Good In Bed

by Bromberg, K

  A warm, tingly feeling spreads through me. “More than okay.”

  I draw a sharp breath as he sinks deeper inside. Deeper, deeper, maybe halfway in, and holy hell.

  He’s stretching me, and for a moment I feel as if I’m being ripped apart. I grit my teeth, my muscles tensing against the sting.

  “Butterfly.” His voice is laced with worry

  I try to will away the pain, but damn, it hurts. “I’m fine,” I mutter.

  “You’re not fine. Talk to me.”

  I remember I promised I would be honest. I loop my arms tighter around his neck, needing to hold him close as I confess, “It hurts, Graham. But I don’t want to stop. So please don’t.”

  He sighs heavily, but doesn’t move. I look up at him, seeing concern, care, and so much more in his eyes. I see him here with me, in every way, and suddenly I can breathe. And that changes the game.

  As I pull in another breath, I start to relax.

  “Perfect,” he whispers. “Just breathe, baby. Take all the time you need.”

  Another breath, and the stinging sensation fades a little more.

  Slowly, the hurt subsides, giving way to another rush of warmth and desire, the need to get even closer to this man who is so sweetly patient with me.

  I wrap my legs around him. “Now. I want you inside me. All the way.”

  There’s something about saying those words that empowers me. That emboldens my body to accept everything he has to give. This is my choice, my man, my moment. I give myself over to all the possibilities, all the hunger, all the emotion filling my chest to overflowing.

  I swallow hard and grab his ass, pulling him deeper.

  He slides another inch, and like the soft, final notes of a song, the pain ends.

  Another song begins, a primal melody that is beautiful, natural, and oh-so right.

  I still feel stretched, full, but I also feel something wholly new. A spark spreads up my chest to my arms, down to my fingers. This sensation is warm, it’s floaty—it’s what I’ve always wanted.

  A smile spreads across my face.

  Graham laughs lightly. “Looks like everything is okay?”

  “So much better than okay,” I say, and I can’t stop smiling. “It's like champagne. You don’t know what to make of it the first time you taste it, and then you just want more.”

  “You want more, baby?”

  “Oh yes . . .” I start to move with him, my hips rocking up, sensations building and rising inside me.

  His hips swivel, and he goes deeper. But never too hard or too rough. Always with just the right amount of pressure, just the right amount of him in me.

  God, a man is inside me—Graham is inside me—and it is every bit as incredible as I ever imagined.

  My body grows hotter, my skin damper. My heart jackhammers as he moves and I move with him, and somehow, we find the most wonderful rhythm.

  Together.

  Gently but firmly, he guides my leg higher on his hip, opening me more as he thrusts into me. I’m trembling all over as a full, heavy feeling ripples through me. I’m being wickedly, deliciously turned inside out.

  And then, he slides his hand down between us, touching me where I want him most, and that sends me soaring. He rubs and strokes, and soon I’m mindless with pleasure. I’m lost in all these new sensations as he fills me and zeroes in on where everything feels like bliss.

  Soon, that’s all I feel. I’ve passed the brink. I’m reaching something inevitable. Something that was always meant to happen this way, just exactly this way.

  There’s a flash of ecstatic oblivion as desire curls inward, tightens, and then I let go, I fall, and the waves of pleasure overcome me. I reach the edge as he fills me, as he makes love to me, as he takes me over the cliff.

  A few seconds later, he’s there with me too. Saying my name. Saying how good it feels. Telling me he’s coming.

  I’m drowning in the sweetest heat as I watch him thrust one last time then come apart, shuddering, his jaw clenched as he moans low in his throat. And this is another wondrous first for me, watching a man climax inside me, and I like this part just as much as I like my own orgasms.

  Probably because I’m falling in love with him.

  That’s the part that’s truly going to hurt.

  Because in a few more nights, this will end.

  Chapter 20

  Graham

  All day Friday at the office, all I can think about is CJ. Making love to CJ. How sweet and sexy and incredible she was last night, and how much I need to have her naked in my arms again, calling my name while she comes on my cock, ASA-fucking-P.

  We’re more than halfway through our seven days, and there’s still so much ground left to cover, so many lessons left to learn . . .

  The afternoon is a full course in patience, as CJ and I exchange mutually frustrated text messages about how intolerable it is to have to remain clothed and in separate offices in different parts of the city all day.

  The evening is a master class in anticipation as I treat CJ to happy hour martinis and my fingers skimming up the inside of her thigh beneath the tablecloth at our corner booth.

  Friday night begins with a lesson in how much fun we can have in the shower together, with nothing but body wash and a fresh sponge. It ends with a four-hour tutorial in going nearly all night long.

  Never has exhaustion been so sweet.

  Saturday morning dawns with a warm yellow glow through the curtains that has me up and at ’em, even though I closed my eyes less than five hours ago.

  But I’m full of energy. I finally have an entire day stretching out in front of me with nothing but CJ in it. No work. No meetings. Just full-immersion sex education for the next forty-eight hours. I kiss her softly on her forehead, slide quietly out of bed, and head down the hall to the kitchen with a spring in my step.

  I whistle as I start the coffeepot and dig deep in the drawers for the pans I rarely use. Sure, there’s a voice in my head warning that there’s no reason to be so excited—this sex fling is going to be over tomorrow night and there will be no more lessons, no more CJ in my bed, no more waking up with her warm and delicious in my arms—but I ignore that voice.

  No buzz-killing on the menu today. Just buzz-encouraging.

  Which means pancakes and extra-dark French roast coffee.

  Now if I can just find that pan . . .

  The one you use to, um, cook things . . .

  * * *

  CJ

  I wake up feeling like I barely survived one of the hard-core boot-camp weekends Chloe drags me to every June before bathing suit season.

  I’m sore in every single one of my muscles, even ones I wasn’t aware existed until they started aching. My brain is a sluggish lump sitting heavily in my skull, refusing to think thoughts more eloquent than “Coffee now. Coffee good,” and I’m so exhausted I’m pretty sure I’m going to need assistance to drag my butt out of this heavenly soft bed.

  Oh yeah . . . and I’m also completely giddy.

  Graham is mine for the weekend, and I refuse to let anything get in the way of my last two days with him. Two days of Graham making me feel earth-shattering, mind-blowing, perspective-revolutionizing things that have made it abundantly clear what the fuss is all about. The fuss is about orgasms and more orgasms and yet even more orgasms delivered by a sexy-as-hell man who tells me that I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

  I sigh as my mouth begins to water. I’m not sure if it’s memories of Graham, or the scent of vanilla and sugar in the air, but I’m suddenly starving.

  After a full-body stretch, I swing my feet to the floor and pull on one of Graham’s T-shirts and a pair of panties.

  I find him in the kitchen, wearing nothing but boxer briefs and a chef’s apron. Only Graham could mix adorable and sexy so well.

  A skillet sizzles on the stove. Oblivious to my presence, he hustles about the kitchen, pulling items from the refrigerator, setting
them on the counter, and rushing back to the stove where the sweet smell is coming from.

  Pancakes?

  I sneak quietly up behind him to plant my elbows on the center island. “Well, well. I didn’t know you cooked.”

  Graham spins with a slightly harried smile. “Good morning, Butterfly. How did you sleep?”

  “Like the dead,” I confess. “But in a good way.”

  He grins. “Me too. And yes, I like to use the kitchen once a year or so, so it doesn’t feel neglected.”

  “Biannually, eh?” I shake my head as I tease, “I’m thinking that doesn’t bode well for the quality of these pancakes.”

  He places the bowl of batter on the counter and snatches his spatula from near the sink, where several other bowls of lumpy batter have apparently already been discarded. “You wound me, Murphy. Here I am, slaving over a hot stove to feed your sexy body pancakes and—”

  “Graham, I think—”

  “And you’re insulting my cooking prowess before you’ve even—”

  “Graham,” I say more urgently as smoke begins to rise behind him.

  “—tasted the fruits of my labor or—”

  “Graham, the stove,” I break in, jabbing a finger at the skillet, where tendrils of brown smoke are quickly turning black. “Your pancakes are burning.”

  Graham whirls around. “Shit.” He snatches the entire pan—charred mess and all—from the stove and practically tosses it into the sink before turning on the water, sending the smell of soggy, burning batter whooshing through the kitchen.

  “Exhaust!” I hurry around the island and flip the exhaust switch. Immediately, the cloud of smoke begins to clear.

  I turn to Graham, who is looking positively sheepish with his spatula in one hand and a potholder in the other, and I burst out laughing. “Give me that.” I take his spatula and use it to make shooing motions. “Make way for a professional. You clearly need a proper class in when to flip your pancake.”

  His brows bob playfully up and down. “That sounds dirty. I didn’t know you wanted to flip my pancake.”

  “Oh, but I do,” I say in my best sexy voice, tossing my hair over my shoulder as I grab the least offensive bowl of batter from the counter. “Get me a fresh skillet, baby. The student is about to become the teacher.”

  Graham offers a snappy salute. “Yes, ma’am. One fresh skillet coming up.”

  Ten minutes later, I’ve instructed my eager pupil in the proper temperature, timing, and flipping technique to achieve perfectly browned pancakes every time. And I actually manage to get a small stack of ready-to-eat hotcakes stacked on a plate next to the stove before Graham circles his arms around me, and my devotion to the curriculum begins to wander.

  “You are so hot right now.” His fingers slip beneath my T-shirt to skim my ribs as he kisses my neck. “All bossy, taking charge of my kitchen . . .”

  “Someone had to take you in hand.” I bite my lip as his palms glide higher. “You’re clearly a pancake-flipping virgin.”

  “You’re so right.” He cups my breasts, making my next breath rush in on a gasp of awareness as his thumb brushes across my nipple. “And so generous and patient with me. I wonder how I can ever repay you.”

  Flipping off the heat to the burner, I lean against him, offering him unimpeded access, glancing over my shoulder to meet his gaze as I whisper, “I have a few ideas about repayment.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He somehow manages to maintain his innocent expression even as he rolls my nipples harder, making me fight to hold in a moan. “Might they have anything to do with a lesson in up-against-the-refrigerator sex?”

  I lick my lips, pressing them tight together as hunger floods my every cell. “I think refrigerator sex is a good start. Though, I may require further payment after breakfast. I have some questions about alternative uses for maple syrup that I would like to explore.”

  Graham makes a contemplative sound deep in his throat. “Tell me more.”

  But before I can answer, and tell him exactly what I have in mind for syrup, he’s captured my mouth with his, sending the taste of sweet, sugary coffee and Graham flooding through my mouth.

  And it is as fantastic as always.

  The best taste. My favorite taste.

  Pancakes are definitely going to have to wait.

  Chapter 21

  CJ

  The lesson in alternative uses for syrup goes well—very well, if I do say so myself. By the time I’m finished with Graham, he’s so useless I have to bring his plate of pancakes to him on the kitchen floor and feed him syrup-soaked pieces until he recovers his strength.

  “You’re such a drama king,” I tease as I pop a bite between his lips before stabbing another triangle for myself.

  He smiles, his eyes closed as he chews. “Am not. This is what happens to a man when you give him the best blow job of his life.” He continues before I can challenge the truth of that statement. “Besides, I’m conserving my energy for the afternoon’s adventures.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I ask, intrigued. “And what might those be?”

  His eyes open in a sleepy, sexy way that makes my body start to hum again. “You’ll see. It’s a surprise. Something to push us both out of our comfort zones. It’s going to be fun.”

  I arch an eyebrow, unsure what he’s getting at. “If you say so.”

  “But you will need to dress for moderate to strenuous physical activity in the out of doors.”

  My brows lift. “You want to go outside?”

  “Hard to conduct the lesson I have in mind in an apartment.”

  I twist my features into an exaggerated frown. “All right. If you insist. But I confess I was having fantasies about keeping you in bed all day. With few to no clothes on.”

  “Tempting. Very tempting, but there will be time for that tomorrow. Today, we’re taking it to the streets. Get dressed, Butterfly. We’re going out.”

  An hour later, after two subway rides—a trip to The Village Vet to check on Stephen King and spoil him with petting and tuna treats, and a walk through a part of Brooklyn I haven’t seen before—we arrive at the Prospect Park outdoor roller-skating rink, and Graham holds open the gate to usher me inside.

  “You have to be kidding,” I say, my gaze sliding to the families, couples, and wild, sticky-faced kids rolling in frenzied circles. “We both stink at roller-skating.”

  “Which is why this is a perfect chance to learn something new together.”

  “While I love the idea, might I remind you of the debacle known as Chloe’s roller-disco party two years ago?”

  “I know. That’s what’ll make it fun. We’ll fall on our assess in unity.”

  I shoot him a skeptical stare. “Have you forgotten that you nearly wound up with a shattered tailbone? I, for one, have a crystal-clear visual of you landing smack on your cute butt in the middle of the rink.”

  He smirks. “You think my ass is cute.”

  I roll my eyes. “Obviously. But that’s neither here nor there. Why don’t you park that cute butt on a paddleboat and we can do that together instead? They rent those. I saw a sign back there.”

  He shakes his head, wiggling his eyebrows. “I’d rather see your cute butt skating in front of me.”

  I laugh at him and then take a deep breath. Come to think of it, what if I do fall on my butt? What if he falls on his?

  We’ll get back up. We’ll keep on skating. We’ll figure it out together.

  A fresh surge of confidence zips through me. “Fine, then let’s lace up, speedy. I’m ready to race if you are,” I say with a wink.

  “Oh, I was born ready.” He takes my hand. “And don’t worry, I won’t let you fall.”

  His words echo as we head to the rental counter.

  I won’t let you fall . . .

  Oh, but Graham, it’s already too late, don’t you see? I’m already falling. Falling so fast and I can’t seem to stop.

  But I don’t say any of those things out loud. I just grip his hand, determin
ed to hold tight for the time we have left.

  * * *

  We aren’t disco kings on roller skates. I’m not bopping along like a roller-derby girl, and he’s not a skate god on wheels. We are stiff and silly-looking and laughing more than any other couple on the rink.

  And I like it that way.

  As I watch him glide unsteadily around the turns, a little clunky at first but a whole lot determined, I find I’m even more attracted to him than I was before we arrived. I love that he’s not amazing at skating. I love that he’s awkward, but he’s doing it anyway. He’s not letting imperfection get in the way of a good time.

  And neither am I.

  I make it around a few times, skating more comfortably with each lap. Then he skates a few feet in front of me and comes to an only semi-shaky stop.

  “Impressive,” I observe.

  He holds out a hand. “How about a spin?”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “No way. Straight ahead without falling is enough excitement for me.”

  “One spin,” his wheedles, fingers curling around mine. “C’mon. No risk, no reward.”

  “I’ll fall.”

  “You won’t fall.” He takes both my hands, skating slowly in a curve. “I’ve got you, Butterfly. Trust me.”

  “I do trust you. Obviously,” I say. My heart jerks as his eyes meet mine and something passes between us, something intimate that makes me forget I can’t spin in skates.

  And in that moment, I’m sure he can see right through me, straight to that starry-eyed dreamer who wants so much more from him than seven days. Will she scare him away?

  But he just holds on tight and says, “Look at us. We rock.”

  We glide faster, spinning in smooth circles, both of us relaxing as we gain confidence. We aren’t going to sign up for synchronized skating any time soon, but I’m smiling, and he’s grinning, and skating is even more fun with him by my side.

  So are sleepovers.

  And dinners.

  And kitty scavenger hunts.