Good In Bed

by Bromberg, K

  “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.”

  “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 exp
ression 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 11

  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.”

  “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 roam 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 wit
h 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.”