Good In Bed

by Bromberg, K

  Shit. Time to call upon the old standby. I imagine them all naked. As horrifying an image as that is—it will require bleach to wipe it away—it does the trick.

  I tap my fingers on the conference table. “Yeah, I was thinking about that one,” I bluff. I can’t let on that my mind wandered. Not with the board vote next week. Besides, I’m supposed to be on a sex-batical, not an intensive immersion course. I need to act like my brain isn’t hanging out on naughty shores all day long.

  “Yes?” Christopher leans forward.

  I heave a deep sigh. The kind that says a thoughtful answer is coming.

  “And I wonder if we’re ready for that yet?” I say, figuring this is like the SAT. If you don’t know the answer, you take a guess. That seems like a reasonable response to any question that might have arisen.

  Christopher furrows his brow. “We’re not ready to move up the release of the new corsets? We just secured space for them in our lineup.”

  Oops.

  Wrong guess.

  But am I CEO or am I CEO?

  I lean back in my chair, let a slow smile spread, and point at him. “Gotcha.” I slap the table. “Of course we’re ready. We’re ready to launch that rocket into the holiday stratosphere. Santa’s going to have a bag full of naughty this Christmas.”

  I’m rewarded with cheers and laughter.

  I stand, give a quick wave, and say, “I have an important call to make. Good work, good focus, and great hustle.”

  That earns me some smiles for keeping the meeting on time.

  Inside my office, I close the door and will my mind to concentrate on the mountain of work that awaits me. With iron focus and sheer determination, I power my way through the afternoon.

  In the early evening, I take off, saying goodbye to Brian. “Don’t work too late.”

  He shuts his laptop. “I’m on my way out now. I need to head home to Missy and bring her some pepper steak. She’s been craving that like mad the last few weeks.”

  “How far along is she now?”

  “Thirty-seven weeks.”

  I clap him on the back. “Excellent. And is everything going well?”

  “Perfectly. Knock on wood.”

  “Send her my best, and on the way home, why don’t you pick up some takeout from the Hunan Garden around the corner? Put it on my personal account.”

  A grin spreads across his face. “I really appreciate that.”

  “My pleasure.”

  A productive day at work, a gesture of goodwill toward a colleague and his lady, and a hard workout in my future—it’s all good. But I can’t help wishing CJ were going to be with me tonight.

  I’d really like to take her to night school. Right now.

  * * *

  Instead, I go to the gym, meeting up with Campbell.

  “Hey, bra man. What time is it when the big hand is on the six and the little hand is on the seven?”

  I tap my temple. “Time for me to kick your ass on the treadmill.”

  He laughs and turns up the speed on his machine. As we run, he updates me on some woman he just met, had a fantastic night with, and is making plans to see again.

  “She must have lost a bet with a friend. That’s why she has to date you?” I offer.

  “Definitely. But seeing as I delivered a four-peat, I think we both won that bet.”

  I’ve got nothing. I simply have to salute him.

  When I leave the gym after a muscle-burning and heart-pounding five-mile run, followed by an intense session of weights, I’ve exhausted my body and distracted my mind.

  At home, I pour myself a Scotch and settle in to catch up on one of my favorite flicks of all time, Office Space. At this point, I can recite it as I watch, including the bit where the douche boss in his blue shirt and white cuffs monotones the line that makes every employee cringe. “Yeah, I’m going to need you to come in on Saturday.”

  But rather than laughing at a too-true bit, I’m back where I started the day.

  With CJ.

  Bending her over my desk.

  Working overtime on her body. Making her come on a Saturday. A Sunday. Hell, every day.

  Damn, I’m an easy bastard, managing to get hard watching a dark comedy.

  I glance down at the tent in my shorts. Thanks, CJ, for yet another erection courtesy of you. Tomorrow—and lesson two—can’t come soon enough.

  I flick off the TV, since there’s no way I’m going to take care of this while Bill Lumbergh, the douche boss from the flick, is on the screen.

  But my office is where I’d like to see CJ.

  Perched on the edge of my desk. Knees up, heels on, panties off. I flash back to the softness of her skin, damp with sweat, and the incredible way she’d smelled, like innocence meets desire.

  My dick stretches against my boxer briefs, demanding attention. Persistent bastard. Didn’t I fucking deal with him this morning in the shower already?

  But I heed the call.

  I push down my briefs and draw out my cock, like an iron spike already. No surprise, I suppose. I’ve been operating at attention nearly all day. I close my hand over my shaft, my skin hot to the touch. I close my eyes, remembering the sexy sounds CJ made as she neared the edge, the sweet taste of her skin. My blood rushes hot and fast as I stroke from base to tip, my thoughts lingering on the way her eyes widened when she’d touched my dick, the sheer excitement in her gaze, like a wild thrill was rushing through her. Like she wanted to touch my dick as much as I wanted her to.

  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 g
reat. 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. I was Facetiming with my cousin earlier. Dylan was attempting to teach me poker so I won’t come in last at the family reunion tournament this year.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “Badly,” she says with a laugh. “I’m the opposite of a card shark. A card guppy, I guess?”

  “Card tadpole,” I joke, finding it oddly cute that she’s terrible at cards. “I’ll give you a poker refresher course before the reunion. In the meantime, 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 10

  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.”