Wild Dreams [Story Collection]

I never imagined I’d track my life by sexual droughts, but at twenty-nine, freshly single in the ways that counted most, I’d hit a solid ten months without action. Ten months. I’d counted the nights more times than I cared to admit, glaring at my bedroom ceiling like it could fix my frustration.

So when Jordan and Luca knocked on my door that stormy Saturday evening, armed with bottles of my go-to New Zealand sauvignon blanc and greasy cartons of Indian takeout, I figured the night was just another cozy hangout. Little did I know it was about to flip everything upside down.

They barged in like always—Jordan using the spare key I’d hidden under a fake rock (he’d replaced it with a sparkly unicorn one for my last birthday), Luca juggling the food and wine like he was made for taking care of us. I was already halfway through my solo bottle, sprawled on the couch in faded yoga pants and an old band tee, hair piled in a messy bun that screamed defeat.

“Damn, Sophie,” Jordan grinned as he slammed the door against the wind. “You look like a defeated blanket burrito.”

“Spot on,” I muttered, clutching my glass.

Luca just gave me that soft, knee-weakening smile and started plating the food on my coffee table like it was his own place. It pretty much was. Both of theirs were. We’d turned each other’s apartments into shared territory back in college, when we were surviving on ramen and the delusion that real life would be easier.

Jordan flopped down on my left, stretching his long legs out and snatching the remote without asking. Luca settled on my right, his warmth pressing against my side. They carried the scent of rain mixed with that spicy sandalwood-and-bergamot cologne they both favored (same vibe, different labels—some universal prank). It had been tormenting me since freshman year.

We queued up some mindless action flick none of us would remember. The kind with explosions and zero plot. We roasted it relentlessly for half an hour, sharing naan and chicken tikka from the same containers, passing the wine around like old times.

Then, because alcohol apparently turns me into an oversharer when I’m desperate for touch, I blurted it out.

“I haven’t gotten laid in ten months.”

The room fell silent except for the thunder outside.

Jordan stopped chewing. Luca’s fork hovered mid-air.

“Ten?” Jordan echoed, eyebrows shooting up.

I groaned and yanked my tee over my face. “Don’t make me repeat it.”

Luca lowered his food gently. “Ethan?” he asked, voice low and careful.

I peeked out. “Yeah, Ethan. Mr. Wait-Until-Marriage and No-Premarital-Fun. He thinks sex is this holy thing reserved for vows and, ideally, church approval.”

Jordan let out a choked laugh. “You’re banging a seminary student?”

“He’s not—” I started, then deflated. “Fine, he basically is. He’s kind. Respectful. He’s…” I gestured vaguely. “Patient.”

“Ten months of patience?” Luca said, one perfect brow arching.

“I’m wasting away, Luca,” I dramatic-whined. “My body’s sending out SOS signals.”

Jordan cracked up so hard I worried about the wine spilling. “Dump Pastor Pure and find someone who’ll actually rail you, Soph.”

“I know,” I moaned, collapsing until my head rested on Luca’s shoulder. He didn’t hesitate, wrapping an arm around me. “But he’s genuinely good. I’m sick of dating jerks. I thought I’d try the nice guy route.”

Luca’s fingers traced lazy patterns through my hair. “Nice is great. Celibacy enforced isn’t.”

“Preach,” Jordan said, refilling my glass. “You’re twenty-nine, prime time. You deserve to get fucked senseless.”

A shiver ran through me at the word senseless, because yeah, these two had fueled plenty of secret fantasies over the years—always dismissed because (a) they’re madly in love with each other and (b) solidly, undeniably gay.

At least, that’s what I’d convinced myself for years.

I swallowed more wine. “I resort to p**n now,” I admitted.

Jordan leaned in, intrigued. “Quality stuff or creepy algorithm garbage?”

“Quality! Female-directed, real chemistry, all that. But it’s… isolating. Like practicing for a sport I’ll never play.”

Luca’s hand paused in my hair. I looked up; his hazel eyes were locked on me, intense and unreadable.

“You’re not alone tonight,” he murmured, so quiet it almost got lost in the rain.

The vibe shifted. Suddenly the air felt heavy, electric, like the storm had moved indoors.

Jordan moved closer, deliberate. “Know what’s better than solo p**n?” His voice dropped, rougher.

I let out a nervous laugh. “A threesome with my two super gay best friends?”

It was meant as sarcasm. The running joke I’d tossed out for years (Sophie and her untouchable gay duo, always the third wheel).

But they didn’t laugh.

Jordan’s usual smirk turned predatory. Luca’s hand drifted from my hair to my thigh, fingers drawing slow circles over the thin fabric.

The movie droned on, some hero grunting through a chase scene no one watched.

Jordan glanced at Luca over me. That silent exchange they mastered years ago—wordless, charged. I’d witnessed it forever, but never directed at me.

Then Jordan leaned in, giving me plenty of time to pull away (I didn’t—I couldn’t), and kissed Luca.

Not a friendly brush. A deep, hungry kiss—the kind they’d hidden when they thought I was dozing on long drives or crashed after parties. Luca groaned low and met him fiercely, one hand fisting Jordan’s shirt, the other gripping my thigh tighter, sending sparks straight to my core.

I was frozen.

Breathless.

I should’ve joked, averted my eyes, anything normal.

Instead, I stared as Jordan devoured Luca’s mouth. Watched Luca’s eyes flutter shut, Jordan’s hand possessive at his neck, Luca’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed Jordan’s sounds.

And I was soaked.

Instantly. Achingly. A flood that ruined my panties and made me clench my legs.

They pulled apart, chests heaving. Jordan’s lips glistened. Luca’s eyes were dark, dilated.

Then they looked at me.

Not like buddies.

Not even close.

The tension crackled.

My pulse thundered.

I wet my lips. My voice was barely a breath.

“Fine,” I whispered. “Maybe… p**n just isn’t cutting it anymore.”