Smut

by Karina Halle

  Spread Open – A Gynecological Love Story – Nelson Dunsmuir was one of the world’s best Navy Seals. But when a mission goes wrong and he loses his best mate, he quits the Seals and decides to go back to his first career – gynecology. The moment Pender Galiano walks into his office, needing a pap smear, Nelson knew he had to have the gorgeous virgin. But when old enemies rise up, Nelson has to protect Pender at all costs – even though loving her may cost him his life.

  “Well here we are,” Blake says as we stare at our potential future on the notepad in front of us. “Really don’t think we can go wrong.” The night has settled around us, bringing in the chill of late spring. It would almost be romantic if we hadn’t been laughing this entire time.

  Not that I’m complaining. I need the laughs. Things between us have gotten so easy and I don’t want that to change. If we’re not laughing and goofing off then…well…I notice things a little more. The way he stares at my lips. How he keeps touching me; a lingering hand on my shoulder, his fingers at my elbow to guide me somewhere. But mostly it’s something I can’t even define. It’s a feeling charged between us, like the way the air pressure changes just before a storm. The hairs on my body stand up and my skin prickles in some sort of unseen anticipation.

  “Are you cold?” he asks me. We’re sitting next to each, facing the harbor lights. It was just easier to work this way.

  “Not really,” I tell him and before I can say anything he’s getting up and sliding the glass door open and heading inside. When he returns he’s got a blanket and two bottles of beer.

  “Here,” he says, gently placing the plush blanket on my shoulders.

  “Thanks,” I say, my voice barely registering. I pull the blanket around me, close my eyes and breathe in deep, his fresh, earthy scent filling my nose.

  I feel him stiffen beside me.

  Oh shit.

  “Did you just smell the blanket?” he asks.

  I open one eye to look at him. “I like to smell…blankets,” is my flimsy response.

  “You say the oddest things,” he says after a moment. “Did I tell you I like that?”

  I bite my lip and nod. He tells me a lot of things he likes about me and the more I think about it, the more my skin burns, like it’s begging for his touch.

  I wonder how long I can blame it on erotica for.

  “So, what do you think?” he says, his voice lower as he leans in.

  “About your smell?”

  “About which book to write. But now I want to know how I smell.”

  “You smell like the opposite of Axe body spray. And I think we should close our eyes and point to one.”

  “Deal.”

  So with our eyes closed and our fingers poised above the pad of paper, we take the plunge and laugh when we open our eyes.

  Falling for the Secret Male Stripper it is.

  “Okay,” I tell him. “But promise me you’ll demonstrate some of his dance moves in the scenes.”

  “Only if I can demonstrate his other moves on you.”

  I brush him off, shaking my head. “You’re terrible.”

  And I think I’m starting to like it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Blake

  It’s been another busy day at the store even though there’s been quite a few returns. I’ve never understood people who return books after they’ve obviously read them. “Oh no, that dog-eared page was there when I bought it.” Like hell it was. How about I punch you in the bloody face and tell you that bruise was there before and then we’ll call it even.

  I’ve got a meeting with Amanda tonight and every time I think about it, I have to stop myself from calling it a date. It’s not a date but I have to admit, sometimes I wish it were. I mean, obviously writing Falling for the Secret Male Stripper (or FFTSMS or Stripper or Cock Book) has ended up being a lot of fun but it’s almost too much fun. We’ve gotten together every night this week and by the time she leaves I have blue balls the size of Donald Trump’s head.

  Honestly, I don’t know what’s happening. I’ve had to cancel a date I had with the Mr. Mercedes girl (Sansa?) because I’d rather be with Amanda instead, even though it’s taking every ounce of my goodwill to not make a move on her. I mean, I don’t want to think of her in that way since she’s my writing partner and all and I’ve made it this far without fucking up our strange little relationship.

  But when we’re dealing day in and out with hard cocks and slick holes and every romance cliché imaginable, it’s nearly impossible not to be turned on. It doesn’t help that Amanda is good-looking. I mean, her eyes are this vivid blue-green that light up every time she writes the word dick and she has this smile, so beautifully cheeky, it sometimes takes my breath away. Okay, so that’s a bit of a cliché but I do feel breathless when the majority of my blood flow is heading straight to my pants. It’s amazing she hasn’t noticed my constant erection, though maybe she’s just being polite about it. She’s so humble she probably wouldn’t assume it’s for her.

  Then there are her lips, which I’ve been a fan of since day one. If anything they seem to get wetter, the way her mouth hangs open slightly and her pink tongue peeks out as she’s thinking and I really have to keep myself back and remind myself that she probably wouldn’t appreciate me kissing her wildly while she’s trying to write.

  Probably.

  That’s what makes it all worse because I know, I know, she’s getting turned on as she writes. Her eyes get this glossy glazed look and her cheeks flush and she squirms in her seat. She may laugh at the overuse of the word clenching but damn I know she’s squeezing her tight little pussy together in my presence and so help me god, I want in on that.

  I’m not made of stone.

  And I know it’s just a matter of time.

  “Blake,” my father calls to me, snapping me back to reality. It’s almost closing and though the store is a mess, I have places to go and porn to write.

  I look up to see him and Kevin come toward me. I guess Angelica must have just dropped him off. And, shit, Kevin’s eyes are all puffy and red under his glasses, while my dad’s face looks etched in concrete.

  “What’s up?” I ask them cautiously. I look to Kevin. “Did you reread that scene again where Dumbledore dies?”

  “Hey, spoiler alert!” someone among the stack of books yells.

  “No,” Kevin replies in annoyance, wiping his nose. “We have something to tell you.”

  My dad comes over to the cash and clears his throat. “This may be a shock to hear,” he says, lowering his voice. “But Angelica and I are getting a divorce. We’ve signed the papers. We wanted to wait to tell Kevin so it wouldn’t affect his school but there’s a small chance they might be moving over the summer.”

  I knew the divorce part. I did not know the moving part.

  “Noooo,” I say softly, looking at Kevin. “You can’t go.”

  “I don’t want to go!” he says, stamping his foot.

  “Kevin!” my dad turns around to admonish him before leaning in close to me. “Don’t make this worse, Blake. He’s going to have a hard enough time as it is.”

  I glance at Kevin, standing there in his cape—silver this time—his knee high suede boots, his wooden staff and his glasses and I know when he moves to another school the kids are going to be brutal. He’s almost ten and if I remember correctly, the double digits is when all the world goes to hell.

  “It would be nice if you came and had dinner with us tonight,” he says.

  My heart sinks. I look between the two of them. “I’m sorry. Tonight I can’t.”

  “Blake,” my dad warns.

  “I do. I’m sorry but I made plans and I’m not breaking them.”

  “Is it a girl?” Kevin asks in disgust.

  “Yes it is a girl,” I tell him. “We’re having a cootie convention.”

  “Seriously son, tell the girl you’ll…woo her some other day.”

  “She’s not like that. I mean…I’m not wooing her. I’m trying to woo
her. But not in the way you think…I…”

  The lines in my father’s forehead deepen as he stares at me. “Are you saying you have a girlfriend? Is it serious?”

  Well I certainly can’t tell them about the project because I’d be disowned in a second. Knowing my dad, he’d probably boot me out of his will, let the bank repossess the store and send me back to England. I represent everything he thinks made him fail.

  “It’s not serious and she’s not a girlfriend. She’s a friend and maybe I want something more.”

  At least that’s partially honest.

  His eyes rake over me, not really believing it.

  So I look to Kevin. “Honest. It’s true. You know I wouldn’t say no for just anybody.”

  Kevin, such a trooper, nods, even though it’s obvious I’ve decimated his heart. “It’s okay. I understand.”

  Shit. Now I feel like a right wanker.

  “Look,” I say to him, pasting a smile on my face. “A little birdie told me all about LARPing. What if I take you to one of the all-day events they have at Beacon Hill?”

  My dad groans. I ignore him.

  “Are you serious?” Kevin asks, his face lighting up like the fourth of July. “Will you dress up?”

  “Of course.”

  “Will you bring your girlfriend?”

  I tilt my head. “Um, probably not.”

  “I want to see you with your girlfriend.”

  I study him closely. Is it possible he actually doesn’t believe me and wants proof? Am I that untrustworthy?

  Well, Amanda is a giant nerd, she’d probably be thrilled. Maybe not about the fake girlfriend part but the whole costumes and casting spells and pretending you’re an Elf Necromancer named Whren the White, with ivory tits the size of hippos, who may wear nothing else under her corset. Hmmm. I may have looked up some LARPing porn while I was researching.

  With a reassuring smile I say, “Sure. I’ll bring my girlfriend. You just look into when it is and we’ll make a plan. Okay? I promise.”

  Even though Kevin leaves happy, I leave the shop feeling seriously deflated. I hop in Mr. Mean and drive straight to Amanda’s house, texting her when I’m outside.

  She texts back: You’re early! Hey, Ana is out for the night on a date if you wanted to come in.

  Amanda is seriously inviting me in? I know she’s talking about it from a work perspective but even so, my cock twitches in my pants.

  “Oh behave,” I hiss at it as I get out of the car and stroll down the driveway to her basement suite.

  She opens the door looking absolutely fresh-faced, her hair damp and pulled back into a low braid, like she’d just stepped out of the shower.

  “Hi,” she says, smiling broadly as if she’s truly happy to see me.

  Her smile creates a reflex in me, like yawning, and I’m grinning back at her. In fact, I think a few heady seconds swing past with us just standing in the doorway, staring at each other and smiling like dorks.

  She breaks away first and clears her throat. “Come on in,” she opens the door wider and gestures widely with her arms. “Your first real time at mi casa.”

  “You know sometimes I miss having a roommate,” I muse as I step inside. The basement suite is pretty bright considering and the walls are done up in yellow and lavender, a total chick pad. I’d been here briefly before but now I have a chance to take in everything. The living room and kitchen are pretty typical, though the place looks a lot neater than I would have imagined.

  “She’s entertaining, that’s for sure,” Amanda says, heading for the fridge and looking inside. “I feel like I should offer you something but all we have is orange juice and Estonian vodka.”

  “Maybe later,” I say. “Show me your room.”

  A bashful smile curves on her lips. “This feels so high school.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t try and finger bang you while listening to Maroon Five.”

  “Such a romantic,” she mutters dryly, heading for her door.

  “That’s your job,” I remind her, following right behind.

  Amanda’s room is exactly how I imagined it. And yes, I’ve imagined it. I’ve imagined it with the both of us in it in a hundred different positions. My favorite happens to be when she takes out a Harry Potter scarf and lets me use it as a blindfold before I plunge Draco Malfoy’s wand inside her.

  There’s a Ravenclaw crest on one wall and though I don’t see any sign of a wand, she does have a plaque about Muggles hanging above her bed. On her bedside table there’s a TARDIS alarm clock and a giant Loki figurine made up in Tom Hiddleston’s likeness. There’s also a giant framed map of Middle Earth that must have cost a fortune, as well as what appears to be signed photos of the cast of Firefly, Sherlock (with my nemesis Benedict Cumberbatch), and one of George R. R. Martin.

  “Ummm,” I say, pointing at the photos before getting a closer look. “How did you manage to get these signed?”

  She shrugs. “Ebay.” Her eyes cast downward and she smiles shyly. “So now you know how big of a dork I am.”

  “Peach, I already knew that from the moment you first walked in the classroom. I mean, you were wearing a hoodie that said Straight Outta Hogwarts. Why do you think I took such a shine to you?”

  “You were an asshole. That was you taking a shine to me?” She throws up her hands. “That’s it, I really don’t understand guys.”

  I take a few steps toward her until I’m just a foot away. Up close I can see her pulse in her throat, the way her eyes take me in until they’re nearly brimming with something so vivid and wild, it’s hard to look away.

  “We’re pretty simple creatures,” I tell her, my voice husky in our proximity, holding her gaze, urging her to not be afraid. Because I know she is. I know she’s afraid of so many things, most of all letting go. “We just want the pretty girl to like us.”

  She swallows hard and I’m staring at the freckles on her throat, her collarbone, the creamy white of her skin. I wonder how she tastes, how she feels. I wonder if she knows just how alike we really are, how this is something we both need.

  But she averts her eyes, as she always does when I get too close, when I stare too long and she brushes past me, leaving me cold. “We should get to work,” she says briskly, heading out to the kitchen.

  “Yup,” I say slowly, taking a moment to breathe and compose myself before I follow her.

  She putters about the kitchen table, clearing it the mounds of makeup and setting up her computer, Kindle and notebook. She’s become Robot Amanda again, her eyes gone hard, her lip stiff. I scared her, enough that she’s regressed to the girl I knew in class, but I don’t regret what I’ve said. I’m tired of pretending that I don’t want to do to her all the things we’re writing about.

  I’m still standing there watching her, so she pauses and looks up at me over her glasses. “What?”

  I shake my head and exhale through my nose. “Don’t worry about it.”

  She holds my gaze for a moment and something passes over her. Regret, maybe. Then she nods. “Sit down. Let’s work.”

  And so we do. And for the first time in a long time, it’s strained. I’m about to suggest maybe we need the Estonian vodka anyway when she lets out an exasperated sigh over something she’s reading.

  It happens to be something I wrote.

  “What?” I ask, wondering what I did wrong.

  She gives me the are you kidding me? look. “Okay, I was ignoring it earlier but I think you need to get a grip on some of this shit. This simply does not happen.”

  “Explain, please.”

  “I just think it’s unrealistic for there to be so much talking, let alone the fact that the first time they do it it’s in a public place.”

  “Too much talking?”

  “Yeah.” she scans over the document. “You know, give me your cock, oh you feel so good, harder, harder, you’re so big, fuck me harder big boy.”

  “Have you even had good sex?” I ask incredulously.

  S
he flinches. “Of course I have. And it’s none of your business.”

  “We’re writing about sex. It’s completely my business. I’m not letting you interject your edits based on your personal experiences about sex because believe me, if the sex is good, you’re moaning my name.”

  She raises her chin. “Maybe all those girls were faking it.”

  Oh, brilliant.

  “Excuse me?” I say, hands pressed against the table, nearly getting out of my chair. “You have no idea. I pride myself in giving a girl as many bloody orgasms as she can handle.”

  “Bloody orgasms don’t sound like fun,” she jokes softly.

  “They can be if you’re into knife play,” I tell her, even though that’s not exactly what I meant. Still, she scrunches up her nose. “Don’t knock it until you try it, but that’s neither here nor there. When you were with Alan, he must have made you come at least a few times.”

  If he didn’t, I feel like finding the guy and showing him a thing or two for wasting four years of her life.

  “Yeah,” she says flatly.

  “And in the middle of that orgasm, didn’t you want to yell a few things?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And why didn’t you?”

  She looks at her nails as if they’re suddenly fascinating. “It didn’t seem right. It was…too intimate. I would have felt dumb. He didn’t like any of that stuff.”

  The plot thickens. “Any of what stuff?”

  “Sex that didn’t involve the missionary position or the bed.”

  My mouth drops open. My brain and penis can’t compute this. “I feel so sorry for you.”

  We must remedy this.

  She glares at me. “It’s not like I didn’t want to do it. I did. And he did try it. Most of it. But it always went back to the same old.”

  I knew it. She’s a nerd on the streets and a freak in the sheets.

  “I don’t mean to brag,” I tell her in all seriousness. “But you do realize that I could give you an orgasm in thirty seconds.”