Good In Bed

by Bromberg, K

  A grin tells me he likes my impromptu plan. “Yes, it’s lesson three. You’re such a fast learner you deserve another session tonight.”

  He parks his hands behind his head.

  Part of me can’t believe this confident, cocky man wants a virgin to take his clothes off. But the look in his eyes says that’s precisely what he wants.

  Me.

  I’ve turned him on.

  I’ve aroused him.

  I’m going to undress him.

  Sparks race over my skin, and it’s hard to imagine I can want him this much after coming twice.

  But I’m learning all sorts of things are possible now that I’m visiting a country I’ve never traveled to before. One I very much want to spend a lot more time exploring.

  I scoot back and tug his white dress shirt from his pants.

  Graham has always looked good enough to eat, even clothed. I’ve feasted my eyes on him hundreds of times, but as my fingers open the small buttons of his crisp white shirt and spread it open, baring his chest, he literally takes my breath away.

  He’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.

  He has abs for days, and I trace the grooves of them with my fingertips. He shudders as I explore his flat belly, then again as I travel higher, my eager hands spreading over his firm, strong pecs. I sigh happily, certain now that I’m going to want to visit Graham Country many more times.

  I let my fingers skim the line of hair from his navel to the smattering of darker, curlier hair across his chest, and murmur, “You’re lovely.”

  “Like a butterfly?” he teases even as an almost pained expression crosses his face.

  “Yes,” I agree, laughing lightly. “Like a butterfly. A very manly butterfly.”

  I lean down to kiss him and end up nibbling on the skin of his abdomen the way he did mine. When I reach the close of his pants, I don’t hesitate to pop open the top button, unzip his zipper, and pull them down over his hips. The movement draws his boxer briefs down too, but I don’t stop. I don’t hesitate. I keep drawing the fabric lower until his erection springs free and the tips of my fingers go numb.

  He’s long and thick and just the right amount of veiny. His shaft pulses as I stare at him, my throat going dry. I gulp. It’s beautiful, but huge, and I have no idea what I’m doing. Slowly, I reach out to touch the head, but my confidence drains away in a heartbeat. I don’t know how to touch a man.

  Graham, of course, notices. “You can stop,” he says, through a clenched jaw. “It’s okay.”

  Briefly, I consider stopping, letting that possibility play out. But that’s an abhorrent thought. I don’t want to stop. I want to know.

  I raise my chin, calling on my inner tough girl, and my most honest self. “No. Just . . . show me how to touch you.” My tongue slips out to wet my lips. “Teach me.”

  His eyes blaze with desire as he takes my hand and wraps it lightly around his thick shaft.

  He groans at the same time that I gasp.

  I murmur incoherent sounds in soft disbelief at how thick he is, how hard and heavy. At how desperately I can tell that he needs this. My touch.

  That emboldens me.

  I stroke him up and down, ending with a gentle squeeze, my eyes asking if it’s okay.

  Graham rewards me with a groan. “Fuck, yes. You got it, Butterfly. Just don’t stop.”

  “Are you sure I’m doing it right?” I ask, needing the confirmation again, even though he’s already given it.

  He laughs lightly. “I’m positive.” Then his laughter ends, and his eyes darken. “Do it again. Don’t stop.”

  As I run my hand along his erection, a worry tugs at me. This man is so skilled in the bedroom. Am I going to put him to sleep with my tentative explorations? I run my fingers down the length of his cock to his balls. I touch them, very gently, feeling inadequate and wishing I had done my research on how men like to have their balls played with.

  “I’m not going to break,” Grahams rasps out, his fingers gently encircling my arm. “Look at me, CJ.”

  I do, blowing the hair out of my face with pursed lips.

  His eyes hold mine. His are fierce, honest, and a whole lot of hungry. “I promise you, there is nothing you can do that would be wrong. Nothing. You understand? That’s the lesson, CJ. You’re perfect as you are, and your touch drives me crazy.”

  “I want to do more than make you crazy,” I say, my fingers tightening around his shaft. I take a breath, gathering up the guts to say what I want more than anything right now. “I want to make you feel as good as you make me feel. I want to make you come, Graham. For me. Because of me.”

  Cursing under his breath, he nods. “Do you fucking know how close I already am? I want nothing more than to come all over your hand.”

  His words light me up. Electricity races through my body, a wild thrill at the prospect of bringing him to the cliff and then over. It’s dirty, it’s erotic, and it’s all so deliciously new. I want it desperately.

  “How do you want me to touch you?” I ask.

  He wraps his hand tighter around mine, guiding me up and down his length. Faster, rougher than I would on my own. “That’s what you do. You keep going,” he says, moving my hand even faster. “Up and down, not too hard, probably a little faster near the end. We’re a lot less complicated than women.”

  “Easy sounds good to me right now.”

  “Trust me. You’re making me look so fucking easy.”

  His playful words assuage my worries, and I draw in a breath. I can do this. I can absolutely do this. I grip him harder and follow his direction, stroking faster and rougher. He grits out my name in a twisted curse, and I feel a fresh wave of heat in my body.

  “Butterfly?” he whispers.

  “Yes?”

  “Slide your hand between your legs, and bring some of that wetness to my cock.”

  Duh. Of course, he needs lube. Fortunately, I’ve got a more than ample supply thanks to the double dose of pleasure he gave me. I do as he asked then return my wet hand to his cock.

  “Hey, look. It slides much easier,” I say playfully as I demonstrate.

  He smiles. “Yes, it does.”

  Then his smile falters, replaced by a look of intense concentration as I stroke him again. I pump him up and down, finding the rhythm that makes his breath come faster. A little more wetness, a little less friction, and he’s rocking into my hand, thrusting his hips into my fist.

  My breath catches and pleasure camps out in every cell in my body as I stare at the two of us, my hand on his hard-on. I’m wildly aroused from watching him, from doing this to him. His eyes squeeze shut, and I gaze at his throat, where the pulse seems to beat faster in his neck. His lips part, and he groans, louder than before. I’ve never heard anything so sexy in my life.

  “That’s it. A little faster.”

  I up the pace, gripping him even harder.

  “Yes. That,” he says on a groan. “Coming.”

  I bite my lip, thrilled at the way his pleasure overtakes him, how he groans and thrusts, and then he’s there, coming in my hand.

  “Fuck,” he mutters. Then he says it again and again. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to keep going at this tempo, but he seems to know I need his guidance, because he places his hand on mine, and slows my pace, even as he pants hard, coming down.

  I let go, wash my hands, and return to his side. He presses a kiss to my forehead. “I haven’t had a hand job in ages, and let me tell you, it was worth the wait. I don’t think I’ve enjoyed an orgasm that much in years.”

  I beam. It’s crazy to feel pride over a hand job, but I do. “I think it’s safe to say I’ve never enjoyed giving one as much either, and I loved every second of my first.”

  He laughs, drawing me in for another kiss. “I better clean up,” he murmurs, kissing me once more before excusing himself.

  When he returns, he slides in next to me. “Sleep with me,” he murmurs, tugging me into the crook of his arm, and my heart skips a beat. S
omething stirs in my chest, a deeper feeling, a warmth that extends beyond what we did tonight.

  “I would love to sleep with you,” I say with a smile, and neither one of us misses the double meaning of the words, or the fact that tonight they mean something softer, more tender.

  “You feel good, all nice and warm,” he says in my ear, then presses a soft kiss to my neck.

  “So do you.” I settle in next to him, sighing happily as he spoons me. “Is this another lesson? Are we squeezing in lesson four?”

  “How to cuddle after a fantastic orgasm,” he murmurs.

  “Now that I think I’ll excel at.”

  But he shakes his head against my hair. “It’s not a lesson.”

  “It’s not?”

  He brushes my hair away from my skin, his touch gentle. “Nope. It’s just what I want more than anything right now.”

  That feeling in my chest? It intensifies. It multiplies. It soars. It’s almost better than my double Os. I let myself feel it for a few seconds before I return to the task of keeping my head and heart separate.

  But separate doesn’t mean resisting a good snuggle. I cuddle against him, savoring the heat from his body, my thoughts drifting into sleepy pastures.

  Until my phone howls in my purse.

  Literally howls, the full-moon baying of wolves that means there is serious trouble at home. My landlord never calls unless there is a bona fide emergency, the kind that cannot wait until morning.

  “Don’t answer that,” Graham murmurs. “I’m about to have a fantastic dream about you falling asleep in my arms.”

  “I was going to have the same dream. But I have to grab this call.”

  I hit the green button and bring the phone to my ear, where my “Hello?” is met by an endless stream of cursing in Czechoslovakian. But in between all the cursing, I catch a few key words—broken pipes, ruined carpet, structural damage, damned cat, and loose in the building.

  With a silent groan of abject misery, I promise to be there as soon as I can, to clean everything up and pay for all damages, and to get my renegade pussycat back in his cage ASAP.

  I love that little guy. God, how I love him.

  But right now, I wish my brother had owned a pet rock.

  Chapter 13

  Graham

  The entire way to the Meatpacking District in the cab, all I can think about is muzzles. Surely they have cat muzzles, right? Something snappy-looking but secure that CJ can wrap around her cat’s destructive mouth before she leaves the house. I mean, I get that Stephen King is old and blind and easily confused about what is food and what isn’t, but right now, I would have zero issues with muzzling the fluffy bastard.

  And I wasn’t even cock-blocked by the stupid cat.

  I was . . . snuggle-stonewalled. Cuddle-confounded. Spoon-stymied.

  Jesus. What’s wrong with me? I’m pissed at a senile old feline because I didn’t get to curl up and slip into the land of nod with the loveliest woman ever?

  I look in the rearview mirror, answering my own question.

  Yes. Evidently, yes.

  “You don’t have to come up. You can wait out front if you don’t want to deal, or if you want to answer emails or whatever,” CJ says, bolting from the cab as soon as I’ve passed a twenty through the hole in the glass. “It’s going to be ugly. And wet. And there’s probably going to be a lot of yelling. My landlord isn’t happy.”

  “And why should he be?” As soon as she turns her key, I follow her through the front door and toward the third floor. “Your pet wreaked havoc on his property.”

  “No, I wreaked havoc on his property when I forgot to put the baby lock back on the kitchen cabinet,” she says, huffing as she hurries around the first-floor landing. “Stephen King can’t help it. He suffers from dementia, and dementia increases his stress levels, and increased stress levels make him want to chew things.”

  “Nothing a muzzle won’t cure,” I mutter under my breath.

  CJ frowns at me over her shoulder but doesn’t stop climbing. “I heard that. And I’m not going to muzzle him. I believe in letting creatures age with dignity. Especially creatures who I happen to love, and who I don’t want to see wander out into the street and get run over.”

  The reminder of how much she adores this crazy old cat sends the frustration in my chest rushing away, banished by the vulnerability in her voice.

  “I’m sorry. And don’t worry. We’re going to find Steve. And he’s not going to get run over. Not on my watch.”

  Yep. I’m Ed Harris, guiding the astronauts safely home from a failed moon mission in Apollo 13, delivering his brazen vow: We've never lost an American in space, we’re sure as hell not gonna lose one on my watch!

  Cat-retrieval failure is not an option.

  The time for honor is upon me. It’s my duty to help the woman find her feline.

  As we reach the third floor and speed-walk toward the sound of Slavic cursing at the end of the hall, CJ reaches out, giving my hand a quick squeeze. “Let me handle Arno, okay? He sounds scary, but he can be reasoned with. Usually. Sometimes.”

  Before I can respond, or suggest that maybe she should go look for the cat while I soothe Arno’s rage with a few crisp one hundred dollar bills, CJ darts through the door to her apartment and into the heart of the chaos.

  Arno, a balding man with rheumy blue eyes and too-pink features, gesticulates wildly at CJ and the heavens and hell, and everything in between, but my gut tells me he’s not a threat. He’s angry, yes, but harmless. The real danger is coming from under the sink. Water is gushing out of the cabinet and onto the already soaked carpet, where a stain the size of a small elephant is growing larger every second. It’s completely saturated. If water hasn’t soaked through to the subfloor yet, it will soon, and then this repair is going to go from expensive to sky-high.

  I have no idea why Arno hasn’t turned the damn water off, but if he’s too busy yelling to take care of business, I have no problem doing it for him.

  Picking my way around the chunks of mauled potato and onion littering the floor—it looks like Stephen King snacked on a few other things, besides piping—I squish through the soaked carpet, kneel down, and reach beneath the sink. The hot water knob sticks, but eventually gives with a squeal, and in just a few seconds I have both the hot and cold water shut off at the source and the situation relatively under control.

  As soon as the water stops gushing, the flood of cursing ceases.

  “How do you do?” Arno asks in a thick accent.

  I turn to see him motioning toward the sink and figure he isn’t actually inquiring about the state of my health. “I shut it off at the source. The valves are under the sink.”

  His pale brows furrow as he blinks. “Under sink?”

  I nod, trying to keep my voice judgment-free. “Yep. Right there. Under the sink, just turn them all the way to the right. And I’m guessing it’s the same set-up in every unit, so you’ll know next time you have a problem.”

  He grunts, seemingly impressed, and I silently wonder how a man can be a damned landlord—or an adult, for God’s sake—and not know how to shut off water to the sink. But this is the same man who thought it was acceptable to install all-over shag carpeting in the unit, even in the kitchen, so he’s clearly not in the habit of tackling apartment issues properly.

  “Thank you, Graham,” CJ says, beaming at me like I just saved a baby from a burning building. And though I know I did nothing even close, I can’t deny it feels good to be looked at like that. Especially by her, this woman who is all I think about lately, all I dream about.

  She claps her hands together and adds in an upbeat voice, “Now we just need to find Stephen and get this cleaned up and—”

  “No, you out.” Arno’s chest puffs as his arms flail toward the door.

  CJ’s face goes white. “Oh, no. Please, Arno, I promise nothing like this will ever happen again. I’ll lock the child safety locks every time. Please, I love living here, and I’ve never been
late with my rent, not once in three years. Can’t we—?”

  “No, no, not out for good,” Arno says, his bluster softening in the face of CJ’s pleading. “Out for week. To fix carpet and floor and to make tile. We make tile here now so easier to clean.”

  CJ nods quickly. “Oh, yes! That would be wonderful. The shag was hard to keep clean, if I’m being completely honest. And I’m happy to cover the tile costs.”

  “You’ll do no such thing.” I wade back across the soaked carpet, water oozing in through my shoes to dampen my socks. “The guy who redid my bathroom last year is amazing, and he owes me a favor. I’ll get in touch with him tomorrow morning and get a crew over to clean up the water ASAP. Hopefully we can have this all dried up and tiled by next week. My treat.” I extend a hand to Arno. “Agreed?”

  “You pay bill?” He cocks his head, studying me out of the corner of his eyes. “All bill? Whole bill?”

  “Every dime,” I assure him.

  “And you pick nice color,” he adds, pointing at my chest. “Nothing too crazy. No pink.”

  “No pink,” I agree drily. “It will be tasteful and of the highest quality.”

  With his lip curling in apparent satisfaction, Arno nods and clasps my hand, pumping my arm up and down. “Good. Done.” He releases my palm and points his stubby finger in CJ’s direction. “You find cat. You take him out. I let work crews into apartment and make sure valuables are safe. No worries.”

  CJ presses her hands together. “Thank you so much, Arno. Thank you.”

  Grumbling and nodding, Arno waves away her thanks and shuffles stiffly across the room. A moment later, CJ and I are alone with the soaked floor, the potato and onion chunks, and the smell of wet carpet, which is better than wet dog, but not by much.

  “Thank you,” she says. “I appreciate the sweet offer, but I insist on paying for the work and the clean-up.”

  I shake my head as I reach out, pulling her in for a hug. “Not a chance, Murphy. I’ve got this covered. Consider it an early birthday present.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  Failure is not an option tonight. That applies, too, to my offer to pay. Given the uncharitable thoughts that just coursed through my head about her poor cat, I need to pay. It’s only right. “Butterfly, this is not up for negotiation. I’m paying for it. It’s that simple.”