Love Machine

by Kendall Ryan

  She makes a noise of acknowledgment. I shiver at the brief vibration, then again, more deeply, at the gentle writhing against the sensitive underside of my cock. But the slow, steady rhythm is just enough to get me near the edge without pushing me over.

  “Faster.” My voice comes out husky with need.

  Her tongue shifts gears to a rapid, feathery flicking like what I used on her clit earlier. That speed feels better, but now there’s not quite enough contact to satisfy me.

  “Ah . . .”

  I’m trying my best to impart some wisdom here, but Keaton’s adorably amateur attempts at blowing me make it hard to stay coherent. Just like in our first encounter, she’s tiptoeing around my dick like she’s defusing a bomb. It’s hilarious, but also fucking sexy, because it’s just so Keaton. Nobody else would approach sex quite so analytically. She’s hot even when she doesn’t mean to be. And her technique certainly isn’t bad . . . but she needs a little guidance.

  “Hang on.” I place my hand on her cheek to halt her. I’m not just a dude getting his dick sucked. I’m a friend trying to teach. And as good as it feels, I know she can do better.

  She pulls off with a faint, wet pop and looks up at me, her brow furrowed with confusion and more than a little impatience. “What’s wrong? Am I that bad?”

  “No, not at all, but I can tell you’re thinking too much.” My lips quirk. “As usual.”

  She lets go of me completely to sit back on her heels. “Thinking is bad? Then what should I do, just slap it around randomly?”

  “What I mean is, just try to relax. It’s just a dong, not a supercomputer.” I grin when she cracks up. “There you go. Laughing is a good start. Sex is supposed to be about having fun.”

  Still chuckling, she gives me a skeptical, raised-eyebrow smirk. “Laugh at a man’s penis. Hang on, let me write that hot tip down.”

  “Not at him, with him. You know what I’m trying to say . . . don’t take things too seriously. You have to go with the flow and just do what feels right.”

  “That’s what I was trying to do—plan out what would feel good for you.” Her lips purse in frustration.

  Maybe we need a different angle of attack. I rub my chin, figuring out what will make the most sense to her. “How about this? Forget everything you’ve ever read or heard about what men like in bed and just rely on my feedback. Every man is different, anyway, so reading his reactions works better than trying to memorize a bunch of stuff like you’re studying for a test.”

  “So, playing a sexy version of that game Hot and Cold?” she asks.

  “Sort of. Just do whatever comes into your head, and if I like it, I’ll let you know.”

  She nods slowly. “I think I can handle that.”

  I tweak her nose. “No thinking, remember?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Resting her elbows on my thighs, she puts one hand around my cock, letting the fingertips of her other hand rest on my leg, then lowers her mouth back down.

  I let out a moan of pleasure to encourage her. “Mmm . . . much better.”

  She seems to be using her hands and tongue smoothly now, so I decide to move the lesson forward a little more. “Yes. Fuck. Now, cup my balls. Rub them with your palm, gently.”

  She obeys, and I don’t have to try to remember to moan. I couldn’t hold back, even if I wanted to. My eyes practically roll to the back of my head. I knew things would go a lot smoother once she got out of her own head.

  I fight through the growing haze of pleasure to keep guiding her, reassuring her constantly that she’s doing great, stroking her hair and neck and jawline and whatever other silky skin I can reach. She responds well to my filthy praise, her movements becoming less calculated and more sensual, even letting out the occasional dreamy murmur.

  She’s getting off on this, I realize with a jolt of heat. That’s what made the difference. Turning her on got her into the zone.

  I love watching her take me. Her eyes are closed, her long lashes resting against high cheekbones, and the delicate column of her throat works me up and down.

  “Just like that.”

  I place one hand on her head and pump my hips up toward her mouth. She makes a murmured noise of pride, clearly enjoying the fact that my control is slipping.

  “Fuck.”

  I roll my hips up and she takes the cue, intensifying the strokes of her tongue and hand. I won’t last much longer; it feels like I’ve been ready and waiting all day. My balls start drawing up tight against my body.

  “Ah, Keaton . . .” I groan. “Gonna come soon . . . not sure if you want me to . . .”

  She doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up at all as I pull a deep breath into my lungs, fighting to maintain control. She knows how this works, right? Surely, she doesn’t want . . . I mean, I can’t come in her mouth . . .

  “Keat . . .” I growl. “If you don’t wanna taste it, now’s the time to—”

  Instead of pulling away, she speeds up, and I choke on my words. My muscles tighten, bliss washes through me, and my cock pulses right into her warm, waiting mouth. She keeps working me through it until I gasp for her to stop, so hypersensitive that I can’t take any more.

  At first, I think she’s going to spit it out. But then a determined look appears on her face, like this is a game she’s playing to win. Giving me a long-lashed, sultry glance, she swallows audibly.

  I gulp right back. Holy fuck, that’s one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen.

  My fingers still tangled in her long, dark hair, I lean down to crush our lips together, tasting the bitter traces of my own release. She moans throatily into my mouth and responds with unashamed hunger, all nipping teeth and lashing tongue.

  We indulge in the smoldering kiss for a good long while before she pulls back to ask, low and breathy, “How was that?”

  If she wants a little ego-stroking, no problem—she’s more than earned it. “Fucking amazing,” I answer truthfully.

  I help her up onto the couch, and we settle back against the cushions.

  “So, did you enjoy yourself too?” I ask, tugging up my boxers.

  She tilts her head. “Wasn’t this about you?”

  “I mean, sure, you gave me an orgasm—a fucking incredible one, just so you know—but I still want to hear if you got something out of it. You shouldn’t blow a guy just because you feel like you have to.”

  She makes a thoughtful noise. “You know . . . yeah, I did like it.” A playful, open smile curves her lips. “You were right about not thinking. When I focused on making you feel good, I got into this headspace where I just intuitively knew what to do.”

  “Glad I could help,” I reply. “Just so you know, you didn’t have to swallow that.”

  She grins. “I know.”

  Then she leans on me, and without even thinking about it, I loop my arm around her soft, bare shoulders. Her sex-tousled hair rests against my cheek. I inhale the scents of sweat and pleasure and something uniquely Keaton, and a quiet sigh of contentment escapes her.

  Everything feels so damn good right now. It must just be the sex hormones, though.

  Then Keaton’s phone chimes from her purse across the room. She stretches with an adorable little squeak and mutters, “Shit. I’ve got to get going.” Do I imagine the note of reluctance in her voice?

  I frown. “Why?”

  “Karina and Gabby and I have plans to see Mommy Troubles today, and I totally lost track of time. That was my alarm telling me I have half an hour to get to the theater. Mind if I abandon you so I can shower real quick?”

  Despite my disappointment, I smirk. Guess she worked up a sweat. “Go right ahead. It’s your place.” Hell, she could easily kick me out with the excuse of needing to get ready. But maybe, some part of me hopes she wants me to stick around as badly as I want to stay.

  In ten minutes, she emerges dressed in a short, silky robe with a small towel twisted around her hair, and I openly admire her body, damp and flushed from the hot water. I liked how she smelled before, all m
usky from sex, but I also like how she smells now, all clean and flowery-sweet with the feminine perfumes of her shampoo and soap.

  Raising one eyebrow in mock indignation, she plants her hands on her rounded hips, pushing out her chest. “You checking me out?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  She gives me a giggle and a little bump with her hip as she walks past me back into the bedroom. She pulls some clothes out of her closet and starts pulling them on while I lounge on her bed.

  “Sorry to chase you off so early.”

  “No worries.” Leaning back against the headboard, I watch the delectable body I just had the privilege of pleasuring gradually disappear under fabric.

  “Are you going to tell the girls you just completed a successful blow job?”

  She shoots me a weird look. “Why would I do that?”

  “That’s how all this started, wasn’t it? At Karina’s vegetable-themed bachelorette party.” I raise my hand to mime sliding a long, thick object in and out of my mouth.

  She lets out a snort of laughter and shakes her head. “No, I think I’ll keep this private. This is nobody’s business but ours.”

  “Good point,” I say with a nod. “I don’t kiss and tell either.”

  And I really do agree. But for some reason, I feel a little . . . ambivalent about this. On one hand, not only does it make sense to avoid spreading gossip, it’s somehow gratifying to be privy to Keaton’s secrets—to see a side of her that nobody else gets to know about.

  On the other, I can’t help wondering exactly why she’s keeping this under wraps. Is she ashamed of fucking around with me? Maybe she just feels awkward about the fact that she needs sex lessons at all and doesn’t want to risk any teasing about her lack of experience. Gabby especially has a bad habit of taking jokes too far sometimes.

  But still . . .

  I shake my head. This train of thought is going nowhere. Keaton and I are going back to being just friends once her sex to-do list is complete, so it makes sense why she wouldn’t want to tell anyone. Right?

  I try to turn off my brain and just enjoy my last glimpses of her body. They’ll have to sustain me until we meet again.

  After she finishes dressing, she walks me to the front door, where I hesitate with my hand on the knob.

  “Hey, um . . .” I feel like I should do more than just say good-bye, since we just spent such a mind-blowing day together. But I have no idea what.

  Kissing outside the bedroom feels too romantic, so I probably shouldn’t kiss her, even though I really want to. Shaking hands would be ridiculous—we’re not at a freaking business meeting. Maybe a nice, casual, totally friends-but-not-more-than-friends high five?

  “Yeah?” Keaton prompts me.

  Finally, I settle on holding out my closed fist. “Thanks for today. It was . . . really fun.”

  She laughs and fist-bumps me. “I had fun too. But I’m the one who should be thanking you for teaching me. Let’s do it again soon.”

  I return her playful grin. “Hell yeah. Text me when you’re done, and we can make plans.” As I start down the hall to the elevator, I add, “Enjoy your chick flick.”

  Totally straight-faced, she sticks out her tongue at me.

  I laugh, tucking my hands in my pockets, and walk away, already looking forward to our next time.

  “This man is like a drug,” the actress says on the big screen. “He’s more than a one-hit wonder. He’s an addiction.”

  I cough noisily into my cocktail napkin, stifling a laugh.

  Karina, sitting to my left, turns to me with a look of concern. “Are you okay?” she whispers, trying to keep her voice down in the posh movie theater we’ve chosen for our girls’ night out.

  Gabby, Karina, and I used to have movie nights when we lived together in college. Back then, it was on a futon, snuggled up with fleece blankets and individual bottles of wine. Now, we try to class it up by heading to theaters like this one with big comfy seats, surround sound, and expensive snacks.

  We may have exchanged our bowls of potato chips for made-to-order sushi, but the foundation remains the same. My best friends, some guilty-pleasure food, and a terrible movie.

  “This movie is just so good,” I deadpan as best as I can through my giggles.

  “Shh!” Gabby shushes us from where she’s seated on the other side of Karina. The bride-to-be is nestled between Gabby and me on this luxurious love seat, complete with an electric ice bucket to keep our wine chilled.

  It’s safe to say that Karina is sandwiched between two very different viewing experiences.

  Gabby wipes her eyes with tissues, emotionally taken by this masterpiece of romance. She’s been a huge sucker for romantic movies for as long as I’ve known her. Yes, romantic movies highlighting monogamous love. Who knew the queen of hookups could be such a softie?

  While Gabby wipes her eyes, I dab at my blouse with a napkin, trying to recover from when I dribbled my cocktail down my front in mid-laugh. Somewhere along the line since my college days, I lost the ability to take these romantic movies seriously. They’re just so unrealistic.

  Karina reads my mind, as usual. “It is kind of over the top,” she says, sucking on the straw of her fruity cocktail.

  “Right? Maybe I’m nitpicking, but if what’s-her-face is actually a journalist for the New Yorker, why is she using mixed metaphors? One-hit wonder is a music term. Addiction is . . . drugs,” I whisper back, and Karina laughs.

  Gabby leans over the bride-to-be to better scrutinize me. “You’re just jealous she’s gonna end up with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.”

  “Tall, dark, handsome, and emotionally unavailable. He’s a total playboy! So he’s pretty,” I counter, rolling my eyes.

  “Gimme some of that attraction any day of the week!” Gabby lifts her drink in a toast, and she and Karina clink glasses in alliance.

  Fine, let them have their romance.

  An emotional montage begins on the screen. The actress is embarrassingly lost without her man. She pines at her window. She pines in an elevator. She pines at her desk. She’s finally outside! Oh no, she’s pining on a park bench.

  We’ve all seen this scene before in about ten other movies. So we turn to each other to continue the conversation, much to the dismay of the viewers behind us.

  “I can’t get Toby to commit to come with me to the wedding,” Gabby complains, rolling her eyes. “So I’m thinking that I’m just going to ditch him and ask Sammie.”

  “Is that the tennis guy?” Karina asks.

  “No, that’s Ben. Sammie is the sexy bartender lady who gives me free drinks. We have an arrangement,” she says with a wink. Gabby is truly extraordinary.

  “Won’t that piss Toby off?” I ask, always impressed with how well Gabby juggles so many sexual partners at once.

  “He had his chance. He won’t step it up for one of the most important days of my life. I’m seeing this beauty married off to a truly wonderful man.” She grasps Karina’s hand, who smiles broadly at the compliment. “But his response was that he doesn’t know what ‘July has in store for him yet.’”

  “Ugh.” Karina sighs. “That is such a red flag. If I narrowed it down, that’s probably the number one reason I’m marrying Mateo. He has a physical day planner that he actually uses. And an address book!”

  “That’s hot,” I say with complete honesty.

  “That’s what I’m saying! He’s got the whole week before the wedding marked up with preparation planning.” Karina grins.

  Gabby and I exchange secret smiles. It makes both of us so happy to see Karina like this in the weeks before her big day—excited, glowing, and feeling cherished.

  “Speaking of Tennis Ben,” Gabby says. “Keat, do you want me to set you up? He could be your plus-one.”

  “I’m good, actually.” I laugh.

  “Come on,” Karina begs. “Please bring a plus-one. You know I would dance with you the whole night, but then Mateo’s parents might talk . . .”
<
br />   “Seriously, I’m good in the plus-one department.”

  There’s an obvious beat of silence as Karina eyes me. “Wait, are you saying you’re bringing a plus-one to the wedding?”

  “Has this ever happened?” Gabby asks, and she and Karina spend a little too much time analyzing this. They converse with each other, locking me out of the conversation.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Not even—”

  “No, this is truly monumental.”

  “Okay,” I say, jumping in, “I don’t have anyone specific in mind yet, but I want to bring somebody. So I’m looking at my options.”

  Gabby and Karina exchange another look.

  “So you’re going to ask Slate,” Gabby says, rolling her eyes like he doesn’t count.

  “N-no. There’s a really hot guy at work who I get along with.”

  They both look at me, the skepticism in their eyes like a microphone thrust toward my face. I take the bait, jumping to my defense. There actually is a guy at work. His name is Jerome.

  “He’s in his mid-thirties, and by some blessing of the universe, still single. He’s a marketing coordinator from the Toronto branch, so not only is he smart, he’s also foreign.”

  “Is Toronto even foreign?” Gabby asks.

  I steamroll past that question. “He used to run track back when he was a teenager, and he misses it, so now he runs marathons for charity. Like he literally sweats for a good cause.”

  Gabby and Karina are only mildly impressed by all this.

  I can’t fathom how they don’t agree that Jerome is perfect. He’s pretty much every one of my plus-one goals. It would be a dream to have this kind of arm candy at my best friend’s wedding. Candy that is both delicious to look at and delicious to fantasize about.

  Besides, we aren’t committed to each other, so if I’m not feeling it, I can easily keep him focused on making the most of the open bar and buffet while I spend the night dancing with my girlfriends. Or, at the end of the night, I can test out all that I’ve been working on with Slate. No harm, no foul. Just the New and Improved Keaton, diving in headfirst!