by Lauren Rowe
Ryan leans into my ear and whispers, “Man, I can’t stop thinking about what I’m gonna do to you tonight.”
I’m tingling all over at Ryan’s words, but I adopt an expression of complete disinterest. “Like I keep telling you, there’s not gonna be a Round Two, Romeo.”
“I bet you’re already soaking wet for me,” Ryan whispers. “I wish I could slip my hand up your dress and inside your panties to find out.”
Whoosh. Just like that, blood is flooding my crotch. “I need a drink,” I say, and, without another word, I beeline to the bar.
Without missing a beat, Ryan walks alongside me.
“I wasn’t inviting you to join me,” I whisper. “I was giving you the brush-off.”
“Can I be perfectly honest with you?”
“I don’t know, Ryan, can you?”
“I feel addicted to you. I can’t stop thinking about how much I wanna taste you again.” He licks his lips.
“That’s so weird because I’m not thinking about you at all.”
“You look especially beautiful tonight.”
“You look especially like a liar tonight.”
“What does a liar look like?”
“Hell if I know. And that right there’s my biggest problem in life.”
We reach the bar and place our orders.
Ryan leans forward and whispers in my ear. “I can’t stop thinking about how sweet you tasted. And how incredible you felt when I was inside you. It’s like you were made for me. And when you came around my cock? Oh my God, I thought I was gonna pass out from sheer pleasure. So hot.”
“Glad I could make your day. Now leave me alone.”
He’s absolutely unfazed. “Now that I’ve learned a bit about your cues and sounds, I’m gonna go for six next time.”
I look at him quizzically. “Six?”
“Orgasms. For you. At least six. Maybe seven. Depends if I can hold on long enough. A guy’s gotta have aspirations, right?”
I feel my cheeks flush. I’d never tell Ryan this, of course, but the fact that he brought me to climax more than once was a first for me—a truly mind-blowing first. I’ve heard about other women climaxing repeatedly during a single sexual encounter, of course, but, prior to Ryan, it’s never happened to me, even when I’ve been really turned on and into a guy—and I’ve certainly never had an orgasm during intercourse itself. But, man, oh man, did Ryan flip some crazy switch inside me. And it wasn’t just that I came multiple times that’s got me so freaking sexed-up right now, it’s how hard I came. Good lord, it was like nothing I’ve experienced before—like my prior sexual partners have been little leaguers and I finally got to The Show. “Six would be impossible,” I say.
“Challenge accepted,” Ryan says smoothly.
“I’ve never come close to that number,” I say.
“Only because you haven’t been with me,” he says.
I open and close my mouth. Shit. Could he be right about that? Is he literally the only guy in the world who knows how to flip my switch? If so, God help me (and any future guy I might sleep with) because I don’t think I’ll be able to settle for anything less for the rest of my life.
“What’s your record during one session?” he asks.
I take a gulp of my drink.
“One, right?” he asks. “I’m guessing you’ve always thought you were a one-and-done kind of girl.”
I nod, my cheeks burning.
“You’re not alone,” Ryan says breezily. “You don’t even know what you’re missing so you don’t know to shoot for more. And most guys feel like rock stars if they get their girl to come once, so it’s a vicious cycle. Fucking pathetic.”
I drain my drink and try not to look like I’m lapping up every word.
Ryan takes a long sip of his drink. “To be honest, I’m kind of obsessed with the female orgasm. I get off on it so fucking hard.” He smiles. “The more I learn you, the more I figure out what your body likes best, the more I figure out your body’s cues and sounds, the harder and more easily you’re gonna come for me—and that’s gonna make me a very happy boy.” He licks his lips again. “I can’t wait to see how far I can take you, baby.”
I shift my weight, trying to relieve the unbelievable pulsing in my panties.
“You know what I’m dying to do to you right now?” he says, his eyes slowly migrating from my face to my breasts. “I wanna kiss and lick and suck those incredible breasts of yours, so hard you’re gonna come from that alone.”
“Ryan!” Kat’s voice says, and my throbbing crotch freezes like a thief caught red-handed in the night. “Look who’s finally here! Henny!”
Chapter 35
Tessa
Kat’s accompanied not only by Henn and his girlfriend (a cute brunette with glasses Kat introduces as “Hannah Banana Montana Milliken”), but also by Josh, Jonas, and Sarah. The group hugs Ryan and me and Josh asks if I’ve been keeping my promise to “let loose.” When I assure my darling boss that, yes, I’ve been drinking rum punch all night long, Mr. Faraday seems unimpressed and demands we all throw back a shot of tequila (which we do). And, fifteen minutes later, as everyone’s telling funny stories and laughing around me, I suddenly realize I’ve forgotten to feel self-conscious that I’m partying with my rich and powerful boss and his glamorous circle. In fact, dare I say it, I kind of feel like I’m hanging out with my own good friends. And it feels awesome.
I’m especially enjoying watching Ryan interact with the group. He’s funny as hell and charming beyond words. Actually, if I’m being honest, watching Ryan tonight is making me feel about him the exact same way I did at The Pine Box. Sigh. Wait. No. What the hell is wrong with me? Ryan’s a liar. A cheater. An asshole. I can’t let myself fall under his spell again, just because he’s physically perfect and utterly charming. Am I insane?
“Um, excuse me,” I blurt, smack in the middle of Sarah telling a story. I quickly bolt away, determined to head straight to my room, tuck myself into bed, and hide for the rest of the week (my promise to Josh and Kat be damned!).
“The Mighty T-Rod!” Keane bellows as I stride past him. “Come here for a sec.”
Crap. So much for my quick getaway. I stop and smile at Keane. He’s standing with his best friend, Zander, his brother, Dax, and Dax’s two friends, Fish and Colin (the other two-thirds of Dax’s band, 22 Goats).
I tell Dax and his bandmates I’ve watched a bunch of their videos on YouTube and loved them. (It’s true. After Kat informed me she wanted to have her younger brother’s band play a concert for everyone, I watched some 22 Goats performances, just to see what kind of shit show we were in for, and I was shocked to discover the band is actually great.) I ask the boys of 22 Goats how they got started, and they tell me they were best friends in high school. And, finally, I ask the boys why in the heck they’re named “22 Goats.”
“It’s a really stupid story,” Dax replies, but when I assure him I’m genuinely interested, he proceeds to tell me the whole, hilarious story, complete with showing me a Buzzfeed article about smiling goats he calls up on his phone.
As Dax talks, I laugh and laugh and feel more and more charmed by him. What a cutie. “I’m excited to hear you guys play tomorrow night,” I say. “Kat had very few ‘must-haves’ for this week’s itinerary, but a concert by 22 Goats was at the top of her list.”
Dax chuckles. “Something tells me my big sister had an ulterior motive for requesting a 22 Goats concert this week.”
“Oh, you mean Reed Rivers?” I ask.
Dax nods. “Josh sent him our demo a few months back, but he’s never seen us play live.”
“Has Reed listened to the demo?”
“Yeah. He said he loved it, but that he wanted to check out a performance before making a decision—but then I guess he got busy or distracted or whatever, and he still hasn’t made it up to Seattle.”
“So your clever sister brought the show to him,” I say.
“That’s the Jizz-i-nator for ya,” Keane pipes i
n. “There’s no stopping that girl when she sets her mind to something.”
“The ‘Jizz-i-nator’?” I ask.
Dax laughs. “It’s a riff on Jizz, her lifelong nickname.”
“You call Kat Jizz?”
“We call our sister any variation of splooge we can think of,” Keane says. “Jizz, Kum Shot, Baby Gravy, Cream of Sum Yung Guy.”
I make a face. “Sounds highly traumatizing.”
“Our mother would agree with you,” Dax says.
“Why on earth do you do that to poor Kat? Just to be cruel?”
“Hell no,” Keane says, feigning offense. “Morgan boys are never cruel—just extremely mean.”
“We’re cruel to be kind,” Dax adds. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. Kat’s initials are K-U-M. Under the circumstances, if we didn’t call her Kum Shot and Jizz and all the rest, we wouldn’t be doing our brotherly duty.”
Keane interjects, “It’s our parents’ fault. If only they’d named Kat ‘Rachel Ulla Morgan,’ she’d have a bunch of rum-related nicknames, just like Ryan. But did my clueless parents think of that? Nope.”
“Oh,” I say, an epiphany slamming me. “Ryan Ulysses Morgan. R-U-M. That’s why everyone keeps calling Ryan ‘Rum Cake’?”
“Yup,” Dax says. “Rum Cake, Captain Morgan, Bacardi, Rum Jungle...”
“So that’s what that bottle-tattoo on Ryan’s ribcage is?” I ask. “A bottle of rum?” My cheeks flush. “I, uh, saw it on the beach.”
“Yeah,” Dax replies. “My dad says Ryan heard, ‘Yo, ho, ho and a bottle of rum’ as a toddler and has been obsessed with pirate-stuff ever since.”
My head is swimming. I glance over at Ryan across the party, to find him still talking to the same Faraday-Henn group as before. Captain Morgan. Warmth spreads throughout my body. Captain, My Captain.
After a moment, Keane’s voice draws me out of my hormone-induced reverie. “Don’t stress it, little brother,” Keane is saying to Dax. “Halfway through your first song tomorrow night, Reed will be begging 22 Goats to sign on the dotted line. And when he does, send him my way to negotiate the contract, son. I’ll get you top dollar.”
“Yeah, all of it in crumpled singles that smell like your balls,” Fish says, and everyone laughs.
“Hey, nothing wrong with singles that smell like my balls,” Keane says. “They’ve been paying my rent just fine.”
“Hey, you know I love you the most, Peenie—and that’s not a figure of speech,” Dax says. “But you’re the last person in the world I’d ask to negotiate a contract for me.”
Keane laughs. “Probably a wise choice. Better ask Ryan.” When my eyes involuntarily shift to Ryan across the room for the umpteenth time, Keane follows my gaze and nudges my arm. “That man right there is the greatest guy you’ll ever meet, T-Rod. Any woman would be lucky to snag that dude.” He lowers his voice. “And, fun fact? I’ve heard from a reliable source Rum Cake really knows his way around a cockpit, if you know what I mean, so I’d definitely hop aboard that jet plane and ride it all the way to the horizon if you get the opportunity.” He winks.
I’m absolutely floored. What the fuck did Keane just say to me? And more importantly, why the fuck did he feel compelled say it? Ryan must have said something to Keane about us! Oh my God, I’m gonna rip that loose-lipped bastard limb from motherfucking limb!
“Yee-boy!” Keane says loudly, high-fiving Zander, pulling me out of my murderous thoughts. “You hear that, Z? Daxy loves me the most.”
“Of course, he does, baby doll,” Zander says. “We all do.”
“It’s cause I’m a giver, honey nuggets—it’s a blessing and a curse.”
“Honey nuggets?” I interject, my head spinning. “Baby doll?”
“Oh, that’s nothing between those two,” Dax says. “They also call each other ‘Wifey’ and a million other bizarre things two dudes in a straight bromance normally wouldn’t call each other. You get used to it when you hang around them long enough.”
“Ain’t no shame in my game,” Zander says. “Love is love. I’ll say it loud and proud: I love Peen.”
We all laugh.
And, just like that, I’m having too much fun to focus on plotting Ryan’s murder anymore (though I’ll surely resume my plotting later). “So how’d this beautiful bromance between the two of you start?” I ask Keane and Zander. “Do you two work together?”
“Oh, hell no,” Zander says. “I’m a personal trainer, not a professional ass-shaker. Actually, Peen and I met—”
“Hold up, Choco Nana,” Keane says, holding up his hand. “Let me tell T-Rod the story of how we met.”
“Oh, you wanna tell T-Rod the story of how we met, do ya?” Zander asks, a twinkle in his eye. “Sure, Peenie Weenie, be my guest.”
Chapter 36
Tessa
Keane flashes his outrageous dimples and clears his throat. “Well, Tessa—may I call you Tessa?”
“Of course.”
“Zander and I met at the gym about a year ago. I’d just finished my workout and had walked into the locker room to shower when, lo and behold, what did I see but a big, muscular black man standing buck naked in front of the locker next to mine.”
Zander chuckles.
Keane continues, “So I go to my locker and strip down to my glorious birthday suit—the sight of which, by the way, has made many a woman spontaneously orgasm, I should mention; but, just before I head for the showers, I happen to glance at Zander’s flaccid dong. And guess what I noticed about it?”
I cringe. “Um... I really don’t... feel comfortable guessing, actually.”
“Zander and I had the exact same dick-tattoo!” Keane blurts.
Everyone bursts out laughing, including me.
“Oh my God, Peenie,” Zander says, laughing and shaking his head.
Keane continues, his eyes full of mischief: “Now, mind you, at the time, both our dicks were playing Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, so our tattoos at that particular moment read ‘W-D-Y.’” He leans forward like he’s telling me a secret. “When I’m at full mast, my dick-tattoo says ‘Wendy.’”
“Wendy?” I ask, giggling.
Keane nods. “My high school sweetheart and first love—the woman who so deftly stole my heart along with my virginity, the very beautiful and surprisingly flexible, Wendy Johnson.”
Everyone laughs uproariously.
I don’t know where Keane’s ridiculous story is leading, but I must say I’m feeling highly entertained along the way. “Wow, Keane,” I say. “What a romantic gesture. The guy who took my virginity gave me a bag of pretzels and a Coke.” Everyone guffaws at that, and I feel elated to be able to make this particularly funny crowd laugh out loud. “I wish I were joking,” I add dryly, and everyone laughs again.
“Gosh, Peen,” Dax says. “I sure hope Wendy Johnson appreciated your tribute to her.”
“As a matter of fact, no, Wendy Johnson, did not appreciate the heartfelt sentiment of my penis art,” Keane says, looking appropriately forlorn. “A week after I got my pecker inked for her, Wendy dumped me to go to prom with another dude.”
“Oh no,” I say, but, of course, I’m smiling when I say it. “You must have been devastated.”
“I was. Although I had to tip my cap to her prom date. You know what that guy’s dick tattoo said?”
I shake my head, already giggling in anticipation of whatever he’s going to say.
Keane pauses for comedic effect before saying, “‘Prom?’”
Everyone laughs uproariously.
“So, anyhoozles,” Keane says when the laughter has died down a bit. “Back to Zander and me and the inception of our bromance. So ZZ Top and I are standing naked next to each other in that locker room, pretty much crossing swords, and I look down at his flaccid dong with ‘W-D-Y’ inked on it, and I’m like, ‘Twinsies!’”
Oh, man, it’s quite possible Keane Morgan is the goofiest human I’ve ever met. How the hell is his ridiculous personality packaged inside a body
that looks like Captain America?
Keane continues, “So I go, ‘Hey, dude, I think we should be best friends.’ And Zander goes, ‘Let’s get an apartment!’ So the next day, we get an apartment and I’m thinking, ‘Life can’t get any better than this (when sex isn’t involved, of course).’”
“And, just to be clear, all this bonding was inspired by nothing but matching dick-tattoos?” I ask.
“Correct. So, Z and I become besties and we’re handsome and happy lads all the livelong day, both of us raking in the duckets by the buckets and making chicks our bailiwicks, until one tragic night when everything went to hell in a handbasket on us.”
“Uh oh,” I say. “What could possibly have gone wrong?”
“Thanks for asking,” Keane replies. He leans toward me, an adorable expression on his face. “This works best when I have an interactive audience.”
I laugh.
“So here’s what happened,” Keane says. “Z and I were lying on our couch, talking about girls, smoking weed, and I go, ‘Hey, Z, I just realized I’ve never asked you about your ‘Wendy’ tattoo. And Zander goes, ‘Wendy?’ So I say, ‘You know, whatever Wendy inspired the ‘Wendy’ tattoo on your dick.’ And Zander replies, ‘My dick doesn’t say Wendy.’ And I’m like, ‘But your tattoo says W-D-Y, just like mine!’” Keane pauses and smiles, his eyes sparkling. “And you wanna know what Z said then?”
“No, Peen,” Dax says dryly. “We’ve made it this far into your stupid fucking story and we don’t wanna know what Zander’s dick tattoo said.”
Keane’s smile widens and his dimples pop out of his face. “Z said, ‘My ‘W-D-Y’ tattoo doesn’t say ‘WENDY,’ baby doll. It says ‘WELCOME TO SEATTLE. MY NAME IS ZANDER SHAW. HAVE A GREAT... DAY!’”
I burst into hysterical laughter along with everyone else.
Finally, when the group’s laughter has died down enough for conversation to resume, Keane flashes me his irresistible dimples, pats me on the head like a puppy and says, “Z and I met in math class in eighth grade. I said, ‘Yo, smart guy, will you help me with this shit?’ And we’ve been best friends ever since.”