someone who works two doors down from you?” I told my friend Jen, who also worked in the same company, though in a different department on a different floor.

“Well, if you have to see his face Monday through Friday, Gemma, you can at least get as far away as possible every weekend,” she told me.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Why don’t you go in on the share I’m organizing at the Jersey Shore with me and a couple of other people from the company? You might know one of them. Tom—”

“I don’t know Tom,” I said, cutting her off. “But I do know MTV. No offense, but spending my summer with a bunch of Snooki wannabes is not exactly going to ease my pain.”

“Gemma, if Rich is taking a break, you should too. Use this time to cut loose, have fun, and get him off your mind somehow. So what do you say...Jersey Shore?”

After I unlocked the door and stepped inside the house, I put down my bags and looked around. The place was not quite as nice as it looked in the photos online. But I wasn’t buying the place, just renting a part of it. I was the first to arrive, since I’d made up an excuse and left work early to beat the traffic. So I was surprised when I saw a guy standing outside on our deck, in our pool. He was one of the most beautiful men I’d ever seen, and he was wearing only a very snug-fitting pair of board shorts—the kind that left nothing to the imagination. Particularly his, er, bone structure.

The afternoon sun glinted off his tanned shoulders as he scoured the sides of the shallow end with a scrub brush, his dark hair falling over his eyes. He looked up as I walked outside.

He must be from the rental agency, I figured, and had come by to make sure everything was clean before the tenants moved in.

“Hey,” he said, lowering his aviators to reveal a set of criminally blue eyes.

“Hey,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. Guys with dark hair and light eyes are my ultimate weakness. “I’m Gemma.”

“I’m—damn it.” He had climbed out of the pool to shake my hand and, in doing so, accidentally kicked over a bottle of bleach, spilling it onto the deck. “I’d better get a hose to rinse this off. But let’s go for a swim after. It’s hot as hell out here.”

At the thought of sliding into the cool water with this half-naked Adonis, I felt my face grow red. “Oh, no, it’s okay. I don’t have my suit on.”

“So change,” he said with a naughty smile.

“Um, okay, maybe. Let me just settle in.” I fled into the house, lugging my bags to the first bedroom at the top of the stairs. While I changed from my clothes into my bikini, I checked my cell. Rich hadn’t called. Stop thinking about him, Gemma! But it was hard not to. Before I could mope over it any longer, I heard my name.

“Gemma?” The pool guy was calling to me at the foot of the stairs! “You coming or what?”

Oh well, I thought, what do I have to lose?

“You get lost up there?” he asked. Somehow, two beers had magically appeared in his hands since I’d last seen him. He was sipping one; the other he had clearly wrangled from somewhere for me. Even though his sunglasses were back on, I didn’t need to see his eyes to know he approved of my change of clothing.

“No, I just had e-mails to send for work,” I lied. I climbed down the first two pool steps so I was submerged up to my knees.

“That’s the worst,” he told me. “I feel like I can never unplug from work, either.”

I nodded sympathetically. “I guess the show really has meant big business for the rental industry here.”

He gave me an odd look before saying, “Yeah, I guess it has.”

I waded all the way into the water before taking a long, refreshing swig from the beer he’d handed me. “This feels amazing.”

“So, you approve of the Jersey Shore so far?” he asked, joining me in the water.

“It’s actually not as bad as I thought it would be.” As soon as I said it, I wanted to kick myself. This is his home, Gemma! “I mean, it’s just that the show portrays it so differently, but it’s actually really beautiful.”

“I’ve never seen the show, so I wouldn’t know,” he told me.

In an attempt to remove my foot from my mouth, I said, “Well, you seem a lot sweeter than some of the guys on that show, so that helps.”

He met my gaze, smiled. “You seem pretty sweet yourself,” he replied, clinking my beer with his own.

My hand was resting on the edge of the pool, and he moved his to cover it. It was big and strong and at least 10 times tanner than mine. I felt my breath catch.

“Gemma,” he said, bringing both of his hands to my shoulders and turning me toward him. I don’t know what came over me, maybe I was just tired of feeling bad over the Rich situation, but I reached out and wrapped my arms around his neck, pressing my mouth against his lips—and my breasts against his hard, muscled chest—and he put those big hands around my waist, pulling me close.

He kissed me back with an eagerness I was enjoying almost as much as the, er, enthusiasm I felt pressing against my thigh through those snug board shorts. He tasted as good as he looked, of salt air and chlorinated water and, more faintly, the sea.

His fingers traveled from my waist to skim along the smooth skin of my arms until they reached the strings of my bikini top. He untied them and let it fall down, cupping my bare breasts in his large hands. I shuddered and went to moan his name against his mouth...until I realized that I did not, in fact, know the name of the man who was fondling my chest. Under normal circumstances, I would have pulled away, said we were moving way too fast. But these were not normal circumstances—my heart was broken, I was on vacation, and who knew when I’d meet up with a hot, sweet guy like this again?

When he dipped his fingers into my bikini bottom, swirling them between my legs so expertly I thought I might faint, I lost all ability to form a logical argument as to why I should not be doing this.

“Oh,” I groaned, tilting my head back, feeling a ringlet of water trickle down my chest. A wave of excitement began to build in me. “Yes,” I panted. With the combination of the cool water and his soft but strong touch, I knew it wouldn’t be long before I climaxed against his fingers...but I wasn’t ready yet.

“Do you have a condom?” I managed.

“I do,” he said. “Inside the house.”

“Go,” I demanded.

It was an agonizing few moments before he returned. When he did, he stopped above me, sliding off his shorts to reveal a truly impressive display of manhood. He slipped the condom on and hopped back in the pool. He pressed against me, pinning me between his chest and the edge of the pool and guiding my legs so that they wrapped around his waist. I was so turned on that he slipped inside me in no time. The sun felt so nice on my naked back and shoulders...almost as good as his hot skin against mine as he held me up, driving into me again and again.

And then when it felt like every nerve ending in my body was ready to burst and I could stand it no longer, he lifted me out of the pool in those strong arms, carried me over to a nearby chaise longue, laid me down, and continued to thrust so slowly I thought I might scream. I lifted my hips hungrily to take in more of him.

And then his control broke, and he began to pump harder, filling me in a way I never thought anyone could. With every stroke, I could feel my pleasure swell, until finally I climaxed, digging my fingers into his arms as the orgasm vibrated through me. He followed quickly after.

He collapsed alongside me, breathing just as heavily as I was. “That was unbelievable,” he panted.

I nodded in agreement, turned my head to bury it in his shoulder, and promptly fell asleep.

When I opened my eyes a few hours later, the sky had turned lavender. He was sprawled next to me still.

“Hi,” he said, smiling a little shyly at me.

“Hi,” I said, smiling back.

“Holy crap!” said a third, all-too-familiar voice.

Both of us sprung up, grabbing our clothes. We hadn’t noticed the three people standing on the deck.

“Don’t mind us,” Jen said, laughing. “I had no idea you and Tom, from work, were already so well-acquainted, Gemma. We’ll be inside enjoying a cocktail; join us when you’re dressed.” Jen winked, then turned and walked away.

“You’re Tom?” I asked, frantically retying the strings of my top.

“Wait, you didn’t realize that?” Tom asked, sounding just as surprised.

“I thought you were from the rental agency!”

“No,” Tom said, laughing, “but that explains your earlier comment.”

“Ugh, I feel like such an idiot.” I buried my face in my hands.

“Come here,” Tom said, pulling me into his chest. “Think of this as a start to an amazing summer.”

I looked up at him. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” He put his finger under my chin, tilting my head up to kiss me. As a tingling sensation spread through my body, all I could think was Thanks, Rich, for knowing just what I needed.

About Meg Cabot

You probably know Meg Cabot as the author of the fiction series that inspired the Disney classic The Princess Diaries, featuring Anne Hathaway. But this summer, Cabot returned to her dark, vampy side with Overbite, out July 5. Learn more about Meg at cosmopolitan.com.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 2011: Individual stories copyrighted to the authors and the collection copyrighted to Hearst Communications, Inc.

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This 2011 edition distributed by Open Road Integrated Media

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Contents

Sex Under the Stars by Jane Green

Birthday Sex She'll Never Forget by Jennifer Weiner

Falling in Lust at the Jersey Shore by Meg Cabot

Copyright