by Kayti McGee
It’s the clarity of living in the moment that’s almost impossible to find without complete sensory overload. Or pot brownies.
I remember the thing I learned before and hum a little as I bob and that’s the thing that sends him over the edge as my watering eyes look up to watch the ecstasy wash over his face.
He says my name over and over as he comes which is beyond hot, and I wait until he slides out of my mouth to swallow every bit of what he gave me. My other reward, if you will.
I feel so powerful having crushed my first real oral exam, which is probably why I stay in seduction mode even after we’ve both gotten off. I run my thumb along my lips.
“By the way—I didn’t need an incentive.”
Then we straighten ourselves up and order Thai food. Because sexcapades really work up an appetite, and we fiends need to keep our strength up.
Chapter Nine
Jake
Nick confided to me once that Natalia keeps a gratitude journal but not to tell Jonas because he would mock her relentlessly. At the time, I’d thought that mocking was a reasonable response but now I discover I have a gratitude list of my own.
I’m grateful the pipes in the house keep the hot water plentiful because I don’t want to leave the heat of this shower. This water running over my whole body, my permanent hard on, is the closest thing to the heat of her wet mouth, to the wet heat between her legs, which I would gladly bathe in.
I am deeply, unendingly grateful for that blowjob.
When I close my eyes, I keep flashing to the way her lips took me in, the look of my dick disappearing in her mouth and that feeling when she opened her throat. The complete trust that was exchanged as she finally handed the control over to me at the end so I could thrust. I stroke myself, trying to recapture how her tongue seemed to wrap around me, the perfect pressure of her mouth.
She didn’t wear any panties to dinner last night. For that, I am also grateful. I don’t know if there exists anyone else as surprising and hot as Marlee Reed.
I can still hear the noises she made when she came ringing in my ears. The way her clit swelled and the rhythm her body beat out as her voice filled the room. I wish I could record it, both the rhythm in her pussy and that golden melody of her voice when she lost it.
I could play that song on repeat.
It was a sound that came from the deepest part of the body, the sound of someone breaking open, of someone who didn’t have to hold anything back, who was so ready to feel everything. A sound that came from her trust in me.
And even though I’ll probably never stop resenting our friendship’s boundaries, I am very, very, very grateful that it allowed her to trust me enough to do that with her.
It’s like goddamn Thanksgiving in here. A Bangsgiving, perhaps.
I have to remember that to tell her when I finish up in here, she’ll laugh. Her laugh might just be my favorite thing about her. It’s as big and generous as the midwest itself, rippling through her whole body.
I tried to memorize every part of her body last night, but it all happened so fast. I can remember her mouth, the slick pulsing between her legs, but I can hardly remember her nipples under my hand which feels like a dream now. I need more time with them. If this whole ridiculous Thurgood charade takes her away from me, I’ll want to have a perfect map of her body in my mind to revisit.
I turn the water to cold to move my brain back up into my skull.
I have to get back into the role she’s written for me, not the one where I mope around about the unrequited crush she never even knew about. This is an arrangement on her terms, and I’m going to be very careful not to violate them by turning into an emo kid. Or a nymphomaniac.
I toss on athletic pants and my softest tee, the one that’s also luckily the same shade of blue as the shirt she liked me in last night. Then I head to the kitchen, where the housekeeper has left fresh groceries. I grab a loaf of bread to make us some sandwiches, wondering why some spare change and a cough drop have been carefully placed on top.
It’s surreal when Marlee walks in wearing her usual dance studio clothes like nothing is different.
She smiles at me a little shyly and her face turns bright-ass red. That reassures me that last night was real and not something I dreamed up in my lust-spiral. I watch her grab a freshly stocked banana and add yet another item to my gratitude list.
“So, professor, what’s on the agenda for today?”
I have to take it step by step but I have a syllabus a mile long. I want to fuck her everywhere. On the counter, in the pool. And I want to fuck her everywhere, from her tits to her ass. It’s hard to think about taking this one step at a time when what I really want to do is binge on her body like it’s a Netflix show. I have so little sense of control when I’m with her. I want everything at once. I want my life to stop so I can be with her, so that I don’t have to miss a single minute for mundane stuff like studio time or label meetings.
I need to keep my head together. I know I tell myself this pretty much constantly, but that was also before I heard what she sounds like when she’s losing control.
Oh, wait a minute, I’m a genius. That’s exactly it.
I can turn that into a lesson. Something that she can do for herself. I mean, lots of guys love watching a girl get herself off.
God knows I do.
But this isn’t about what I want. I try to take a deep breath as I let myself look at her body. I love that I can openly look at her body now. The fullness of her breasts and the way her nipples press through the sports bra like they are waiting for my attention. Soon I’ll get to paint her nipple with my tongue, graze my teeth over it. If that’s not expertise, I don’t know what is and I promised her my expertise, so….
“Today you’re going to show me how you touch yourself, Marlee.” I watch her face redden and I feel a moment of concern that this is too much too soon. I want her to show me her most personal moments and movements and that is kind of a big ask.
“Oh,” she says.
“Oh? What does that mean?”
She takes the banana and laughs as she starts to unpeel it.
“Will these ever stop being funny to me now? It means that I was all prepared to do some more fine-tuning on my technique with you, and now I discover I’m only fine-tuning myself.”
“Have you ever made yourself come as hard as I did last night?” There’s no ‘only’ about her body.
“I mean, no. But to be fair, it’s also possible that no one has ever come that hard before in the history of coming. I’m not sure, I’m not the coming police, as Payton Rossi would say.”
My heart is racing as she’s quoting Jana Aston because I’m already steps ahead here and planning what I want to see, while also getting excited that she wants to suck me off again. She is so full of surprises that I can’t get my head around it. How is it possible that a girl like her exists in the world?
“I feel like what you mean to say is that you want me to help you come that hard again, and as soon as possible.”
Her face lights up at the thought and I can’t help but feel charmed by how open and honest her expression is. If she hadn’t spent so long waiting for her dumbass fiancé to figure himself out, this wouldn’t all be so fresh and exciting to her. Maybe I should send Johnathan a thank-you gift for handing her to me on a silver platter.
She sweeps her mane of hair around her head flirtatiously. It’s working. I want to tangle my fingers in it again.
“I should thank you for that,” she says. “Last night, I mean. It was better than pink shit and I think maybe part of that was because I know you well enough to totally let go with you. And considering how much time I’ve spent forcing long runs and Wayfair wish-lists on you between crying sessions, I probably don’t deserve all the kindness you’ve shown me.”
My mouth drops open and it takes a moment for me to pull myself together. Incredulous, I can’t find the words I want.
What she deserves is all of it and more.
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What she deserves is the entire world at her feet.
What she deserves is to feel wanted 24/7 by someone who also deserves her. Whether that guy is me or not remains to be seen because I’m still not convinced I’m worthy. This situation feels beyond me and I wish I could just grab my guitar and work this problem out, get to the answer in those notes.
Instead I slip my phone into my pocket and pretend that what she said wasn’t devastatingly sad.
“Your lists are fine. I’m going to the studio. We can discuss this more when I get back.” I need the time to prepare the speech about deservedness I’ll probably decide against actually giving her.
I see a little flash of something in her eyes, but then it’s gone.
“Good, because I’ve picked you out a desk and it gets delivered Monday. Can I come?” I’m an idiot because at first I think she’s asking me to make her come really fast and my whole body responds hell yes and I feel like I’m moments away from burying my face in her pussy before she speaks quickly.
“I’ve always wanted to see you at work, how you get the guitar to sound like that on your records.” Oohhhh, come with me to the studio. That actually does make more sense.
And even though I wanted the time to myself to work things out through the music I can’t imagine not being in some kind of proximity to her body. And maybe I’ll find the notes I want to capture better if she’s nearby. Also, seeing as the limo failed to do its job, maybe watching me work will finally impress her. Yeah, right.
“Let’s do it,” I say. “But I’m warning you right now that you’re probably going to be completely overwhelmed by how underwhelming the place I use is.” She gives a happy little jump that’s mirrored by one in my pants at the sight of her breasts bouncing up and down.
“Give me a minute to change. I like to be underwhelmed in style.” She does a full ballet twirly-thing, throwing the scent of jasmine tea all over, and then turns around and winks at me and I can’t help but laugh. I don’t want her to change.
I don’t want a single thing at all to change.
She comes back out quickly but still takes my breath away wearing a tight jersey skirt and one of my old band shirts cut into a tank top. I’m turned on in a most ungentlemanly way by seeing my name emblazoned on her chest like proof of ownership.
“I’m going groupie-chic, you like?”
“It’ll do,” I say. God, I’m as much of an asshole as Thurgood, with these ownership thoughts. “You’re not driving, either, so don’t even ask.” She always asks. But the one time I said yes took years off my life. Brakes should be applied long before you’re able to tell what color hair the driver in front of you has.
In the passenger seat of the Aston Martin Nick always says is too cool for me, she flips through some songs on my iPhone. I’m by far the cooler one of the two of us, just look at my passenger.
For a second You’re the One that I Want plays and she sticks her tongue out at me.
“Remember when?” she asks, like I’d ever forget, but then changes it to my song Want just as we pull up to a stop light. She slams her hands on the glove compartment, swings her hair around and mouths the grunt at the beginning perfectly. Then she lip-synchs right in time with my voice.
The light turns green and the cars behind me start honking. But they can fucking wait. She is practically purring with sexual energy. She places her fingers on her chest and does a move where her entire torso beats like a heart. I finally tear my eyes away and start driving, to the relief of the cars behind me, but I sing along and move with her. It’s like we are onstage again, predicting each other’s movements and feeding off each other’s energy. I can’t tell if I got her this amped up or if I’m just riding her wave.
Seriously, if she’s this high after one finger-fuck, we’re in danger that actual sex might cause her to levitate.
We park and I suggest we get coffees before we head into the studio. I just want to watch her walk a little longer, enjoying the sway of her hips and the appreciative glances of everyone else. She’s not having it.
“I’m way too wound up for coffee,” she says. “Can we go into the studio first? We can always take a break later when I’m feeling less manic about my life-long dream of watching Jake Ryder in the studio.”
“If that’s what life-long dreams look like in Missouri, it’s good you moved. Anyways, I don’t usually take breaks,” And even though she nods like that’s respectable, I feel like the stick-in-the-mud Nick’s always accusing me of being.
“Maybe we can get doughnuts after though,” I add, just for the pleasure of watching pure joy break over her face at the thought of her all-time favorite dessert carb. I’ve discovered with Marlee that one must be very specific about these things. Other all-time favorite dessert categories include cocktails (foo-foo martinis), regular beverages (eggnog), fruit (baked pears), fruit plus (peach pie), and cake because as much as I argue that cake is also a carb, she is firm that it is its own thing.
Once we walk into the building, she stops to inspect every single thing we pass.
“This is very interesting. I’ve never been inside one of these things before.”
“That’s weird,” I say, unlocking the door to the recording booth. “I mean, it isn’t, but I basically grew up in one so I don’t see it the same way you do.”
“That’s like how I feel about dance studios,” she says. “The magic comes from the people, not the place. Yeah, it’s totally underwhelming though, you were right. Hey, what does this button do? Can I push it? Pushing buttons must be the most satisfying feeling on earth, don’t you think?” She slips on a pair of headphones.
“Well, you sure know how to push mine,” I mutter, but she doesn’t hear.
She’s pushing more buttons.
“I feel extremely professional,” she says over-loudly, and twists a few dials for good measure.
She looks like a sound engineer’s wet dream and when Boomer walks in he nearly responds that way. He looks from Marlee to me, to his coffee, as though it was somehow responsible for this vision before him, sliding his headphones off with a guilty grin.
Boomer gets pretty good drugs, I guess, if that’s a possibility.
“Who’s this?” he says.
“Marlee Reed, meet Boomer Jones.”
“Is that-” I cut her off because I know exactly what her question is.
“It is on his birth certificate. The eighties were a strange and wondrous decade.”
“The wonders indeed never cease,” she marvels. “So you’re the one who makes all this magic happen?”
Boomer’s heart grows three sizes, and not from the drugs this time either.
“Why, yes. I am the guy who makes all the magic happen. It may look like I just fiddle around with knobs and buttons, but I’d go so far as to say I’m indispensable.” Now he’s the one darting a guilty smile over at me in a silent plea not to contradict him.
“Tell me more,” she says with the gigantic smile that means she knows full well what he’s up to. “Better yet, show me.”
“I’d be happy to,” he says eagerly. “Maybe you can get a sound credit on the album.”
“Now you’re talking, Boomer. I’ve always felt that I should be given more credit for fucking up other people’s good work. For example, I have personally fiddled with every knob and button on this panel,” she says but of course Puppy-Eyes Boomer just wags his tail and resets them like it’s a good time for him.
It’s not. I’ve seen him bitch real hard about this when dudes do it.
Ah, the power of Marlee.
“Get to work,” she says to me. “We’ll be ready for you by the time you finish warming up. Go red-leather-yellow-leather or some shit.” I have no idea why that warm-up makes her die laughing every time. Some of her stretches are pretty silly-looking themselves. But the sound of her laughter is always worth the mockery.
As I warm up my voice I watch her laughing with Boomer and get a nostalgic buzz of energy that I haven�
��t felt since I was a kid. When we were first coming into the studio I couldn’t believe my luck. I was so taken by what the sound engineers could do with all the noises we were making down there, how they could catch just the moment they wanted us to hit again. I remember the first time someone let me play with the levels.
Boomer wasn’t wrong, he really does make magic. It’s easy to forget that when everything becomes so routine. I never get sick of writing music, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been inspired to do it.
When the track finally starts and I begin singing, the words that Nick shaped out of the raw junk I gave him take on new meaning.
I sing as if I’m singing to her, like the vibrations of my voice could make her come even in the sound booth. Watching her move like this, so unaware and so authentic is almost as fun for me as the noises she made last night.
Maybe it’s her enthusiasm that’s turning me on so much.
When did I lose mine?
Chapter Ten
Marlee
Ever since we got to work with Boomer’s Magic Shit in the studio, Jake keeps looking at me differently. I’m so used to his blank look, his casual friendship. His brush-offs. But once in the booth, I’m seeing an intensity to his gaze that he normally reserves for his guitar or piano. Or bananas.
I imagine for a moment that I give the best blowjobs in the entire universe, capable of bringing any man to his knees, a powerful sex goddess future generations will worship.
But that’s dumb, because blowjobs are fleeting. Power is forever.
Hence my plan with Richard Thurgood. And hence my desire to know absolutely everything about everything around here. Here as in the studio, here as in Hollywood, here as in the Kama Sutra.