The V Card

by Lauren Blakely

  I grip harder, jerk faster, picturing spreading her open on my desk.

  My dick aches for release, like it has all day, and finally, finally, I’m going to get there. I’m dying to taste her, to bury my face in her pussy. A bolt of pleasure shoots down my spine as I imagine driving my tongue inside her, sucking on her clit, making her come so hard I can feel her all over my mouth, my face. Then flipping her over, and fucking her hard on the edge of my desk. Bent over at the waist, her skirt hiked up. Begging for more. Begging for me to fuck her harder, faster.

  Please, she’d cry, in the most desperate voice I’ve ever heard. Please don’t stop, Graham.

  As my tempo speeds up, I hear her voice in my head, begging me to come inside her, and that’s all it takes. An orgasm barrels down my spine, and I come hard, my hips shooting up.

  Aftershocks radiate through me, my body still shuddering with the image of that intoxicating woman.

  Heading to the bathroom, I wash my hands and clean up.

  I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t want her this much. But even though I know better than to let my libido get away from me, I can hardly wait for tomorrow.

  And I decide part of being her teacher is letting her know that.

  I settle back on my couch, take a hearty drink of my Scotch, and grab my phone.

  Graham: Hope the show was great tonight. Just so you know, I can’t stop thinking about how sexy you are.

  CJ: The show was PHENOMENAL, and you were pretty damn sexy yourself. (How’s that for a flirty compliment, teacher?)

  I laugh and tap out a reply.

  Graham: I’m giving you an A+ in everything.

  CJ: Confession: I always did enjoy earning high marks in school.

  Graham: I’m not surprised that you were an excellent student. You take direction exceedingly well.

  CJ: And that extends to the lovely white box you sent me tonight. I’m not quite sure how to put it on with all these straps, but I’ll figure it out. Hopefully without accidentally tying myself up in the process.

  I smile at the image.

  Graham: If there’s any tying up to be done, I’ll be doing it.

  CJ: I can’t say I would mind that being on the lesson plan . . .

  And it’s officially time to switch from texting to calling.

  She answers on the first ring. “Hey, you.”

  “Hey to you, too,” I say, a stupid grin forming on my face just from hearing her voice. “How was your evening?”

  “It was great. My Macy’s rep really enjoyed the show, and we talked business during intermission. They’re going to be stocking my entire line of recycled typewriter-key jewelry in the fall. And I think I’ve almost talked her into taking a few of my signature collection pieces for the Christmas displays. I should know next week since they plan those so far in advance. Which reminds me, I was thinking about the Adored board meeting. Is there anything I should prepare? I know I said I’d tap-dance on the table, but honestly, that probably won’t help your cause seeing as I can’t, you know, actually tap-dance.”

  “Glad you asked. I’ve been giving it some thought, and two key points come to mind. I’d love you to share a little bit about the offer you had a year ago, when you chose not to sell, and how that decision was the right one. And I think just a general statement about my commitment to the company your brother and I built together would be great. With the way companies swap hands these days, and how quickly CEOs change their minds, these guys just need reassurance that I’m in it for the long haul, so they stay in it for the long haul.” Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to show CJ the corsets, especially given how critical the marketing is to the next growth phase for the company. “Although, there is this other thing. Are you online?”

  She scoffs. “Am I online? When is anyone in our modern world not online or able to get online in, say, ten seconds?”

  “When my hand is in your panties. That’s when you can’t get online.”

  Silence greets me, and for a brief second, I fear I’ve overstepped the mark.

  I’m finally rewarded with her laughter, and I can picture her perfectly—her smile, her twinkling brown eyes, her pretty lips curving up as she chuckles.

  “Well, yes, that would indeed be an obstacle, Graham.” She clears her throat. “And to answer your question, yes, I have my laptop open.”

  “Let me show you what we’re working on. Check out slides ten to twelve.”

  I send her my file, and when she clicks it open, I hear her appreciative gasp.

  “These are so pretty.” Her admiring tone sets off pride fireworks in my chest. It’s nice to know someone with taste as exquisite as CJ’s likes my work. “I love the light-blue one, and the beadwork on the pink is stunning.”

  “Would you ever wear one?”

  She pauses. “Hmm.” She seems to be considering my question. “Well, yes, but probably not for the reasons you think.”

  Her response intrigues me. I sit up straighter. “What are the reasons I think?”

  “Your tagline. Have your cake and wear it, too . . . That makes it seem like this piece is all about the function of holding in my cake belly, or maybe making me look like a piece of cake to someone else. But personally, I’m thinking more about how wearing one would make me feel. The pink one, for example, you could totally wear that for a night out with jeans and a shawl. I can imagine how sexy and feminine that would make me feel. How confident, you know?”

  I nod, the cogs in my brain turning. “Brian and I were brainstorming how to make the marketing work better. I’ll have to talk that over with him. It’s an angle we missed.”

  She laughs gently. “Probably because you’ve never worn one. Or is there something you want to share with me, Graham? Don’t be embarrassed. I’m an accepting person, and it takes all kinds to make the world turn.”

  I crack up, as I scrub a hand over my jaw. “I assure you that my fascination with women’s underthings comes from my desire to see a beautiful woman in them, and then out of them. Not from any secret cross-dressing tendencies.”

  “Good.” She sighs softly. “I’m looking forward to tomorrow.”

  “Me, too.”

  “And tonight I have this scary clown to keep me company until bedtime. Thank you so much for the thoughtful gift.”

  I groan. “That’s what the book I bought you is about? If I’d known, I would never have gifted it,” I tease. “I am morally opposed to the perpetuation of scary clown stories. How can horror fans seriously enjoy them? They’re a messed-up kind of terrifying.”

  “They are. And that’s exactly why we like them,” she says with a laugh.

  “Twisted,” I breathe. “Tell me more. What other messed-up things do you enjoy being scared by, Miss Murphy?”

  I settle into my couch and listen to her tell me why she loves horror novels—they make her feel wildly, electrically alive.

  “And is Mr. King one of your favorites, like he was for Sean?” I ask.

  “He is indeed. Though, when Sean adopted Stevie from the shelter, I suggested Tiger Lily as a name, for my favorite flower. And because Steve has freckles on his nose like the flower petals. But, being all macho man, Sean stuck with Stephen King.”

  I smile at the image she paints of my best friend. “I can picture that conversation clearly.”

  “He made the right choice, though. I swear this cat is addicted to books, too. He runs over to sit on me as soon as I crack one open.”

  “It’s good of you to take care of him.” I remember driving CJ to pick up Stephen King at Sean’s place the day he was killed. He’d want me to take care of Steve, to make sure he doesn’t go back to a shelter, she’d said amid tears that seemed to flow endlessly.

  She sighs, a little wistful, a little sad. “It’s easy, really. And Sean loved this cat. The least I can do is look out for him like he would have,” she says, before adding in a lighter tone, “but my next pet is going to be a hedgehog. I’m obsessed with their cuteness.”

 
“Then you’re going to have to move out of the boroughs, baby. Hedgehogs are illegal in the city.”

  “No!” she gasps. “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not. My friend Luna was going to get one for her wife, but the rescue group said they can’t adopt them to city-dwellers.”

  We talk some more, and I find myself enjoying this phone call more than I ever expected to when I picked up the phone . . .

  . . . an hour ago.

  We just passed an hour, chatting about everything and nothing, and this very well might be my favorite hour so far today.

  “Thanks for your thoughts on the new line,” I say as we sign off, both agreeing it’s time to head for bed so we can get up and conquer the world tomorrow. “They were helpful. I’m going to mull them over with Brian tomorrow.”

  “My pleasure,” she murmurs in a husky, sleepy voice that makes me wish I were there to tuck her in—and to get a jump start on the pleasure I have planned for lesson two.

  “Sleep tight, sexy,” I say. “I’ll be dreaming about all the things I’m going to do to your body.”

  Her breath rushes out. “Me, too. Not even scary clowns will be able to keep those dreams away.”

  “Good.” I hang up with a grin and another hard-on. Because that’s what this woman does to me. It’s almost embarrassing, but that’s not going to stop me from bringing my thoughts of CJ into bed with me tonight and taking things . . . ahem . . . in hand one more time.

  Three times in one day—I haven’t been this determined with my self-love since I was a teenager.

  I’m not sure what my sexy little virgin is doing to my libido, but I don’t want it to stop. Not any time soon.

  But as I glance at my phone one last time before bed, the date stares at me. We didn’t even have a lesson tonight, and already our seven days of seduction is now down to five.

  Chapter Ten

  CJ

  There’s something wrong, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

  “You’re sure this is the exact same design as the mock-up you sent over yesterday?” I tilt my head to one side, squinting at the printout of the ad Chloe is going to run on social media as soon as I give it the thumbs-up.

  Usually, I can spot the puzzle piece that doesn’t fit in sixty seconds or less, but my instincts are dull today. I would blame chatting late with Graham, but it wasn’t the chat that was the problem. It’s the hours I lay awake afterward replaying every kiss, every touch, every word he spoke to me at Patio West, and imagining all the things we might get up to together tonight.

  Sexy things. Erotic things. Exciting, exhilarating, life-changingly amazing things that had me up until way past midnight giving Sparky the Wonder Vibrator a workout he hasn’t seen in months.

  All I want to do is replay Graham and CJ’s Greatest Hits over and over until my brain turns to mush—but focus must be achieved.

  I have three thousand up-cycled, vintage hardcover-books-turned-adorable-purses in my warehouse in Georgia, already wrapped in tissue paper and ready to ship. I need to get them out into the world to make room for the typewriter-key earrings my production team is hard at work on for next season.

  The purses must be advertised and sold. I must get this ad exactly right. And I must stop thinking about sex for at least the next five to ten minutes.

  “Is her dress a different color?” I ask, shaking my head as the backs of my eyes begin to ache.

  “No, the dress is the same.” Chloe crosses her arms over her chest as she perches on my desk beside me. I sit on my desk more than I sit behind it. I’ve always been the kind of person who thinks better on her feet. “I did tweak the background filter the tiniest bit, but—”

  “That’s it.” I snap my fingers, pointing at the sky behind the model’s head. Thank God, I haven’t lost it—yet. “The new shade of yellow is making her skin look sallow, and that’s throwing the rest of the color scheme off just a hair.”

  “I thought it made the purse pop.” Chloe hums beneath her breath. “But you’re right. She looks like she has food poisoning. Sorry about that. Maybe my monitor needs to be recalibrated.”

  I wave a hand. “No worries. Let’s just shift it back and take another look.”

  Chloe accepts the printout but doesn’t move from her perch. “Totally. I’ll get right on that as soon as you serve up the gossip. And I want every detail, Murphy. I’ve given you almost forty-eight hours alone with your dirty little secrets. Now, it’s dish time.”

  “Who says I have dirty secrets?” I circle back behind my desk to mark “meet with Chloe” off my list—the only thing more fun than making lists is marking things off them.

  Oh, and being semi-naked with Graham with his hands all over me and his lips hot on mine. That’s definitely way more fun than anything list-related.

  “Um, your face.” Chloe tosses her blond curls over her shoulder as she turns to pin me with one of her always-sees-through-me looks. “The goofy grin and the dreamy expression. The way you keep biting your lip to keep from smiling and then smiling anyway. And giggling. So much giggling, Murphy. It’s just silly.”

  “I am not giggling,” I scoff, fighting the urge to giggle because that’s what happens when you’re determined not to do something.

  “And the sudden appearance of eye makeup,” Chloe continues, ticking items off on her fingers, “and perfume, and strappy shoes, and the fact that you’ve worn sexy dresses to the office two days in a row.”

  I glance down then back up at Chloe with an arched brow. “I didn’t realize a simple, black, short-sleeve dress was a sexy choice.”

  Chloe sighs. “Just tell me who’s romancing the happy into you, CJ, so I can do my due diligence as your best friend, google his ass ten ways to next Wednesday, and make sure he’s worthy of you.”

  Romancing me? No way. There will be no romance between Graham and me. It’s all business. Well, the business of pleasure. I snicker quietly at my own private joke.

  Chloe wags a finger in the air between us. “No lies in this office. That’s rule number one, and you wrote the rules.”

  I bite my lip, but this time fighting back a smile has nothing to do with it.

  Chloe knows Graham. She’s even joined us for happy hour a few times in the Village on her way back to Brooklyn on her bike. More importantly, she knows Graham’s reputation as a ladies’ man. She’s usually not the kind to judge a guy for something like that, but Chloe also knows about my . . . unique situation.

  I twist my lips to one side and then the other, possessed by the warring urges to keep my sex ed plan under wraps and to finally share with someone the monumental changes taking place in my life.

  Especially a friend I know I can trust.

  “Okay.” I glance over her shoulder and then circle to close the door to my office. I don’t mind dishing with Chloe, but the rest of the staff doesn’t need the scoop on the status of my still amazingly intact virginity.

  I snick the door closed and turn with a deep breath to face her. “So, first up, I want to assure you that this was my idea, I know exactly what I’m getting into, and my expectations are totally in line with what my friend is prepared to deliver.”

  Chloe’s usually sunshiny expression transforms to a frown. “Uh-oh. I don’t like the sound of this. You always say you know what you’re getting into right before you do something insane, like bid three times over asking price for Hamilton tickets, or decide to bike to the Jersey shore, or foster a litter of abandoned baby pit bulls that pee on every pair of shoes you own.”

  I shake my head. “It’s nothing like that. Nothing that’s going to end badly, though I did discover an incredible junkyard on my way to Jersey before I pulled the hamstring, and the pit bulls were adopted by great families, and Stephen King managed not to get eaten by one. Plus, our Macy’s rep loved the musical, and it totally softened her up about holiday product placement. So I’m saying all’s well that ends well.”

  Her frown becomes a scowl.

  “Fine.”
I lift my arms in surrender. Clearly I need to spit it out before her imagination runs wild. “I wasn’t out on a first date Monday night. I was having my first lesson with Graham. He’s agreed to be my sex ed teacher.”

  Chloe’s green eyes bulge.

  “And it went really well,” I say, hurrying on. “And pretty soon I’m going to know everything I want to know about being a man-magnet and finally have my V card punched in the process. It’s a win-win. All win. Total win.”

  And I just said “win” four times.

  My repetition does not go unnoticed. “So, what you’re saying is, you’re winning?” Chloe counters slowly, taking her time with each word. “At least until you crack your head open on the bottom of the pool because you went right from the wading area to jumping off the high dive at the Olympics.” Her expression grows distinctly concerned. “CJ, you know I like Graham, but he’s a . . . and you’re a . . .” She waves her hand up and down, gesturing to me from head to toe.

  “I’m a pigeon, and he’s a bald eagle?” I suggest.

  Chloe snorts. “Um, I was thinking more a shark and a baby seal, but okay. Eagles eat pigeons, right?”

  “Actually, they eat fish. But Graham is not going to eat me,” I say, then a scandalized snort escapes my lips as I realize how that sounds. “Sorry.” I wave a hand in front of my face as I swallow the burst of laughter because, of course, he’s going to do just that. And soon, I hope. “I shouldn’t be going there. I’m not open to talking specifics. That stays between Graham and me.”

  “Does it?” She arches a honey-colored brow. “Because last time I checked, Graham wasn’t the kind who minded everyone knowing who he was fucking, how often, and in what kinky positions.”

  “That’s not Graham,” I say, jumping to his defense. “He doesn’t kiss-and-tell. His exes are the ones who talk.”

  “And how many of them are there? Fifty? One hundred? Two hundred?” Chloe bites her lip. “You did have Mr. Man Whore tested before you jumped on his pony, right? I’m worried about your health, you know, not just your heart.”