The V Card

by Lauren Blakely

  “Hey, look. It slides much easier,” I say playfully as I demonstrate.

  He smiles. “Yes, it does.”

  Then his smile falters, replaced by a look of intense concentration as I stroke him again. I pump him up and down, finding the rhythm that makes his breath come faster. A little more wetness, a little less friction, and he’s rocking into my hand, thrusting his hips into my fist.

  My breath catches and pleasure camps out in every cell in my body as I stare at the two of us, my hand on his hard-on. I’m wildly aroused from watching him, from doing this to him. His eyes squeeze shut, and I gaze at his throat, where the pulse seems to beat faster in his neck. His lips part, and he groans, louder than before. I’ve never heard anything so sexy in my life.

  “That’s it. A little faster.”

  I up the pace, gripping him even harder.

  “Yes. That,” he says on a groan. “Coming.”

  I bite my lip, thrilled at the way his pleasure overtakes him, how he groans and thrusts, and then he’s there, coming in my hand.

  “Fuck,” he mutters. Then he says it again and again. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to keep going at this tempo, but he seems to know I need his guidance, because he places his hand on mine, and slows my pace, even as he pants hard, coming down.

  I let go, wash my hands, and return to his side. He presses a kiss to my forehead. “I haven’t had a hand job in ages, and let me tell you, it was worth the wait. I don’t think I’ve enjoyed an orgasm that much in years.”

  I beam. It’s crazy to feel pride over a hand job, but I do. “I think it’s safe to say I’ve never enjoyed giving one as much, either, and I loved every second of my first.”

  He laughs, drawing me in for another kiss. “I better clean up,” he murmurs, kissing me once more before excusing himself.

  When he returns, he slides in next to me. “Sleep with me,” he murmurs, tugging me into the crook of his arm, and my heart skips a beat. Something stirs in my chest, a deeper feeling, a warmth that extends beyond what we did tonight.

  “I would love to sleep with you,” I say with a smile, and neither one of us misses the double meaning of the words, or the fact that tonight they mean something softer, more tender.

  “You feel good, all nice and warm,” he says in my ear, then presses a soft kiss to my neck.

  “So do you.” I settle in next to him, sighing happily as he spoons me. “Is this another lesson? Are we squeezing in lesson four?”

  “How to cuddle after a fantastic orgasm,” he murmurs.

  “Now that I think I’ll excel at.”

  But he shakes his head against my hair. “It’s not a lesson.”

  “It’s not?”

  He brushes my hair away from my skin, his touch gentle. “Nope. It’s just what I want more than anything right now.”

  That feeling in my chest? It intensifies. It multiplies. It soars. It’s almost better than my double Os. I let myself feel it for a few seconds before I return to the task of keeping my head and heart separate.

  But separate doesn’t mean resisting a good snuggle. I cuddle against him, savoring the heat from his body, my thoughts drifting into sleepy pastures.

  Until my phone howls in my purse.

  Literally howls, the full-moon baying of wolves that means there is serious trouble at home. My landlord never calls unless there is a bona fide emergency, the kind that cannot wait until morning.

  “Don’t answer that,” Graham murmurs. “I’m about to have a fantastic dream about you falling asleep in my arms.”

  “I was going to have the same dream. But I have to grab this call.”

  I hit the green button and bring the phone to my ear, where my “Hello?” is met by an endless stream of cursing in Czechoslovakian. But in between all the cursing, I catch a few key words—broken pipes, ruined carpet, structural damage, damned cat, and loose in the building.

  With a silent groan of abject misery, I promise to be there as soon as I can, to clean everything up and pay for all damages, and to get my renegade pussycat back in his cage ASAP.

  I love that little guy. God, how I love him.

  But right now, I wish my brother had owned a pet rock.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Graham

  The entire way to the Meatpacking District in the cab, all I can think about is muzzles. Surely they have cat muzzles, right? Something snappy-looking but secure that CJ can wrap around her cat’s destructive mouth before she leaves the house. I mean, I get that Stephen King is old and blind and easily confused about what is food and what isn’t, but right now, I would have zero issues with muzzling the fluffy bastard.

  And I wasn’t even cock-blocked by the stupid cat.

  I was . . . snuggle-stonewalled. Cuddle-confounded. Spoon-stymied.

  Jesus. What’s wrong with me? I’m pissed at a senile old feline because I didn’t get to curl up and slip into the land of nod with the loveliest woman ever?

  I look in the rearview mirror, answering my own question.

  Yes. Evidently, yes.

  “You don’t have to come up. You can wait out front if you don’t want to deal, or if you want to answer emails or whatever,” CJ says, bolting from the cab as soon as I’ve passed a twenty through the hole in the glass. “It’s going to be ugly. And wet. And there’s probably going to be a lot of yelling. My landlord isn’t happy.”

  “And why should he be?” As soon as she turns her key, I follow her through the front door and toward the third floor. “Your pet wreaked havoc on his property.”

  “No, I wreaked havoc on his property when I forgot to put the baby lock back on the kitchen cabinet,” she says, huffing as she hurries around the first-floor landing. “Stephen King can’t help it. He suffers from dementia, and dementia increases his stress levels, and increased stress levels make him want to chew things.”

  “Nothing a muzzle won’t cure,” I mutter under my breath.

  CJ frowns at me over her shoulder but doesn’t stop climbing. “I heard that. And I’m not going to muzzle him. I believe in letting creatures age with dignity. Especially creatures who I happen to love, and who I don’t want to see wander out into the street and get run over.”

  The reminder of how much she adores this crazy old cat sends the frustration in my chest rushing away, banished by the vulnerability in her voice.

  “I’m sorry. And don’t worry. We’re going to find Steve. And he’s not going to get run over. Not on my watch.”

  Yep. I’m Ed Harris, guiding the astronauts safely home from a failed moon mission in Apollo 13, delivering his brazen vow: We've never lost an American in space, we’re sure as hell not gonna lose one on my watch!

  Cat-retrieval failure is not an option.

  The time for honor is upon me. It’s my duty to help the woman find her feline.

  As we reach the third floor and speed-walk toward the sound of Slavic cursing at the end of the hall, CJ reaches out, giving my hand a quick squeeze. “Let me handle Arno, okay? He sounds scary, but he can be reasoned with. Usually. Sometimes.”

  Before I can respond, or suggest that maybe she should go look for the cat while I soothe Arno’s rage with a few crisp one hundred dollar bills, CJ darts through the door to her apartment and into the heart of the chaos.

  Arno, a balding man with rheumy blue eyes and too-pink features, gesticulates wildly at CJ and the heavens and hell, and everything in between, but my gut tells me he’s not a threat. He’s angry, yes, but harmless. The real danger is coming from under the sink. Water is gushing out of the cabinet and onto the already soaked carpet, where a stain the size of a small elephant is growing larger every second. It’s completely saturated. If water hasn’t soaked through to the subfloor yet, it will soon, and then this repair is going to go from expensive to sky-high.

  I have no idea why Arno hasn’t turned the damn water off, but if he’s too busy yelling to take care of business, I have no problem doing it for him.

  Picking my way around the chunks
of mauled potato and onion littering the floor—it looks like Stephen King snacked on a few other things, besides piping—I squish through the soaked carpet, kneel down, and reach beneath the sink. The hot water knob sticks, but eventually gives with a squeal, and in just a few seconds I have both the hot and cold water shut off at the source and the situation relatively under control.

  As soon as the water stops gushing, the flood of cursing ceases.

  “How do you do?” Arno asks in a thick accent.

  I turn to see him motioning toward the sink and figure he isn’t actually inquiring about the state of my health. “I shut it off at the source. The valves are under the sink.”

  His pale brows furrow as he blinks. “Under sink?”

  I nod, trying to keep my voice judgment-free. “Yep. Right there. Under the sink, just turn them all the way to the right. And I’m guessing it’s the same set-up in every unit, so you’ll know next time you have a problem.”

  He grunts, seemingly impressed, and I silently wonder how a man can be a damned landlord—or an adult, for God’s sake—and not know how to shut off water to the sink. But this is the same man who thought it was acceptable to install all-over shag carpeting in the unit, even in the kitchen, so he’s clearly not in the habit of tackling apartment issues properly.

  “Thank you, Graham,” CJ says, beaming at me like I just saved a baby from a burning building. And though I know I did nothing even close, I can’t deny it feels good to be looked at like that. Especially by her, this woman who is all I think about lately, all I dream about.

  She claps her hands together and adds in an upbeat voice, “Now we just need to find Stephen and get this cleaned up and—”

  “No, you out.” Arno’s chest puffs as his arms flail toward the door.

  CJ’s face goes white. “Oh, no. Please, Arno, I promise nothing like this will ever happen again. I’ll lock the child safety locks every time. Please, I love living here, and I’ve never been late with my rent, not once in three years. Can’t we—?”

  “No, no, not out for good,” Arno says, his bluster softening in the face of CJ’s pleading. “Out for week. To fix carpet and floor and to make tile. We make tile here now so easier to clean.”

  CJ nods quickly. “Oh, yes! That would be wonderful. The shag was hard to keep clean, if I’m being completely honest. And I’m happy to cover the tile costs.”

  “You’ll do no such thing.” I wade back across the soaked carpet, water oozing in through my shoes to dampen my socks. “The guy who redid my bathroom last year is amazing, and he owes me a favor. I’ll get in touch with him tomorrow morning and get a crew over to clean up the water ASAP. Hopefully we can have this all dried up and tiled by next week. My treat.” I extend a hand to Arno. “Agreed?”

  “You pay bill?” He cocks his head, studying me out of the corner of his eyes. “All bill? Whole bill?”

  “Every dime,” I assure him.

  “And you pick nice color,” he adds, pointing at my chest. “Nothing too crazy. No pink.”

  “No pink,” I agree drily. “It will be tasteful and of the highest quality.”

  With his lip curling in apparent satisfaction, Arno nods and clasps my hand, pumping my arm up and down. “Good. Done.” He releases my palm and points his stubby finger in CJ’s direction. “You find cat. You take him out. I let work crews into apartment and make sure valuables are safe. No worries.”

  CJ presses her hands together. “Thank you so much, Arno. Thank you.”

  Grumbling and nodding, Arno waves away her thanks and shuffles stiffly across the room. A moment later, CJ and I are alone with the soaked floor, the potato and onion chunks, and the smell of wet carpet, which is better than wet dog, but not by much.

  “Thank you,” she says. “I appreciate the sweet offer, but I insist on paying for the work and the clean-up.”

  I shake my head as I reach out, pulling her in for a hug. “Not a chance, Murphy. I’ve got this covered. Consider it an early birthday present.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  Failure is not an option tonight. That applies, too, to my offer to pay. Given the uncharitable thoughts that just coursed through my head about her poor cat, I need to pay. It’s only right. “Butterfly, this is not up for negotiation. I’m paying for it. It’s that simple.”

  She pulls back from the embrace to stare at me, searching my eyes, like she can find an answer there. “You’ve already done so much for me.”

  “And you’ve done so much for me.” As the words emerge, I realize how true they are. We’ve only spent a few nights together, and they’ve not only been insanely sexy, but fun and tender, too. More than I expected. “I intend to pay.”

  She softens. “You’re so chivalrous.”

  It comes out the same way she said I was lovely earlier, and it does funny things to my chest. “That’s me. Graham Chivalrous Campbell.”

  “That means I’m paying for birthday brunch this year. No arguments.” Her arms go around my waist as her cheek rests on my chest, sending a wave of pure contentment washing through me. This night certainly isn’t proceeding the way I thought it would—I was sure I’d be dreaming dirty dreams while she dozed in my arms—but somehow, it’s okay. It feels like about anything would be okay, or at least survivable, as long as I get to hug CJ after it’s over. She just feels so good, so right.

  “I guess we should get hunting for this wayward kitty,” I say, pressing a kiss to the top of her head because I can’t help but touch her. “Any idea where he might have gone?”

  CJ tips her head back, gazing up at me with a crooked smile. “I have a few ideas, but you’re not going to like them. When he freaks out, he tends to hide in the darkest, dustiest places he can find. Once, I found him behind the furnace. Another time, he wedged himself behind the toilet.”

  I frown. “Are you implying that I’m a squeamish man who won’t brave the elements on a rescue mission?”

  She laughs. “No, you’re a very manly man who knows how to turn off water and has a tile guy on speed dial. But you’re also wearing very expensive pants.”

  “Forget my pants. Let’s get that cat and get out of here. I would like to get you back in bed sometime before midnight, Miss Murphy. I was enjoying spooning you very much, but I also think I’ll enjoy sliding my hand between your legs in the middle of the night.”

  Heat flashes in her eyes. “I would like that, too.”

  “Maybe even a refresher on lesson one or two?”

  Her eyes darken, a hint of desire flickering in them. “Extra credit is good.”

  I chuckle and smack her rear, hauling her close for a hot second and planting a kiss on those soft, delicious lips. “You’ll get lots of homework, I promise.”

  Then I let her go because it’s kitty-cat time. “Let’s go kitty hunting.”

  We start with her apartment, but unsurprisingly, there’s no sign of Steve. But with the amount of screaming that went on in here tonight, I wouldn’t have expected an anxious animal to stick around. A thorough search of the hallways and common areas comes next. We scour the stroller storage and the janitor’s closet on the first floor, where snow shovels and mildew-scented mops crowd in the darkness, but there are no signs of fuzzy feet or a twitching tail.

  Down in the basement, we pace every inch of the boiler room, using our phones for light as we poke into windowless rooms that clearly haven’t been touched—or cleaned—in the past century.

  “If there isn’t black mold down here, I’ll eat my own hand,” I mutter as we finish another horror-movie-worthy exploration.

  “Don’t eat your hand,” CJ says, with a yawn. “I like your hand. Your hand does nice things to me. Maybe even in the middle of the night.”

  I wrap my arm around her waist with a sigh, knowing the chances of getting my hands back on her later are diminishing with every passing minute. “Where to next?”

  “The courtyard, I guess.” She starts up the stairs in front of me, granting me a killer view of
the hem of her dress swishing temptingly against the backs of her thighs. Lord have mercy . . .

  “Have I mentioned how much I love this dress?”

  She reaches the top of the stairs and turns to smile at me, her wild hair backlit by the orange glow of the lobby light. “No, you haven’t. But thank you.”

  I shake my head, too struck by the beauty of that smile to reply. Damn, she’s pretty. And sweet. And so much fun to be with that I’m actually enjoying this stupid cat hunt. At least a little bit.

  Though by the time we search the courtyard—crawling on our hands and knees to peek under every bit of decorative stonework large enough to hide Stevie—my pants are ruined, my bones are starting to ache, and I’m so tired all I want to do is curl up in the pink playhouse by the playground equipment and go to sleep.

  “You checked the playhouse?” I ask, fighting to suppress yet another yawn.

  “Yes. Twice.” CJ yawns eloquently before hitting a button on her phone with a sigh. “It’s almost two o’clock. If we don’t find him in the next few minutes, I want you to go back to the hotel, or your place, without me. Get some rest.”

  “And what will you do?”

  “I’ll stay here and look.” She shrugs, her hands lifting helplessly at her sides. “I mean, I can’t give up. He has to be somewhere. I know he didn’t leave the building. He wouldn’t do that, right? Even if someone held open the door to the outside world? He wouldn’t run off into the city, because if he did, I’d never find him, and he’d definitely get run over.”

  With my heart aching for her, I pull her close, rocking her gently from side to side. “I’m staying. Until the bitter end. Until every soldier is brought in from the field of battle.”

  She hums into my shirt, sagging against me. Then she lifts her head—sharp and sudden. “That’s it.” She steps out of my arms, turning to face the playground equipment. “The field of battle . . .”

  I frown. “The slide?”

  “The kids play knights and dragons out here all the time,” she says, moving toward the swing set. “And they’re always dropping their toys and their snacks. And Steve’s nose still works pretty well, considering the state the rest of him is in . . .” As she reaches the structure, she falls to her knees, scraping the wood chips away until she gets a clear view beneath the blue tunnel running from one section of the equipment to the other.