Midtown Masters

by Cara McKenna

  “I could keep going. I could do something differently, if you—”

  “That was perfect,” she said again, and squeezed his shoulder, smiling. “Do you want to go any farther? No pressure at all, but if not, I should probably cool off.”

  His brain could barely compute those words. To think he had her wound up and wanting more, and to think she wanted more from him. “I want more. I’m not sure what that might look like, but I don’t want to stop, if you don’t.”

  “You want to keep learning?”

  He nodded, probably looking comically eager. “Yes. Anything.”

  “Would you . . . Do you want to try and make me come?” She bit her lip, though whatever shyness she felt at that question was eclipsed tenfold by the blush of disbelief now blooming bright red through John’s entire body.

  “I . . . I’ll try. It’s hard for me to imagine I’m capable of it, but yes, I want to try.”

  Without a word, she reached down and pushed her underwear and jeans to her knees, then squirmed her way out of them. Though the boldness was all hers, he felt guilty as he stole a glance between her legs, at the tidy, trimmed V of her pubic hair. Strange that this should feel shocking, given everything she’d done on camera at his request, yet it did.

  She propped her leg atop John’s once again, and took his hand. He couldn’t say what he was expecting, but when his fingertips found her wet, he was dumbstruck. It must have showed on his face. She laughed softly and he glanced up to find her smiling.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” she teased.

  “I am. I mean . . . The thought that I have anything to do with you . . .”

  “Everything,” she corrected. “And not only tonight.” She began to lead his hand up and down, drawing his fingers along her seam, slow and light. “The times Meyer and I performed for you, everything I felt, whatever pleasure I was taking—some of that was your doing, too. Because of your words, because it excited me to think there was someone on the other side of that screen who was excited, watching me. And who cared so much about my pleasure.”

  “I did.” As he said it, he realized both that it was true and that that must not always be the case, for Suzy. No doubt they had clients who were more interested in their own fantasies or favorite acts or in the man’s gratification than they were Suzy’s. Interested in directing live-action pornography, basically, complete with ridiculous, pantomime female orgasms. And porn was influential, for better or worse, and so John imagined perhaps he truly was special, somehow, when it came to his interests and his requests. No wonder she’d thought he was a woman.

  “Can you do this,” she asked, “and kiss me at the same time?”

  “I’ll try.” How many times had he spoken those two words tonight? Trying had never been his inclination. Not when hiding and avoiding all things romantic and sexual had always been so much easier. Funny how “easy” had lost its appeal, of late.

  He came closer, close enough for his erection to press against her thigh. He pulled back but she immediately tugged him close again by his arm.

  “It’s fine. It’s better than fine, in fact. It’s beyond a turn-on that you’re excited.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now kiss me. It’s fine if it’s sloppy, too. What your hand’s doing is more important.”

  Good to know. It took a minute to get back into the swing of kissing, but soon they were there, and he was thrilled to find his hand could stay coordinated even as their mouths teased and taunted.

  “Good,” she whispered. She was holding his arm, squeezing it softly, thumb rubbing absently. When you’re ready, try slipping your middle finger inside me, but keep touching me the way you are.”

  Okay. Right. He fumbled just trying to find the spot, he was so out of practice with a woman’s body. No, not out of practice—that implied that he’d even been properly acquainted with one. He felt a hot flush of panic creeping up his back, tingling under his arms and tightening his throat. His entire body locked up, awkward and stiff, and she covered his hand, stilling it.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes. Sort of. I don’t know.” He huffed a breath, airway feeling strange, blocked. Fuck, he was halfway to an anxiety attack. “Shit, sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “You’re fine.” She gently moved his hand to her hip—his nightmare made reality. He’d failed. He couldn’t even follow the simplest, most explicit and patient instructions.

  “I’m sorry. I have no idea what I’m doing.” He was flustered and frustrated and overheated and disappointed, and she could no doubt hear it in his voice.

  “You have nothing to be sorry about,” she whispered, two fingers tracing in a V up and down her labia, stroking her clitoris at the crest of each caress. That flustered sensation changed instantly, heat leaving John’s face to roil in his belly.

  “We ladies are complex. Even if you’d been with a dozen women before you met me, you might never have been with one who needs exactly what I do.”

  “That’s certainly not the case. I think I got overwhelmed. I don’t know.”

  “Just watch me for a couple minutes, okay?”

  He nodded. He already was watching—enthralled, more like. And something loosened in his chest at what she’d done. She hadn’t aborted the mission, hadn’t even hit PAUSE to unpack his reaction or coddle his ego. She’d merely snagged the reins and issued a clear, simple order. Watch me. Maybe it wasn’t the catastrophic failure he’d assumed it was.

  As he watched, all the anxiety melted away. Uncertainty lingered, but it became tinged with curiosity, and, in time, determination.

  “I’d like to try again,” he whispered.

  “Give me your hand.”

  He did, and she guided the pads of his fingers to do as hers had done. “That’s the right pressure.”

  “Is this speed okay?”

  “The speed doesn’t really matter. Go slow and it’ll build and build and eventually I’ll get there, and it’ll be nice and long and deep. Faster, and I’ll get there quicker, and it’ll be more of an intense flash of an orgasm.”

  Fascinating. He’d never heard a woman talk this way, one so shamelessly and thoroughly well-versed in her own body, her own pleasure, and so articulate in explaining what it was she needed and wanted. He wished everyone were like Suzy. It would make sex so much simpler and likely satisfying, so much less mystifying for a student such as he. But surely she was a rarity. He’d just have to soak up every lesson he could, for as long as she was willing to impart them.

  Her eyes were shut, one hand on his side and the other between them, fingers splayed on his chest. Her lip was caught between her teeth and her brow was creased, as though she were deep in concentration. Soon she was fidgeting, hips shifting, seeking something more from his touch. He did his best to intuit, rewarded with a sigh, then a soft moan.

  His pride spiked and his fingers sped, confidence rising.

  “That’s perfect,” she murmured. “Good. It’s . . . it’s exciting to watch you, this way.” Everything he’d felt from the comfort of his computer desk, times a thousand.

  “I like your voice,” she said. “I liked it over the phone, and when we chatted online, but being right here, next to you . . . It’s as hot as the way you’re touching me.”

  John didn’t fancy himself any sort of pillow-talk savant, but an unexpected well of courage opened inside him, and instead of panicking over a lack of inspiration, he just opened his mouth and let the truth come out. “I’ve never made a woman feel good like this. It’s . . . intoxicating.”

  “You’re an excellent student.”

  “I hadn’t let myself fantasize anything like this might happen, but now that it has I wish you could teach me everything there is to know.”

  She smiled, eyes still shut. “And I’ll no doubt lie awake every night for the next week, thinking up less
ons.”

  Her? Kept awake by thoughts of him? Insane.

  “Would you . . .” She hesitated, eyes opening. “This might be too far.”

  John stilled his hand. “You can ask.” Even as he said it his heart thumped hard, anxious and impatient and curious beyond measure.

  “Could I rub against you? With your underwear on. Dry-humping’s like my Kryptonite. But only if you’re comfortable with that.”

  Comfortable? She was being frank, so he decided to return the favor. “I’m worried I’d lose myself the second you started. But I don’t know, maybe that’s not the worst thing in the entire world.” In truth, letting the chance pass sounded like the most tragic possible thing, now that he thought about it.

  “There’s worse things,” she agreed with a smile. “Can I try?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Should I lie down?”

  “It’d be sexier if you were on top. I can tell you what to do.”

  He removed his pants and socks and moved to his knees as Suzy reclined, and somehow, by some crazy, impossible magic, she was spreading her legs, welcoming him between them. He knelt there, feeling exposed, his excitement so plain, so . . . clumsy. But she wanted him, it would seem, and he wanted her beyond all reason.

  When he didn’t make a move, she touched his sides and urged him to come closer. He dropped to his hands and knees and let her lead his hips to hers. Fuck, there she was. The soft, shrouded heat of her, pressed to the underside of his cock.

  “Just thrust,” she whispered, her palms hot and damp on his arms. “I’ll tell you softer or harder or faster or slower.”

  “Okay.” His mouth was dry, every muscle strung tight, cock already aching, but he did as she asked. Ran his excitement against hers in a slow, light stroke. Even with a layer of cotton between them the friction was exquisite, so intense he moaned. He could only shut his eyes and pant, feeling Suzy’s hands grazing up and down his arms until the wave of sensation dulled enough that he could compose himself.

  “Intense?” she asked.

  His eyes opened. “Very.”

  “If it’s too much, it’s too much.”

  “I’ll try. I might catch fire and burn the entire room down, but I’ll try.”

  She laughed. “Good. Try.” She hugged her legs to him, and though even that little spur of contact was a jolt, he pulled himself together, and began to move. Still slow, still light, and in time the excitement leveled off, becoming bearable, sustainable. John caught his breath, found a rhythm and some tiny measure of confidence that he wasn’t about to unravel like a teenager on prom night.

  “That feels awesome,” she said. Her hands slid to his hips, riding their motions, then hinting at what she wanted—she coaxed him to go a little faster, and he did.

  “Is this pressure all right?” he asked.

  “You can give a little more. But not too much—the way the fabric drags feels good.”

  He beamed her a thank-you, so grateful for the instructions, the rationale, the demystification of all this sex nonsense. She could name precisely what she wanted and why, eliminating all the pressure. He might be a know-nothing, but goddamn, he could take direction.

  “You feel amazing.”

  The compliment roused him as much as the friction. “So do you. Do you . . . Is this getting you there?”

  “I think it can. Could you go faster, or are we pushing it?”

  “I bet I could.” He focused on the mechanics, the rhythm, and though the pleasure still surged with every thrust, it didn’t threaten to boil over. He put it out of his mind and let it simmer in his body, turning all his attention to Suzy’s needs. In time the motions became quicker, taut and precise, and with each flash of friction she seemed to grow wilder beneath him. The hands that had once stroked his sides and arms now clutched and squeezed, her muscles tight with unmistakable, mounting desperation.

  “Don’t stop. I’m close.”

  Oh, how those words moved through him, warm and thrilling. His own pleasure spiked, breaking through the haze of concentration. He let himself feel the details of this intimacy, the drag of his now damp shorts, the heat of their two bodies at that point of contact.

  “John.” It landed like a strike, fire blooming all through him.

  “I’d give anything to make you come.” He shivered at his own words, spoken thoughtlessly, dripping with truth.

  “You will. Just don’t stop.”

  Inside a minute, she was coming apart. Noises he knew only from her performances filled the space between them, shallow grunts, hungry mewls. Her legs hugged tight to his hips. Her hands tugged at his arms in time with the thrusts, nearly pinching, nearly hurting, but it felt right. He’d never imagined he’d have sex like this, so raw and real. If it stung or burned or bruised, he didn’t care. He wanted to feel everything sex ought to be. Wanted to pay any price to watch and hear and feel this extraordinary woman climax beneath him.

  “John. Fuck.” All at once, she locked her arms around his shoulders, pinning them together as her legs squeezed him tight. He froze, sensing it was what she needed, and memorized the tiny motions of her body, of her sex as she rubbed it along his cock before finally falling still and limp, releasing him.

  She let her arms and legs flop open, sighing with comic exhaustion or relief. John laughed. He sat back, kneeling, and lay a hand on either of her shins. It felt familiar—overly so? Ridiculous, given what had just happened, yet he couldn’t wrap his mind around the idea that she was somehow his to touch in such a casual, easy way.

  But as always, she surprised and relieved him, covering his hands with hers. She rubbed his knuckles and her eyes made a slow exploration of him. He hoped his body pleased her. He was built not unlike Meyer—tall and lean, if not quite as defined. Any muscle John boasted was the work of genetics and distance running, whereas he imagined Meyer probably had some calisthenics regimen. But the way her gaze moved up and down him, he felt attractive. Interesting. He tried not to think about his cock, straining and impatient, impolite. He tried not to think about what might come next, lest he get his hopes up.

  “C’mere,” Suzy said with a smile, curling a finger. She beckoned him to lie with her on their sides, facing each other, then drew him close for a kiss. Another. A good minute’s deep, slow, sensual kissing, and he felt her hands making the same curious journey her eyes just had. She stroked her palms over his skin lightly—his neck, shoulder, arm, chest and belly and side, then his hip and finally his backside.

  “Can I touch you?” she whispered, lips so close to his he felt every letter.

  “Yes. Please.” How on earth was she even asking him that? He’d had crushes in his life, many passing, a few more lingering and intense, but this woman—Mrs. Parks, to start with, then Suzy once their chats had begun—cast every other woman he’d ever fixated on in the deepest, darkest shadow. To say he’d been obsessed was too creepy, too stalkerish, but infatuated, yes. She’d been the object of his sexual fantasies back when this bizarre acquaintance had begun, his presence nothing more than thoughts read out by a computer. It had deepened, week by week, until other roles had been layered in—confidante, therapist, friend—and now that infatuation had become a crush, truly. A crush to eclipse all others.

  And now here they were, and her hand was stroking his side and hip, taking its time, dipping a little lower, a little lower, closer and closer to his erection. He felt exposed and explicit, his cock straining at the cotton, which was damp from her and from his own excitement. It was a thrilling sensation, though. One he’d never experienced. He felt a heady flash of what many men must feel so easily—an aggressive, rising tide of something approaching magnetism, as his cock convinced him it was the center of the universe, a totem to worship and fear.

  Ridiculous, but apt.

  This is what it feels like to be a testosterone-oozing dick monster, he thought. He couldn’t deny it was into
xicating.

  Touch it, he wanted to say. Hell, he wanted to take her hand and put it there, squeeze it tight. Alien impulses—he ignored them, defaulting to patient deference, even as the roiling river inside him surged, cresting its banks.

  The heel of her taunting hand glanced his head. A little bit more on the next pass, a little bit more, until it was real. She was stroking him lightly, fingers seeming to make a study of him as they traced his shaft through the dragging cotton.

  “Not too much?” she whispered.

  “No. It’s wonderful.” Impossible and wonderful.

  Her hand dipped lower, softly cupping his balls then sweeping up to his head. Back down, back up, again and again. Still light, still manageable, and still he didn’t lose himself. That calmed him, and he relaxed into the touch even as his excitement ratcheted tighter with every pass.

  “That’s amazing,” he told her, the words all air and heat. His eyes had long since shut. He could only field so much with his senses just now. Touch and smell were all he dared indulge at once.

  “Faster? Slower? Lighter or rougher?”

  “I don’t know. This is perfect, in a way. I . . . I can handle this, and part of me doesn’t want this to end. Ever. So I’m inclined to say keep doing just this.”

  She chuckled, and he could feel the warm, sweet breath that carried that sound against his chest. “Fair enough. Tell me when you’re ready for more. No rush.”

  That time did eventually arrive, mere minutes later. The pleasure went from a titillating tease to a mounting torture, and his cock was demanding more. First for indulgence, but then for relief. It went from tyrant to simpering slave in perhaps a dozen breaths, leaving him panting and fevered.

  “I need more.”

  “Describe ‘more,’” she breathed.

  “Faster. And close your hand, so it’s more like— Yes.” He shuddered as she made a fist of her fingers, squeezing either side of his cock as she worked him up and down. “Exactly like that.” It was like how he’d touch himself, only not. Her hand was far smaller, her grip and angle different, though the pressure and speed were right.