by Kendall Ryan
Well, it royally sucked for a while, but I picked up the pieces and learned my lesson—relationships just aren’t worth the hassle. I’ve had enough of that pain and stress to last the rest of my life. Tanya was my first serious girlfriend, and I resolved long ago that she’d be my last. I have better things to pour my emotional energy into. Like a best friend who actually gives a flying fuck about me.
The pressure of a paw pulls me out of my bad memories. Penny has stepped on my toes with her full twenty-pound weight, and is looking sternly up at me.
Reaching down to scratch her fuzzy forehead, I let out a deep sigh. “I can’t wait for Keaton to come back either.”
I cringe as Slate dumps the contents of yet another sugar packet into his coffee.
“Explain something to me,” I say, speaking mid-chew through my breakfast burrito bursting with chorizo, cheese, and salsa.
It’s been a week since I’ve seen him, so a reunion at our favorite brunch spot was the most natural plan. Our food has just arrived, and Slate is fixing his coffee the way he likes it—one third coffee, one third milk, one third sugar packets. I think we’re on raw sugar number six now?
“How have you not died yet from a sugar overdose with how you take your coffee?”
“I like what I like, and my body respects that. We’re totally in sync.” He places a hand on his chest. My gaze lingers on the way his large hand looks pressed in earnest against his heart.
“How nice for you and your body,” I say with a mock sneer, taking an obnoxious bite out of my burrito. Damn, this is so good.
If this were a date, I would have ordered something simple and cute, like a neat stack of buttermilk pancakes, or two eggs over easy. Fork and knife, with little chance of spilling anything down the front of my shirt. But this is no date, and Slate knows exactly what I like for brunch.
We’d barely sat down when he asked our waiter for one sunrise burrito and a black coffee for me, followed by his own order of a classic Denver omelet with extra bacon on the side. I don’t have to worry about salsa dribbling off my chin around Slate, just like he doesn’t have to worry about me judging his coffee preferences.
Well, I still tease. I’ve missed him, after all.
“Tell me about the trip,” he says.
“Same old.”
I sigh, recalling to him the endless seminars and dry business dinners. Business trips start to bleed together when you’ve been in the same job for as many years as I have. This time, however, I’m excited to share an update with Slate on my own personal research.
“You wouldn’t believe how thin the walls of our hotel were.” I lean in, lowering my voice in the small diner. I’m very aware of the proximity of other unassuming customers. “The couple in the neighboring room was having the most vocal and elaborate sex I’ve ever heard.”
I then proceed to recount the night to Slate—the volume of the moaning, the colorful language shared between the couple, the frankly alarming banging of the headboard against the wall.
“I think they were role-playing ‘sheriff and prostitute.’ It was absolutely fascinating.”
Slate gives me a skeptical look.
“What?”
“I have this image of you with your ear to the wall, scribbling notes onto a notepad to transcribe later into your spreadsheet.”
I hold my finger up in a “hold on” gesture as I dig through my purse. I pull out my planner, where I keep all my notes, as well as an abridged schedule of my Sexploration Goals.
“You took notes.” He nods, as if this was entirely expected.
“Of course I did. This is great material.” I wave the page in front of him until he swipes it out of my hand.
“‘Ride me. Break me like the naughty wild horse I am.’ Oh my God. This isn’t even good dirty talk.” He shakes his head in disgust.
“It isn’t?” I frown.
“I shouldn’t say that. If it works for them, then it’s good.”
“How do you determine what’s good dirty talk and what isn’t?” I click my pen, ready to write down every piece of wisdom he has to offer.
Slate shrugs, looking as casual as ever, even about such a heated and intense topic. It’s amazing how comfortable he is with sex—it’s also why he’s the perfect teacher for me.
“It’s trial and error. Starting with the basic territory. How it feels, things you’d like to do to your partner. If you want to get into this kind of thing,” he taps on the edge of my notebook with his fork, “then you have to find some common ground.”
“Other than sex?”
“Yes. If you want to role-play or start simple with metaphors, it should revolve around something you both love. Something that turns you both on.”
“So, what turns you on?”
Slate isn’t at all fazed by my point-blank question. “Ah, that’s too simple. It has to be something that makes both of us horny. For instance,” he picks up a strip of bacon, “brunch.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “Brunch does not make me horny.”
“Really?” He lifts the bacon to his mouth, barely grazing the edge across his lower lip.
My gaze is glued to his mouth, following the shiny drop of bacon grease it leaves there. He opens his mouth and places the bacon on his tongue, closing his eyes to fully appreciate the taste of salty sweetness.
As his eyes flutter closed, I feel the telltale shiver of sexual excitement creep down the nape of my neck to my tailbone. The look on his face makes me wonder what he’d look like, verging on the edge of orgasm, with my mouth around his cock.
Whoa. Where did that thought come from?
His eyes flash open, dark and dilated, and he digs his teeth into the juicy slab of bacon. He holds the other half up to me, hovering temptingly before my lips. I lean forward and take a nibble.
“Okay,” I say, “you’ve proven your point. That was hot.”
“So, talk brunch to me,” he says, grinning through another bite of bacon.
As if on cue, an adorably cute elderly couple sit right behind Slate in the neighboring booth. I widen my eyes and nod my head in their direction. Slate peeks over his shoulder, turns back to me, and shrugs.
I roll my eyes. Okay, Keaton, you’ve got this. If you can talk dirty in a quiet, family-owned diner, you can talk dirty anywhere.
“Speaking of spice, this burrito is hotter than usual . . .” I trail off, using a finger to stir the complimentary ice water that came with my meal.
Slate eyes my finger, amused as to where this is going.
“I like it hot, you know,” I say, drawing a lazy circle around the rim of the glass.
Slate shakes his head. “You’ve got to sell me, Keat.”
Leaning in closer, I blink slowly, batting my eyelashes at him, and my voice drops low. “I want to swallow your smoothie, Slate.”
I lift his fruity drink to my lips and take a sip, catching one of the strawberries with my tongue. Drawing my finger into my mouth with a slow suck, I begin moving the berry around in my mouth, occasionally flashing my tongue.
Slate watches me, his eyes never leaving the wet glimmer of my lips.
At first, I feel stupid, like this is never going to work, but then I see his expression—the way his eyes are half-lidded and focused on my mouth, and I feel emboldened.
I moan softly. “Mmm, I love having it in my mouth.”
Finally, I swallow. My finger, still wet, runs a lazy line down my neck to my collarbone. He follows my every movement, just like I want.
“Is it warm in here?” I ask playfully.
Slate chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief. “Okay, fine, you pass, you’re amazing. Now let’s get out of here.”
As we get up, I notice the elderly couple staring almost too intently at their menus.
At the counter, Slate pays for both of our meals. I choose not to give him grief about it this time, because I’d rather take our lesson back to my apartment as quickly as possible rather than prolong it with a gender-equality
debate.
I’m eyeing the pastries as he swipes his card at the register. “Do you want anything else before we leave? The muffins look extra fresh today. My treat.”
Slate considers the offer for a moment, perusing the glass case briefly before he decides. “Not right now. Thank you, though.”
We turn toward the door, his hand resting casually on the small of my back.
“That’s okay,” I murmur into his ear. “You can munch on my muffin anytime.”
Slate stops dead in his tracks, his breath caught in his throat.
“What?” I laugh. “Too much for you?”
“You’re killing me.” He shakes his head, but his laughter fills me up with joy.
“Next time we come, I could butter your bagel.”
His hand gently covers my mouth and he plants a kiss against my cheek. My face heats up immediately at the intimacy of the gesture.
“Please, for the love of God, stop. You’ve passed. With flying colors.”
I grin. Slate is still chuckling as we begin the short walk back to my apartment.
That’s the greatest compliment I could have asked for.
My first impulse upon entering the apartment is to check off dirty talk on my spreadsheet. I like a job well done, and I like a solid checkmark even more. However, Slate takes me by the waist, twists me around, and pulls me away from the table.
“What? I passed!”
“Follow-up assessment. Gotta make sure it stuck.”
With a kiss against my neck, he guides me to the couch and positions me so that he’s on top, fully in command. Soon, we’re lip-locked and my legs are wrapped tightly around his hips. Slate’s kisses are deep and insistent. I sense a passion that’s been brewing ever since I teased him with that strawberry. Note to self: that trick does wonders.
I break away from his lips. “How am I supposed to talk dirty to you if I don’t have access to oxygen?”
“Point taken.”
He begins unbuttoning the casual flannel shirt I’m wearing and plants small kisses down my breastbone. Holding himself over me with one strong arm, he deftly pops open each of my buttons with his free hand. His fingers brush lightly over my newly exposed skin before his lips follow, leaving soft, nibbling kisses in their wake.
I’m trying to stay focused, but goddamn is it hard with Slate’s tongue dipping into my belly button like that.
“You liked that muffin bit, didn’t you?” I murmur, hinting at my hopes for his destination.
“I did like it,” he whispers against my hip bone. My pants are unbuckled, unzipped, and pushed down over my behind at the command of his strong hands.
“How much did you like it?” I ask, dragging my fingers through his tousled hair.
He digs his teeth into my hip bone, teasing the sensitive skin there, and I stifle a gasp. One of my arms flies up over my head to grasp for leverage on the armrest.
“I’ve been thinking about your muffin ever since.”
My pants are off, my lacy underwear exposed. Slate nuzzles his nose against the fabric. I can feel his hot breath dance against my still-clothed clit.
“Mmm,” is all I can manage as I squirm against him, desperate for him to just get on with it and put those unholy lips against my—
I buck against his mouth as he presses his lips there. I want to tear off my underwear.
“Please,” I beg. “Please, I’ll do anything.”
“Anything? That’s awfully tempting.”
Slate looks up at me with a smirk that drips with sex. Then he grasps my ass with the hands of a man who knows exactly what he wants, and drags me closer. With two fingers, he pulls aside the stretchy fabric and stares down at me.
“Damn.” His voice is husky, his tone almost reverent.
I can feel how soaking wet I am, even before he drags his thumb from my opening to my clit in a splendid figure eight.
“What do you want?”
“I want,” I gasp out, trying to catch my breath, “you to lick me.”
“Where?”
I could clamp his head between my thighs and push his lips against me if I wanted to. And hot damn, do I want to. But I know this is a test, and he wants me to say it. I love how confident and bold he is, how sexy. It makes me want to try . . .
“I want you to,” I say, my voice low, “lick my clit.”
His tongue presses against my clit in immediate obedience. My spine curves in an involuntary effort to give him the perfect angle. His tongue laps, swirls, and dances against my most intimate flesh.
“Oh yes. Shit!” My voice is loud. Maybe too loud. Do I care? Not at all.
Spreading my knees wider, I lift my hips into his wild kisses. His finger pushes inside me, pumping in perfect tempo with each suck and lick. Who knew that smartass mouth could be so skilled at pleasuring a woman?
He moans against me, and the low vibration of his voice floods through my body. I feel the edge rushing up on me again, and welcome it with a cry of pure satisfaction. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up at all as I suddenly come so hard, and for so long, I’m left light-headed.
Slate helps me ride through the quakes, pressing his lips against my inner thighs as I shake softly from the experience. When my body is finally in my control again, I sink into the couch, completely sated.
He lifts his head from between my legs. “Hey,” he says casually.
“Hi.” I laugh. “I didn’t know you were so good at that.”
He smiles almost bashfully before his usual confident smirk takes over. I can tell he likes the compliment. Even more so, he likes hearing it from me.
“I only give my best to the best.” He draws himself up into a seated position on the couch.
“I’ll have to return the favor then,” I say, lowering myself to the floor so that I’m kneeling before him. For a second, I think he might stop me, but then as my hands find his thighs and rub up and down the denim fabric, familiarizing myself with the feel of his sinewy muscles, his eyes darken with desire.
“How do you plan on doing that?” he asks, leaning back against the couch, giving me all the access I need to unclasp his belt.
I undo that barrier with quick and confident fingers, letting the buckle of his belt fall against the couch.
“Well,” I say, my eyes never leaving his, “I plan to suck on your huge cock.”
Here goes nothing.
I shift to sit on the edge of the couch with my knees parted. With her deep blue eyes locked on mine, Keaton kneels between my thighs.
My heart starts to hammer in anticipation. I was fine with waiting my turn—more than fine, because it meant I got the chance to pleasure her, to feel her quake apart under my tongue—but now I’m so ready, it physically hurts.
Carefully, like she’s dealing with a live nuclear missile instead of a dick, Keaton slides her hand under the band of my boxer briefs and takes out my cock.
“Should I put my mouth on it?” she asks.
I place my hand on her cheek and stroke my thumb over her skin. God, she’s so fucking adorable. “First, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want.”
“I know that.” Her lips turn up in a slight smile.
“Good. Second, you never have to ask. The answer is always going to be yes . . . yes, you can put your mouth on it.”
Keaton smiles and rolls her eyes. But rather than lean in closer like I’m expecting, she blinks up at me. “Slate?”
“Yeah?”
“After this . . . I mean, after my whole list is done, we’ll go back to being just friends, right?”
“Of course.” I wouldn’t have it any other way. The only reason I agreed to this whole thing was because I knew we’d never let this come between us. Our friendship is rock solid.
“Good,” she says, and her mouth is so close to my cock, I can feel the heat of her breath.
Fuck.
I want to feel her mouth there so badly. If this were anyone else, I’d place my hand on the
back of her neck and guide her down. But this is Keaton, and this is about her, so instead I wait patiently.
Tentatively, her lips slide over the head of my cock, and I suck in a sharp breath. Just that hot, wet touch feels amazing all on its own, to say nothing of the incredible view.
Fuck, I’m so hard for her, which is crazy. This is Keaton. My buddy. My pal. The friend I share a pizza and a six-pack with on weekends while watching raunchy R-rated comedies.
And now she’s on her knees in front me, treating my dick to slow, wet kisses that are about to make me lose my damn mind.
Shit. It won’t take much to make me explode.
A little unsteadily, I continue my instructions. “That feels nice. I want you to stroke it up and down, following your mouth with your hand . . .”
I watch her stroke what she can’t fit into her mouth, still sucking on the head of my cock like it’s a Popsicle.
Fuck.
“And that’s the basic idea.” My voice comes out too hoarse, and I clear my throat.
Then Keaton dives down with a vengeance. The head of my cock hits the back of her throat and two things happen at once—my hips jerk, and she recoils with a cough.
“Shit.” I fight to regain control. “Slow down. It’s not a deep-throating race.”
She withdraws slightly to mutter, “Whoops. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. I just feel bad you gagged yourself.”
I stroke her cheek with my thumb. Truth be told, it felt pretty great on my end, but she can’t keep that up.
“Don’t bite off more than you can chew.” At her deadpan glare, I add, “Sorry, poor choice of words. What I meant was, don’t push yourself so hard you’re not having a good time anymore. It makes it better all the way around when I know the woman is enjoying herself too.”
Telling the world’s most hard-driving woman to be less ambitious . . . yeah, we’ll see how that goes.
She looks at my cock with a slight frown, then takes another stab at it, this time using her mouth only on the upper third and letting her hand take care of the rest.
“There you go,” I say, my voice gruff. Once she seems to have the basic idea down, I add, “Try moving your tongue a little.”