Unzipped

by Lauren Blakely

“Why are you asking? Are you angling for me to lollygag? And also, why would you want a bad blow job?”

  I lean over and kiss her. “I know it wouldn’t be bad.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because your lips are spectacular, because I like you, because my dick would be very happy. But look, I’m not angling for one.” I let my voice trail off then toss out a very appealing option. “Unless you want to practice.”

  She laughs, arching a brow. “So you are angling for one?”

  “I’m open to teaching the fine art of blow jobs.”

  “Are you now?” Her eyes are intense, like she’s seriously considering my offer.

  “Completely.” The prospect of being her test case for how to give a blow job is intensely alluring. “Let me be your dummy. For the sake of education.”

  She rolls her eyes. A dart of worry hits me. “Did I say the wrong thing again? Tell me. Tell me if I did.” I finally have her where I want her. Happy. I can’t fuck it up. “Did I say something wrong by saying I’d like to teach you how to give a blow job?”

  “No.” She slides her hand down my chest. A shudder wracks my body. “That feels good,” I murmur.

  She travels lower, to my shorts, and I thrust against her, asking silently for her touch. She covers my hard-on with her palm. “That feels incredible,” I say.

  “Yeah?”

  “So good,” I rasp out. “And it’d be so much better if it were your mouth.”

  “Do you mean that?”

  “You have no idea how much.”

  “Tom?”

  “Yes?”

  Her eyes are wide, etched with nerves, but guts too. “Will you please teach me?”

  No one has ever said anything sexier in my life.

  No combination of words has ever been more arousing.

  I say the only thing I can. “Yes. Now. Please.” I practically rip off my shirt as she crawls over me, unzipping my shorts and tugging on my boxers till my cock greets her with a spirited salute.

  She whistles her appreciation then bounces lightly on my thighs. “Now what? How do you like it? I want to learn how to do this.” She rubs her hands together, an eager student.

  I’m naked and she’s dressed, ready to learn. But I think this power play is important to her. And I want this to be good for her. This is a gift to be able to teach a woman—not just any woman, but the woman I want—how I like it.

  “I’m going to tell you a secret. There’s no art to a blow job. There’s one thing that makes it good. Want to know?”

  “I do.”

  I reach for her hair, bringing her face closer to mine. “When the woman is into it.”

  A sexy little sigh seems to fall from her lips. “That’s it?”

  I lift an eyebrow. “That’s all. So . . . do you want to suck my dick?”

  She drops her forehead to mine and breathes out a shuddery yes.

  My cock throbs its satisfaction with her answer. “Then trust that it’ll be good for me.” I bring her mouth to my lips first and whisper, “Kiss the tip.”

  She moves down my body, smiling shyly, stopping right where I want her. When she wraps her fist around my shaft, pleasure shoots through my veins like wildfire. She grips harder, strokes once, twice, then lowers her lips, planting a too-soft kiss.

  It’s good, but I want more. “More,” I tell her. “More lips. Use them.”

  She opens her mouth and licks the head, and my hips jerk up. Her lips curve into a smile, and I tell her to lick and suck on the crown. “Treat me like I’m candy.”

  She does as instructed, licking lines that start to drive me wild with pleasure. I moan and close my eyes for a few seconds, savoring the teasing taste of her lips.

  But it’s not enough. I’m dying for her warm mouth. “Finley, I’m going to tell you what else I like.”

  “Please do,” she says desperately. “I feel like I’m flailing.”

  “Play with my balls.”

  Her eyes light up and she dips her hand lower, cupping them. “How?” she whispers.

  “Gentle, but not too gentle.”

  She rolls them lightly in her palm. “Like this?”

  A wild thrill rips through me, and I pant out a yes.

  “And do you want me to suck your dick at the same time?”

  I love how she’s breaking this down to a step-by-step diagram. “God, yes.”

  “But what do I do when your dick is in my mouth?” Her voice rises. “So it doesn’t feel like a wet napkin to you.”

  “Suck. Just like a lollipop and you’re dying to get to the candy center. Only don’t bite.”

  “Don’t bite,” she repeats with a dutiful nod then quirks up her lips. “How do I make sure I don’t bite?”

  “Wrap your lips around me and kind of cover your teeth with them.” I demonstrate, and she imitates me. “While playing with my balls,” I add with a wink.

  She kisses the tip again, and wild pleasure sparks down my thighs.

  “Yes, like that,” I groan. “Fuck. Yes.”

  “Wait. Was that a good fuck?”

  “Yes. That was a very good fuck.”

  She kisses my dick again then draws me in farther, past the head, down the shaft.

  My thighs shake as I watch every move. It’s like every single inch is a learning experience. I’m halfway to filling her mouth, and she’s awkward and curious and the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen because she’s using my dick as a test case.

  She’s trying to learn pleasure from my cock, but I’m truly the lucky one. In this moment, I decide I can’t lose her. Not because she has me by the teeth. But because she trusted me enough to let me show her.

  She stripped bare for me. Opened up. Asked for help.

  This is the woman I want.

  Her.

  And that thought turns me on so damn much. I thrust up into her mouth, reveling in the feel of her.

  But I push too hard, and she coughs. I jerk back, pulling out. “Are you okay?”

  “It just surprised me. Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, I was getting into it. I was enjoying it.”

  A smile tips the corners of her lips. “You were?”

  I grin wickedly. “I was thinking about how much I want to fuck your mouth.”

  “You do?”

  “I do.”

  “I’m nervous I won’t be any good,” she says softly.

  “I’m not worried about that in the least.”

  She laughs.

  “And if you’re worried, we can do it a few times. To be sure.”

  That earns another laugh, then I thread my hand through her hair again and gently, but firmly, tug her back toward me. “I need you to do something right now.”

  “Tell me.”

  Her eyes lock with mine, and I hold her gaze, running my thumb over her mouth. “Suck my dick, please. Suck my dick till I come in your mouth.”

  Her eyes are wild, fierce, and she’s the best student ever as she lowers her mouth to me.

  I’m not all the way in. Not even close, but I don’t care. It feels extraordinary, the way she holds the base with her hand, how she moves her fist. There’s no finesse. It’s not an artful blow job. It’s not a show-off suck. It doesn’t need to be. She breathes hard as she takes me deeper. She keeps it simple, up and down but the pleasure builds in me. It coils in my belly, tightens under my skin, and turns electric. I want to close my eyes and let go, but I want to watch her more. I push up on the pillow, push her hair from her cheek. “I fucking love watching you do this,” I tell her, since I think she needs praise.

  I see her smile with my dick in her mouth, and if I were the dick pic–taking kind, I would want this shot. “My dick has never looked so good.”

  Her eyes close for a second, like the pleasure is too much. It is too much. It’s far too much for me. It grabs hold of my senses, knocks out wires, trips fuses.

  “Don’t stop,” I command, or maybe I beg. “Don’t fucking stop. Don’t you dare fucki
ng stop.”

  And she doesn’t. Her noises are messier, her breath is harder, and the storm brewing inside me bursts in one fierce explosion of ecstasy. It spirals through me as I come in her mouth.

  When I open my eyes, she lets me fall from her lips, raises her face, and thrusts her arms high in the air.

  “Oh yeah!” she shouts.

  I have no choice but to crack up. “You can do a victory dance too, if you want.”

  She shakes her hips on me. “And that’s how you lollygag!”

  “If that’s lollygagging, you can do it to me every day.”

  She bends closer, her voice going more intimate. “Thank you for teaching me.”

  I shake my head. “No. Thank you for being such a willing student. I assure you, the pleasure was all mine.”

  “Actually,” she says, her tone flirty, inviting, as she wriggles against me, “the pleasure was also mine.”

  That’s an open invitation if I ever heard one. I slide my hand between her legs, cupping her through her shorts to find she’s soaked.

  I groan with desire. “Finley, I don’t know how to go down on a woman. Would you teach me?”

  She swats me. “You lie.”

  I hold up a hand like I’m taking an oath. “I swear.”

  “I don’t believe you. But I have to go. I have to write more, and I remain ever hopeful that the harmonica guitar session is over.”

  “You’re only using me for blow-job lessons.”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  I tug her closer, stroking her between her legs even through her clothes. “I want to taste you, and I’m not above begging, pleading, cajoling, or paying those guys to keep playing harmonica and acoustic guitar.”

  “I want that. Well, not the hipster-surfer duo’s music. But if I don’t write more, I won’t hit Bruce’s crazy deadlines.”

  “Can we practice again tomorrow, then?”

  She smiles. “Let me see if I can fit you in.”

  When she leaves, I wonder if our lesson will make its way into her show. Somehow, I doubt it. Her show’s not that racy. But I hope that it inspired her to at least want to keep me around. Only, I’m not entirely sure how to get there with her. In the past, I’d have winged it, turned to the movies, or charged forward, sledgehammer-style, like the blunt instrument I often am. But this is the present, and I need to approach this differently. So I call in the reinforcements, starting with Nash.

  Tom: I want to do something nice for Finley.

  Nash: Remember that time I taught you how to French braid hair? Do that.

  Tom: You never taught me to French braid hair, and may you never.

  Nash: Hair-braiding is a skill you should have. Women love that. But that isn’t something I can tutor you on via text. Talk to me. How can I help?

  Tom: You know how some women like flowers and some like cake? Well, she likes jokes. I want to do something that will make her laugh.

  Nash: I’m trying really hard to resist making a joke about showing her your dick.

  As for me, I resist tossing out a zinger about how I already did, then came, saw, and conquered.

  Tom: Anyway . . .

  Nash: Cut me some slack. I can’t change overnight. But I’ll roll up my sleeves and work on this. What’s funny to her? Can you tell her an inside joke or something?

  Tom: Yes! That’s it.

  Nash: Um, how is that it?

  Tom: It is, and you’re a steely-eyed missile man and so am I. See ya, man.

  Nash: I have no idea how I helped, but may the Force be with you.

  I wake up early the next morning and get to work.

  21

  Finley

  It’s seven forty-five on a Wednesday, I’ve had four hours of sleep, and I’m giddy.

  Just look at me. This never happens. I’m having a fantastic hair day. The shampoo gods are smiling on me, and they blessed me with curls that are springy and cute.

  A day like this, you can do no wrong. Also, there’s one other reason to celebrate.

  Fine, two.

  First, Bruce emails me. “Things are looking good, Peaches. Since you’re on your road trip, any chance you can stop by the network tomorrow? Some face time with the brass would be good.”

  I squeal as I reread the note. Now, I suck good.

  As I consider my reflection, I wonder if everyone will be able to tell I’ve acquired a brand-new skill. I raise an eyebrow, studying my face. Do I look like a woman who learned to play the skin flute last night?

  “Yes, you do. You look like a virtuoso,” I tell my reflection, then I close my eyes and replay last night. His reactions, my responses. But also something else. How I felt inside when I did that to him.

  I felt . . . right.

  I felt like he’s the one I want to do all those things with, the one I want to experience new tricks with, new ways of coming together.

  I’m not innocent, not in the least.

  But at the same time, there’s so much to explore, in bed and out.

  Tom feels like the Lewis to my Clark.

  He’s my co-explorer.

  He’s also the man I want to kiss over and over. I run my fingers over my lips like I can reactivate the kiss that shook my entire body. A kiss I felt from top to bottom, from sea to shining sea, from the ends of my hair to my toenails.

  Yes, a spectacular kiss can evidently resonate in the toenails. How else would toes curl?

  But I’m not only giddy. I’m nervous as hell too. What comes next? Do we kiss more today? Do we go out? Are we a thing?

  I have no clue, so I tug on shorts and a black scoop-neck top with tiny white polka dots, hoping for clarity this morning.

  I find Tom easily in the dining room downstairs. The second I make eye contact, the butterflies launch a full-scale sweep. Warmth spreads over my shoulders and down my arms, making goose bumps rise across my flesh.

  Tom smiles at me, slow and easy. I walk over to him at the table, and he rises, pulling out a chair for me. I sit, unsure what to say. There’s something so awkward about the morning after a night like that. You both know each other better, and know each other less. Because you don’t entirely know if it was sex, or sex and the start of something more.

  “How was your night?” My voice is jittery, like a cup of strong coffee.

  “It was . . . illuminating.”

  “How so?”

  “I learned that Crash Davis was right.”

  “About the designated hitter or soft-core porn?”

  He nods his head approvingly. “Dirty girl.”

  “Dirty guy,” I counter.

  “He was right about kissing.”

  Sparks race down my chest, and I know where we’re going. His gaze holds mine tight and we speak in unison, reciting one of the sexiest lines from Bull Durham, from any movie. “I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days.”

  I am a puddle.

  I’ve melted onto the floor, and all that remains is my great hair and my squishy heart.

  He slides a menu to me. “Want breakfast?”

  No, I want to jump across the table, clasp your face in my hands, and smother you in kisses that last three days.

  So I decide to tell him. Maybe that lesson last night unlocked something else in me. Maybe it unlocked a little more courage to speak my mind and take a chance. It’s not the riskiest of moves, but even so, it’s risky for me. “Yes, and then I want to kiss you for three days.”

  He groans, drags a hand down his face, and makes a show of spreading a napkin carefully across his lap. “And you will never hear me telling you to snap out of that.”

  We pat ourselves on the back for our movie-quote skills, and I don’t care that he used to do this with Cassie. From what he’s told me, she didn’t like them as much as he does. Or as much as I do. And I like movie quotes. I like that he does them with me, that we do them together.

  We order, and we talk about the park we’re going to visit that day, then about Bruce’s latest
email.

  “We should stop in Los Angeles, then,” he says.

  “Will that interfere with your plans to see Cassie?” I ask, and I want to vomit. Saying her name again twists my stomach. Movie quotes or not, I’m wickedly jealous of her, even though he says he’s not into her. But the fact that she’s his final destination weighs on me. It’s the reminder that he has unfinished business with his ex.

  He shakes his head quickly. “No. This meeting is important. We’ll make it happen.”

  “Also, how are we getting home once you’re done in San Diego?” I ask, biting off more of this bitter pill.

  “Drive or fly?”

  I shrug. “Why don’t we do it the Indiana Jones way?”

  He lets out a sexy sigh. “I’m just making this up as I go along,” he says, quoting from Raiders of the Lost Ark.

  After the waitress brings us my oatmeal with blueberries and his scrambled eggs, an older couple strolls by. She wears a red polo and he sports a blue one. They’re holding hands, and she motions for him to check out our plates.

  “Don’t those blueberries look heavenly, Harry?”

  He smiles at her. “They sure do, Mary.”

  Harry and Mary. Too cute.

  “Are they as good as they look?” she asks me.

  “They’re the stuff oatmeal dreams are made of.”

  She laughs. “And how are your eggs, young man?”

  “The chickens were happy, and they’d be very proud, I suspect.”

  She presses her hand to her chest. “You two are such a cute couple.”

  They shuffle away, and I raise my eyebrows at Tom, pointing silently at them. “It happened. A kind old couple said we look cute.”

  “And you said tropes don’t come true.”

  I hold up my hands, surrendering. “I stand corrected.”

  A little later, while we’re loading our bags into Tom’s car, the notes of something that sounds like LL Cool J land on my ears.