The V Card

by Lauren Blakely

  “Graham would never expose me to anything that would hurt me,” I say firmly, not a sliver of doubt in my mind. “He’s clean. He cares about me. And we are both approaching this as adults who are friends and are deeply respectful of each other.” I wiggle my shoulders back and forth. “And we haven’t gotten to the pony-riding yet, but soon, maybe. Maybe very soon.”

  Chloe nods for a long moment, her lips pursing, then squishing into a wiggly line, then spreading into a melancholy smile.

  “What?” I ask, flopping a hand her way. “What does that smile medley mean, exactly?”

  “It means I believe you,” Chloe says slowly. “And I hope everything goes exactly as planned.” She pauses before adding in a careful tone, “And I’m here for you any time you need to vent or cry, and I promise not to say I told you so.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Just tell me I can handle this, okay?”

  She smiles again, more sympathetically this time. “Like I said, I’ll be here to catch you when you fall. Or if you fall.” She shrugs. “Who knows, it could work out great. Crazier things have happened.”

  “That’s true,” I agree. “Crazier things happen all the time.”

  “Especially in this city. Which reminds me, Roberto asked me to make sure you wanted to shoot the apron samples on that urban farm in Brooklyn,” she says with an eloquent roll of her eyes. “He seems to think aprons only belong in a kitchen.”

  I cluck my tongue in exaggerated disapproval. “Silly Roberto. Of course I want to shoot at the farm. And I want the models wearing nothing but swimsuits and aprons. It’s going to be so sexy and fun.” I nod, thinking back to my conversation with Graham last night as I add, “And I want the girls to have such a good time that everyone who sees these photos thinks about what a blast they’ll have in an adorable, retro-style apron.”

  Chloe’s expression takes on an appraising air. “Agreed. I like your embracing of the sexy. Maybe Graham will be good for you, after all.”

  I cast my eyes to the ceiling with a breezy laugh, playing it cool. “Could be. Definitely a possibility.”

  But inside, I’m not anything close to cool. I’m hot, bothered, eager, and so excited to see Graham again that for the rest of the day, time seems to crawl at a snail’s pace. A sea slug crossing the ocean floor against an incoming tide would move faster than the clock.

  I’m beginning to think the day is never going to end when a text pops up from Graham at four thirty.

  Graham: St. Regis sleepover. You and me. Meet me in the lobby bar at six, and we can go up together. Be sure to bring your new present so I can show you how to put it on properly. And of course, how to take it off . . .

  I run my finger over those last few words, as tingles spread through my chest. How to take it off . . .

  My heart beats faster, and my spirits lift. Only ninety more minutes and I’ll be seeing Graham again. Ninety more minutes.

  It’s nothing.

  It’s forever.

  It’s going to be over in four more nights.

  I close my eyes, trying to push that last errant thought out of my head. Of course it’s going to end. It’s designed to end. It’s a seven-day project, like a week-long sex-cation.

  And on that note, I let my mind wander to the kind of sex-cation we might be having tonight.

  As dirty, sexy images flash before my eyes, I’m pretty sure I just did that goofy lip-bite, smile-fighting, smile-anyway thing Chloe was teasing me about before.

  But who cares? Ninety minutes . . .

  I can’t wait.

  Chapter Eleven

  Graham

  The St. Regis lobby bar is an old standby for me. With its vintage leather seats, warm wood accents, and art deco murals depicting sun-drenched vistas and a larger-than-life King Cole attended by fawning jesters, it’s simultaneously opulent and grounded in reality. Even kings fall prey to fools, and golden afternoons only last so long. For me, the St. Regis encourages thoughtful celebration.

  I drank a Scotch here with Sean after we signed a lease on a new office space for Adored, courtesy of our stocks selling for more than we ever dreamed and our company expanding.

  I had a martini with Luna here the night before her wedding and talked about what it meant to forsake all others, and how scary that was for her, even though she couldn’t imagine spending her life with anyone but Valerie.

  Hell, I treated CJ to Sunday morning mimosas here on her twenty-fifth birthday not quite a year ago, back when she was just a friend I was proud to see becoming a strong, successful woman in spite of the hell she’d been through the year before.

  It had seemed only natural to suggest we meet here in this luxurious, classy place where I come to celebrate. These lessons feel like something worth celebrating, and I would be telling dirty, filthy lies if I said I hadn’t been looking for a good excuse to rent out the Tiffany suite.

  CJ is going to look fucking stunning framed by crystal chandeliers, priceless works of art, and Tiffany-blue walls, wearing nothing but Adored’s signature Madison Avenue corset, garter belt, and white silk stockings . . .

  A moment later, as if summoned by my oh-so appreciative thoughts, a sweet voice calls out from the entrance to the bar. I turn on my stool to see CJ bustling toward me in a sexy little black dress—I’m a sucker for a demure collar and a hemline barely long enough to cover a woman’s ass—and four-inch heels that prompt erotic visions of her in those and nothing else.

  “Hey there,” she says, pressing a breathless kiss to my cheek and pulling away with a flustered smile. She drops her black jacket on the chair next to me. “Sorry. Am I late?”

  My breath catches as I spy a glimpse of lacy corset through the peek-a-boo paisley eyelets sewn into the bodice of her dress. That tiny window is even sexier than a view straight down the front of her shirt. It hints at things concealed under her clothes, things she’s going to share only with me. Like the corset I sent her yesterday, the one I chose just for her. All I can picture is how enticing it’ll look against her skin.

  Then, how much better it’ll look on the floor of the hotel room.

  “No, you’re good. I’m just early,” I say, fighting what feels like my fiftieth CJ-inspired erection of the day.

  “Early,” she echoes, her eyes going wide. “Is this a first for you? I mean, I know you’re always on time to work, but in a social setting, isn’t five minutes late your modus operandi?”

  “No,” I lie, then immediately fess up because lying to CJ feels wrong. “Okay, maybe, but I don’t believe in keeping my students waiting. Especially my favorite students.”

  Her lashes sweep down and back up, and a smile that’s pure sex kitten curves her lips. “I believe I’m your only student, Professor Campbell.”

  “You can be both my only and my favorite, Miss Murphy,” I say, losing the battle against the thickening situation in my pants. But seriously, there’s only so much a man can take.

  She reaches up, her fingertips skimming over the skin exposed by my open collar. “What are you teaching me tonight? I came dressed as requested.”

  “I saw that,” I say, then nod toward the bar. “You want a drink before we head upstairs?”

  She shakes her head. “No, but an answer would be nice.”

  I grin wickedly, not even bothering trying to hide it as I take her hand, drawing her out of the bar toward the elevator, her jacket over her arm. “Why? Nervous?”

  She laughs. “No. Should I be?”

  “Liar,” I whisper as the elevator doors close behind us and I draw her mouth toward mine. And damn, if she doesn’t taste even better than she did two nights ago. She responds with a hunger that drives me wild, her arms wrapping around my neck as she boldly pulls me closer. She presses her curves against my chest with a soft moan, clearly wanting more, much more.

  Taking lesson two slow is going to be a Herculean test of will, but I’m up for the challenge.

  “Okay, so maybe I’m a little nervous,” she murmurs as my lips roa
m over her jaw, finding the flesh of her earlobe. She’s wearing little diamond earrings shaped like bow-ties, beautiful and delicate, just like her.

  “Don’t be.” I take the entire lobe into my mouth, tasting the warmth of her perfumed skin melding with the cold stone of the gem for a moment before I set her free. “You’re dressed for success.”

  She shivers lightly against me, her lips parting, but before she can speak, the doors open and she falls silent.

  “Seriously, nothing to worry about,” I assure her, wondering if I shouldn’t have ambushed her the way I did the first time. But sooner or later, she’s going to have to learn to take the wheel. Might as well begin as she’ll need to continue.

  “Let me tell you a secret,” I say as I lead her down the hall. “A lot of men are terrified to make the first move. Even successful men used to taking control in the boardroom can falter in the bedroom.”

  CJ wrinkles her nose. “You? Falter in the bedroom?”

  I laugh and scoff, “Well, no, not me. But the average guy. I’ve been thinking about how you came to be a twenty-five-year-old virgin, and it’s not something that happened in a vacuum. I’m betting you scared a lot of men away.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yes, because I’m soooo scary.”

  “You are,” I assure her, pausing in front of the door to the suite. “You’re drop-dead gorgeous, successful, and a little bit shy, so it can be hard to know what you’re thinking. I’m sure that’s a scary combo for a lot of guys.”

  Still looking dubious, she steps inside, taking in the elegant dining area to the left—complete with Tiffany chandelier—the seating area to the right, and the luxurious pedestal bed straight ahead. With its airy cotton drapes hanging from the ceiling, cloaking the mattress in mystery, it looks like something straight out of a castle. “So pretty . . .” She clasps her hands together, turning back to me with wide eyes. “This is too much, Graham.”

  “It’s just enough. And you’re going to look beautiful up on that bed.”

  Her eyes widen as I tip my chin toward the table, where a bottle of Dom is chilling in an ice bucket. “I have champagne if you’ve changed your mind about a drink.”

  “Now I’m worried,” she says with a breathy laugh. “Is this lesson going to require liquid courage?”

  I take her hand and bring her toe-to-toe with me. She gazes up at me, the heat that flickers in her expression assuring me she needs no liquid courage. “No. You’ve got this, Butterfly.”

  She gulps. “I do?”

  “You do.” I press a kiss to her forehead—knowing better than to kiss her lips if I want the strength to walk away from her, even for a few minutes—and turn to cross the room. I reach the throne-size, button-studded armchair, shift it to face her direction, and sit down, taking in the view. With her naughty heels and sexy-sweet dress, she’s gorgeous. Knowing my lingerie is against her skin takes gorgeous to breathtaking.

  I’ve never seen anything sexier in my life.

  “Lesson two is about driving a man crazy and taking control of an erotic situation. Setting the mood, so to speak.” I lean against the backrest, getting comfortable in the chair. “So, we’re going to start with something no man can resist. A striptease from a beautiful woman.”

  CJ bursts into laughter, her head falling back before she shakes it, sending her ponytail flying from side to side. “Oh, no. No way. I can’t.”

  “You can,” I assure her. “And you will if you want to get an A in this class.”

  She bites her lip, her fingers tangling in front of her in a way that’s both endearing and completely sexy. “But I really don’t think I can, Graham. I’ve never done anything like that before. I’ll make a fool of myself.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  She snorts. “Yes, I—”

  “No. You won’t. Because I’m going to help you.” I lift a finger, holding her gaze until she sighs heavily and gives a small nod, which I sense is the closest I’m going to get to enthusiasm at this point. “Start by lifting the hem of your dress. Slowly, taking your time. Owning the room.”

  She reaches for the bottom of her dress and immediately breaks into another round of laughter. She’s gasping by the time she says, “I can’t. Seriously, I can’t.”

  “Caroline Jessica Murphy,” I say in my best displeased teacher voice. “Are you going to do as you’re told, or am I going to have to turn you over my knee?”

  She blinks once, twice, her eyes as round as the antique plates hanging on the wall behind her. “Are you serious?”

  “Why?” I let my gaze track down her curves. “Would you like that? To have me spank you for being disobedient?”

  Her eyes go even wider. “Um, I . . . I don’t know. I’m not sure I would like that.”

  “But you aren’t sure you wouldn’t?” I arch a brow, heat surging to my groin.

  She shakes her head and whispers, “No, I’m not sure about that, either. When you look at me like that, I can imagine liking all kinds of things I’ve never imagined liking before.”

  “Good.” Her confession makes me even hotter. “Now, take off your dress for me, CJ. I want to see you in my lingerie.”

  She draws her lower lip between her teeth as she slowly reaches for the hem of the dress and then in one fluid motion pulls it up and over her head. And fuck me, but she’s gorgeous. Heart-stopping. Even more beautiful than I thought she would be.

  The blush-pink satin is so her, the crisscross fabric across the front suggestive and yet innocent at the same time. It’s a hint of what’s to come. A promise that if I’m very good, I can unhook the lingerie, let it fall to the floor, and admire her completely.

  “When I saw that color, I knew it would look perfect against your skin. I knew it would make you feel so damn sensual. Does it, CJ? Does it make you feel beautiful? Alluring? Irresistible.”

  She nods, her lips parting, a soft little murmur falling from them. “All of that.”

  “Good. Because you are.” My gaze drops to the matching garters that hold her stockings in place, and I groan. “So fucking irresistible.” I motion to her hair. “Now your hair. I want it down.”

  “You want it down,” she echoes, reaching both arms up to work the band from her hair, setting it free to fall in glossy waves around her shoulders. “You’re a bossy one, aren’t you?”

  “I know what I want. And right now, I want you to untie the bow at the top of your corset,” I say, my voice low and coaxing, daring her to own the moment. “Slow and confident, like you’re unveiling a priceless, precious work of art.”

  Her breath hitches, but she obeys, pulling at the silk ribbon, making my pulse spike as she loosens the bow and her breasts spill over the top of the plunging neckline. My first glance is enough to make my heart stop. Her breasts are each a perfect creamy handful, graced by a dusky pink nipple. I’m dying to get my mouth on her, but not yet.

  Not yet. Slow. Easy.

  If I go too far, too fast, I’ll scare her or hurt her, neither of which is an acceptable outcome.

  Her hands cross above her chest as she whispers, “I’m embarrassed,” proving she’s misunderstood my silence.

  “Oh no,” I insist, shaking my head. “No, no, don’t be. God, you’re beautiful. I was just lost in thought.”

  “That can’t be a good sign, if I’m taking my clothes off and you’re lost in thought?”

  “Thoughts about how much I want to get your nipples in my mouth,” I say, desire thick in my voice. “How much I want to taste you. Every inch of you. You’re driving me crazy, Butterfly, so please don’t stop. Show me more of you. Torture me, slow and sweet.”

  Awareness flickers across her face, like the sun rising in the morning. Like the power of her sensuality is dawning on her at this moment. It’s intoxicating to witness. It’s a privilege to see her step into her sexual beauty.

  “Torture . . .” she repeats.

  “Exquisite torture,” I add.

  With slow, deliberate flicks of her fingers, she d
raws the ribbon through one eyelet and then another, loosening the corset until the last bit of ribbon slides free and the silk boning falls to the floor at her high-heeled feet, leaving her in nothing but the lace garter belt, matching panties, and thigh-high stockings.

  “Good?” she asks, running a finger beneath the waist of the garter belt.

  “So good,” I murmur, my dick so hard there’s no way she hasn’t noticed the totem pole erected at the front of my pants. “Now the stockings.”

  Inch by inch, no, centimeter by centimeter—what an incredibly fast study she is when it comes to driving me out of my mind—she rolls the stockings down her toned thighs to the knee, then to her ankle, exposing more of her soft skin. I pull in a shaky breath, desperate to feel every inch of her bare beneath me, writhing and calling my name as I glide in and out of her tight heat. She’s crossed the line into goddess territory, and by the Mona Lisa smile on her face as she slowly turns her back, peeking at me over her shoulder as she grants me another killer view, I suspect she knows it.

  “How do you feel about stripping now?” I ask. “Now that you’ve driven me out of my mind with wanting you?”

  “Pretty good,” she whispers with a nervous laugh. “But just FYI, I’m not going to be able to get the garter belt off in a sexy way. It’s designed so that I have to take it on and off over my head, and it tends to get stuck on certain . . . obstacles.”

  I laugh, too, partly because the sound of her laughing is infectious. Maybe also because it can be fun to laugh even when you’re burning with lust.

  “Obstacles like your perfect tits?” My heart pounds as she wiggles out of the garter belt with her back to me, slaying me with every shift of her hips.

  “You really think they’re perfect?” she asks, freeing herself and tossing the belt to the floor as I make a mental note to consult with my design team for a garter fix.