Sex and Other Shiny Objects (Boyfriend Material Book 2)

by Lauren Blakely

Like we said we’d do last night.

  26

  Peyton

  Is it a myth? An urban legend? Or the equivalent of a solar eclipse? Possible, but only once every few years.

  Settling into the swath of purple and silver pillows on my bed, I straighten my spine, clear my throat, and adopt my best narrator’s voice as I dive into the scene from Amy’s book.

  “As he spread my legs over his face, I drew him in deeper, letting him fill my throat. He thrusted up into me, and I nearly choked, but I was a determined chickadee—determined to finish him any . . . freaking . . . second. Because I was close, so close. And once I tipped over the edge, I’d lose my mind with pleasure. His dick would fall from my mouth as I screamed my orgasmic praise to the heavens.”

  I stop, the temperature in my core shooting to the stratosphere.

  Tristan’s lips curve into a satisfied grin. He’s lounging next to me, propped on his side, his cock at full mast again.

  I glance at the evidence that he’s digging the story. “Guess this is getting you going?”

  He shrugs impishly. “Maybe a little.” He drags his fingers down my bare thigh. “And you? Is this better than soap and bubbles?”

  “Yes. I’m feeling a little, how shall we say, squirmy? And yes, I know squirmy is not a sexy word.”

  His fingers roam to my knee. “On you it is.”

  “Is that so?”

  He nods, bending his neck, pressing a kiss to my leg. “Everything is sexy on you. Now keep reading.”

  I return to the document on my phone.

  “Focus, I told myself. Focus on the suction—”

  But I can’t concentrate because Tristan’s lips flutter over my thighs, his scruff rubbing against my skin as he unties the ribbon on my robe. “Keep going,” he murmurs.

  I gasp as I try to read more.

  “One long, deep suck. He groaned his appreciation for my efforts, but . . .”

  He licks a line up my inner thigh, his soft tongue sending a spark of pleasure rushing through me. Screw the story. I toss the phone aside. He looks up from between my legs. “That’s all?”

  “Pretty sure I picked up the gist of the scene,” I say, dragging my nails through his hair. I love the feel of his hair, his muscles, his skin. Love the contact, the connection.

  So damn much.

  “Think you can reenact it?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say, already a little breathless from his touch and from anticipation. I want to taste him, feel him in my mouth, learn his flavors.

  And I want to do it now, because if I stay in bed with him any longer, I will lose my heart to him. I already gave a little more of that organ to him in the tub just by telling him all the nitty-gritty details of why it wasn’t working.

  I’ve never been that open with a man. I’ve never felt that free.

  And it felt tremendous.

  Like I’d crossed a border and entered a country full of brand-new possibilities.

  But we’ve reached the final scene, and this is my last chance to try out a certain kind of sexual intimacy. Admittedly I’m wary. I’ve never been a big fan of sixty-nine. It requires too much concentration and coordination. Too much mental work.

  But as Tristan tugs my center toward his face, my mind takes a vacation. My body reports for duty. He spreads my legs and licks me.

  I arch into him instantly, electrified from the first touch.

  “Oh God,” I cry out.

  He groans against me, pressing a hot kiss to my core.

  A bolt of heat radiates through me, and I part my legs wider, craving more of him. He groans against me, wrapping his hands under my ass and kissing me, devouring me.

  I never knew what I was missing. Never knew till he touched me like this, but now I’m certain—no one has ever gone down on me like this before, not with this type of hunger.

  “But in the scene . . .” I try to speak, because this isn’t how they do it. And the test. We need to try the test . . .

  He nods against me. “Um-hum.”

  “They do it at the same . . .” His tongue flicks against my clit, and my voice hits a new octave.

  “Yep,” he murmurs, lapping me up.

  Threading my hands through his hair, I gaze shamelessly at the man between my legs. His gorgeous face. His passion. He’s consuming me like I’m his last meal, and I want him to lick the plate clean and order seconds and thirds.

  But that won’t do. I can’t linger in my own hedonism. I need to focus on the project and finish what I started.

  For work, for the store, for my friend.

  And most of all, for myself.

  To put myself out there.

  “Sixty-nine,” I pant. “We need to try it. The scene. Need to see. If. We can. Come at the same time.”

  In a flash, he rolls to his back, pats his chest, and issues a command. “Drape those sexy legs over my face and take my cock deep in your mouth. Give it to me good, and I’ll do the same to you.”

  I shiver at his filthy words, trembling with lust as I shed the robe and cover his body with my own. Wrapping my hand around the base of his hard cock, I kiss the head, flicking my tongue across him.

  He jolts, cursing. “Holy fuck.”

  I laugh. “Yes, this feels religious for me too. I could worship your dick.”

  His groan is the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard. “I’m in heaven, Peyton,” he says, but it doesn’t sound dirty. It sounds reverent, and I’m sure heaven is where I am right now too, as he pulls me back to his mouth, licking me like I’m the best thing he’s ever tasted. I suck him the same way.

  Because he is.

  He tastes spectacular. Clean but manly at the same time. I swirl my tongue over the head, then draw him in, loving the way he jerks his body up almost involuntarily as I move my lips along his delicious shaft.

  We’re not even listening to music this time, but I swear I can hear a symphony, picking up tempo, building to that rising crescendo toward the end when all the instruments come together at once, playing, soaring.

  I lavish love on his cock, and he worships me with his mouth.

  And the thought flashes clear and bright—we are acting out my command from last night. Fuck me tonight, worship me tomorrow.

  Because this is worship.

  This is a new kind of adoration, this intimacy.

  I adore this man so much. I cherish him immensely. And I want to show him with my mouth and my tongue and my hands how very much he means to me. I want him to know that he’s the man I trust.

  But that’s a little tough because he’s going down on me like there’s no tomorrow, and I’m losing my mind with pleasure. I can’t concentrate. I can’t focus. I can only feel.

  I shudder as his tongue strokes faster, flicking my clit, driving me toward the edge.

  And this is what I feel: he’s the one.

  He’s the one who makes me feel so damn good, body and soul.

  And heart.

  Dear God, my heart beats loudly, insistently, because it’s a part of tonight too.

  Heart and hope and intimacy and hot, dirty dreams collide as my body tightens, pleasure coiling in me, my mind blurring.

  I’m hot, so hot. Sensation grips me everywhere. Pleasure climbs up my legs in pulses.

  I want to cry out. I want to moan, to groan, to say his name.

  But I don’t, because I want this moment more.

  Not for the experiment.

  I want it for me.

  I want to know what it’s like to feel this close to someone.

  So close we crest the cliff at the same damn time.

  Because I’m there, breaking and coming and tumbling into ecstasy.

  I don’t want to fall alone. I want his pleasure too. I’m desperately seeking it, and seconds later, it finds me as he fills my throat with his release.

  He’s salty and delicious, and I swallow him, savoring the taste.

  Because it’s him. Because I want him. Because I love him.

  I play
with the words in the back of my mind. I’m falling in love with you.

  And more, so much more.

  I want to go to your brother’s homecoming as your date.

  I want to walk into your bar and have everyone know I’m yours.

  I want to see if staircase sex hurts my back, and if rug burn from doing it on the carpet is a real thing, and I want to have sex mishaps and sexual successes with you, only you.

  And I want to kiss you goodbye in the morning someday. Someday soon. Maybe even tomorrow. Won’t you stay with me?

  The words are fighting their way to the shore, against the tide. They’re eager to make landfall.

  Even though that’s not our deal.

  This is our deal. This postcoital tangling of limbs, as he pulls me close, wraps his arms around me, and kisses my cheek. “That’s going out on a high note, I’d say. Do you agree?”

  Going out on a high note.

  That’s where we’re going. Out. We are unwinding. The hands on the clock are ticking back to friendship, minute by slipping-away minute.

  But as each second passes, I desperately want to say something more. How do I get there though?

  I slap on a smile for the time being. “Definitely. Simultaneous orgasms are real, and you should definitely try it at home. That’s what I’ll say in my blog.” I haven’t mentioned my blog to him in days. Is he still reading it? Has he picked up on what my mom claims she sees? Maybe this is how I can find out where he’s at. “Hey, have you read the blog the last few days?”

  He looks away, then back at me. “Yes.”

  It comes out a little guilty, like he’s been caught spying.

  “What do you think?” My nerves clamp down, but I have to push through. Feeling him out on the blog is a safe way to see if the last few nights are a one-way street.

  I doubt my feelings are as transparent to him as they are to my mother, or my friends. Tristan isn’t the type of guy to read between the lines on his own, not like the women in my life do. That’s why I need to guide him through, feel him out.

  “What do I think about your posts?” he asks carefully, like he wants to make sure he’s understood the question.

  “Yes. The things I said. The things I wrote.” I do my best to keep my cool, even as my heart pounds with worry.

  He takes a breath, giving him time, it seems, to consider what to say. “I enjoy your blog, Peyton. I always have. I’m glad you started it again.”

  My shoulders sag a little. That’s not exactly giving me confidence. But I need to soldier on. “And do you think I’ve been accurately reflecting the tests?”

  He’s quiet for several long seconds. I try to read his eyes. To find the unspoken meaning in how he holds my gaze. Finally, he answers in a voice that’s honest and vulnerable. “Yes.”

  Yes.

  The one word reverberates between us and all my hope comes rushing back like a fountain. He sees what I don’t fully say. He can see the hidden truths.

  I smile so wide it might hurt, but nothing could hurt if he feels the same way I do. “I’m so glad,” I say, breathless.

  He smiles too. “Me too. It’s working, right?” His tone shifts to a more professional one. “It’s helped with business? All the things you’ve been saying about the experiments, the little details about how you want them to unfold. It’s clearly doing the job because business is up, right?”

  What?

  Business? We’re talking about business now? I thought we were talking about . . .

  My heart sinks as awareness smacks me.

  It was all in my head.

  It was all in my heart.

  He doesn’t see what I see.

  “It is,” I say in my best keep-it-together tone as I share some of my numbers from the week.

  My reality tilts once more. We are talking about business. Not the other things I’ve said in the blog.

  Not the words about wanting, about craving, about needing.

  About being adored.

  My muscles tighten. My throat clenches. For a few horrifying seconds, I fear I might break into tears in front of him, but I swallow them down.

  This sharp ache in my chest is necessary. This knowledge is everything I need to move past our experiment.

  He’s been reading my blog, and he sees it only as an experiment. Only as marketing.

  He’s not connecting to the hidden confessions I hardly realized were there.

  He’s only responding to the bigger purpose—the competitive one.

  And that means when the clock strikes midnight, we return to friendship land.

  At least we can return intact.

  I haven’t blurted out the truth of my heart, so I’m safe, and we’re safe, and we’ll return to who we were.

  “So, there you go. It’s a damn good thing I started it, and I’ll just have to keep writing more about lingerie,” I say in a cheery tone, trying to keep the mood featherlight to convince him the posts were only ever about the underwear.

  Not about me.

  Not about him.

  “You should keep writing it, since you seem to enjoy it.” He props his head in his hand. “Hey. I have good news. Did you know the Harriet’s sale is over?”

  “It is?” I ask, brightening.

  “I saw it today. I couldn’t wait to tell you. But then I got distracted by this beauty in the tub,” he says, rough and raspy again, his eyes hooking into mine.

  And the look in them is like a sign I should try one more time.

  Because he looks at me like he feels the same way.

  Put yourself out there.

  “So you find me distracting?” I ask leadingly.

  “You are highly distracting, Peyton.”

  That’s promising, but then again, sex has been known to distract men. “What did you think of our tests? Did you learn anything?” I ask, trying to mask the hope in my voice.

  He swallows and nods, his hazel eyes flickering with something darker, deeper.

  That.

  I want to know what that is.

  That look is what I feel.

  “What did you learn?” I ask, holding my breath, hoping he’s going to say he learned that I’m the one. Maybe he doesn’t need to read between the lines of my blog to take a chance with me. Maybe he’ll take it anyway.

  His lips twitch in a wry grin. “That life doesn’t always play out like a romance novel,” he says, and my heart plummets.

  I want the romance of the romance novel.

  I want the sex and the love and the happiness.

  “But what if it could?” I ask, pushing past the ache in my chest.

  He taps my shoulder, grinning. “You didn’t let me finish.”

  “Okay. Finish,” I say, mentally crossing my fingers.

  His fingers trace lingering lines on my hip as he says, “Life doesn’t always play out like a novel, or even often. But sometimes, every now and then, you’re so in sync with each other, you come together.” He stops abruptly, like he was about to say something more, and I wait, on the edge of possibility. But all he says is “Right?”

  There it is.

  We are just sex.

  He’s not catching feelings for me.

  I should kick him out. I should let him go. But I want one more time.

  And he’s going to give it to me.

  “Right,” I answer as I reach for him and bring him close, and he follows my lead.

  Taking my wrists, he pins them over my head, groaning with appreciation at the sight of me stretched out for him.

  He doesn’t say, One last time. He doesn’t have to. It’s clear.

  What’s clear, too, as he enters me is that getting over him now will take infinitely longer than last time.

  And honestly, I’m not sure I ever did.

  I think a part of my heart has always belonged to him.

  Maybe that makes me dishonest.

  Or maybe I’m finally being fully honest with myself.

  As Tristan moves in me, breathing
with me, moaning with me, I’m certain now. I gave a part of myself to him ten years ago. And I never took it back.

  Trouble is, if I don’t retrieve it now, I’ll be lost for good.

  When he leaves, he kisses me goodbye at the door, soft, sweet, and quick.

  “Bye, Peyton.”

  “Bye, Tristan.”

  It feels like goodbye forever.

  And I hate this feeling.

  He holds the door open longer than he has to, then turns around and whispers my name. “Peyton?”

  It sounds like the opening of a prayer.

  “Yes?”

  “What I meant to say is . . .” His lips part, but no more words come. He just looks at me like he’s trying to understand the secrets of the universe. “What I meant to say is thank you.”

  It’s like a hand grips my throat. “For what?” I choke out.

  “For asking me to help you. For trusting me. I was so glad when you asked me. I didn’t want it to be some other guy. I hate the thought of anyone hurting you ever again.”

  But you’re hurting me right now. You’re hurting me, and you don’t even know it, you wonderful, beautiful, thoughtful man who doesn’t love me the same way.

  “You would never hurt me,” I whisper.

  He nods, swallowing roughly, his jaw tight. “I never would.”

  He steps into the hall, turns around one more time, and gives me a look that would make movie audiences throw their popcorn at the hero.

  A look that would make them shout, “Kiss her, tell her, love her!”

  But life isn’t like the movies. It’s not like the books.

  That’s what I learned this last week.

  After the door shuts, I let the tears rain down.

  27

  Tristan

  My hand doesn’t move. It’s stuck to her door like I can feel her through it. Like I can impart all the things I didn’t say.

  All the desperate, pathetic words that threatened to fall from my lips.

  Like I love you so much it hurts.

  Like I don’t want to read too deeply into your blog, but if you tell me you feel one-tenth of what I feel, I will be the happiest guy in the world.