Satisfaction Guaranteed

by Blakely, Lauren

  Spy Log Detail Seven: Idiot. You still don’t know why she faked it. Cool your jets.

  I resume my routine, untangling myself from her hands and flipping her to her back. “You want to spend the night here? Get this out of our system so we can go back to work on Monday like nothing happened?”

  A frown crosses her face, but then she nods dutifully.

  I tilt my head. “You don’t like that idea?”

  Her eyes turn sad. “I know it’s what we need to do, but I like being with you, Malone.”

  My heart thumps hard. It hammers. She sounds so real. So vulnerable.

  I drop my mask and run my fingers across her cheek. “Yeah, me too. Which makes me curious . . .”

  She knits her brow. “About what?”

  I dot a kiss to her lips. No animosity. No accusation. Just an inquiry. “Why you faked it.”

  Her jaw drops.

  23

  Sloane Elizabeth’s Mental Voice Memo to Self

  Busted.

  Think fast.

  Lightning fast.

  What to do?

  Do you improvise? Deny? Cover it up?

  You could fashion a fabulous story. Say, “What, are you crazy? Of course I came, and it was awesome.”

  Because it was. That was the best sex ever. The best almost-O ever. The best everything ever. That’s no lie. Everything about tonight was worthy.

  But there’s this thing that hangs over you. That haunts you.

  The Thing.

  And The Thing has bedeviled you since forever.

  Time to own up?

  Girl, it’s been since the twelfth of never that you’ve had an orgasm through sex. Might as well confess.

  The jig is up.

  24

  It’s like watching a time-lapse video of someone’s day.

  Her expression shifts through fifty variations.

  The telltale oops to What, are you crazy? to something I’ll bet goes like this—Better just get this off my chest.

  Because it seems that’s where she’s headed when she sighs heavily.

  “Because I can’t come through intercourse,” she blurts out. “I’m sorry.”

  Whoa. I was not expecting sledgehammer bluntness. “You can’t? You never have?” I’m flooded with curiosity. The morbid kind. Because that sounds like a living hell. This woman. The suffering. My God.

  She shakes her head. “Never.”

  I sputter, “Not once?”

  “That would be the definition of ‘never.’ Never, as in not once.”

  My eyes bug out. I can’t believe this tale of woe. “You’ve literally never had an orgasm through sex?”

  She frowns as she nods. “Literally. It’s not like I’m happy about it.”

  “But . . .” I’m stumped, flummoxed, shocked.

  She laughs softly, a self-deprecating sound. “And look, this is most definitely a case of ‘it’s not you, it’s me.’” She runs her hand down my arm. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry, too, that you’ve never experienced the greatest thing ever. I should send you a bouquet. Some chocolates. Get VIP tickets to a concert to make up for the horror you’re enduring.”

  She shakes her head and squeezes my biceps. “No, Malone. I’m sorry I faked it with you. That’s what I’m apologizing for. That wasn’t cool.”

  I scoff. There are much bigger things that concern me. Like orgasms. Or the lack thereof. “No. What’s not cool is you not coming. That’s what’s not cool.”

  She offers a conciliatory smile. “Well, yeah. But I should have been honest with you. Seriously. And I’m truly sorry I did it.”

  My brow knits, curiosity gnawing at me. If she’s never tripped into O Town through sex, why did she feel the need to go full Meg Ryan with me? “Why did you fake it, then?”

  She sighs like a sad trombone. “Because I like you.”

  Ohhhhhh.

  “Yeah?” This makes me ridiculously happy, but also perplexed. “But I still don’t understand why you went for the Oscar.” I run my fingers over the ends of her hair. “By the way, you suck at faking an orgasm.”

  “No one else has noticed.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m not like those other guys.”

  Except I am. I have a lot in common with them evidently. And I don’t want a jacket to this club.

  “I know. You’re not. The sex was fantastic. That’s why I faked it.”

  I hold up a hand. “How could the sex be fantastic? You didn’t come. Ergo, it couldn’t have been great. News flash: coming helps make it great.”

  “For the record, sex can be amazing for a woman even without an orgasm.”

  I flub my lips. “That’s not possible. That’s like when the losing team in the Super Bowl says it was an honor just to be there.”

  She shakes her head, sitting up straighter. “So sex is just a game? It’s about winning or losing?”

  “No, it’s not. I’m not saying that whatsoever. But seriously, Sloane. All things being equal, would you rather have the big O or no O?”

  “Obviously, I’d rather my body threw a freaking parade, with trumpets, a band, and the whole nine yards. But sex isn’t about just the orgasm.” Her tone is passionate, as if she’s making a speech.

  “Why isn’t it?” I toss back, playing devil’s advocate, because I don’t buy her theory that orgasms are an afterthought. Orgasms are the motherfucking thought.

  She nudges me with her elbow. “Oh, c’mon. An orgasm lasts for thirty seconds. Good sex should last longer. If the whole part before the orgasm is no good, what’s the point of the O?”

  I shake my head. “That’s like saying looking at a mouthwatering piece of cherry pie is just as good as eating it. You don’t simply want to look at the pie. You want to devour the pie too.” I take a beat then slide my hand down her belly. “For the record, I also want to devour you, so you’re both the pie and the observer of the pie in that metaphor.”

  She holds up a finger to make a point. “But you can enjoy the high from the smell, maybe even take a bite of the pie. Not everyone eats an entire slice.”

  I give her a most skeptical look. “But is one little nibble of a delicious cherry pie enough?”

  She runs her hand through my hair. “It was enough for me. It was great. You need to understand that. I felt it everywhere. Tingles spread through my body. It was intense; it was electric.” Her tone dips lower, a little smoky, a lot sexy. She shivers as she describes how she felt, almost as if she’s feeling it again. “I want you to know that.”

  “Thank you,” I say, taking the compliment like a gentleman, since that seems to be important to her. “But I still want you to feel as good as you possibly can. I want you to experience la petite mort.”

  “Me too. And I wanted to. And I thought I might. I was hoping I might. I felt like I was racing to the edge. For a few minutes, I was sure it was going to happen. I had it clutched in the palm of my hand. But then it’s like it disappeared, and I knew I wasn’t going to.”

  “Why do you think you don’t come?”

  She taps her temple. “I’m in my head too much.”

  I nod, marinating on this information, then diving deeper. “Where was your head fifteen minutes ago when you knew you weren’t going to come?”

  “I was thinking about how it was our first time together. How much I wanted it. How great it would be to finally come, and once I thought that, my orgasm ran away.”

  Everything clicks into place. “You think too much. You don’t relax.”

  “Ya suppose?”

  I laugh at her droll reply. “And you think too hard about coming. You put pressure on yourself.”

  She shrugs as if conceding the point. “Perhaps.”

  The doctor in me continues to probe the problem, hunting for a solution. “Can you come in other ways?”

  She nods. “Vibrator mostly.”

  I flick out my tongue, asking the question.

  “Sometimes.”

  I waggle my f
ingers.

  “Now and then.”

  “But the vibrator always works?”

  “Complete success. Never fails.”

  I shake my head in frustration. “Vibrators. I swear. They’re going to replace men soon. You won’t need us.”

  “We kind of don’t for the most part.”

  “Thanks,” I say drily. “But back to the case. You can come. There’s nothing impeding you physically. No underlying condition. So basically you are a total type A in bed. Which explains why you attacked me like a tiger.”

  Her jaw drops. She’s incredulous. “What are you talking about?”

  “You were going quickly so you wouldn’t have to contemplate a thing. But here’s what I think.”

  She shoots me an amused grin. “Do tell, pussy doctor.”

  A laugh bursts from me. “I am indeed the pussy doc, and here’s my prognosis for your gorgeous, sexy, glorious pussy. You’re stuck in a rut. You haven’t come, so you think you can’t, so you try to not think, and that’s like saying Don’t picture cats while I talk to you about cats. And all you think about are cats.”

  She gives me a quizzical look. “Would you like me to think about kitties while you fuck me?”

  “Yes and no.” I pretend to put on a stethoscope and act as if I’m examining her. She laughs as I move the imaginary stethoscope over her throat. “Yup. You’ve lost your purr.”

  She imitates a feline who’s pleased.

  “Not buying it. That was fake. But don’t worry. We’re going to get your purr back.”

  “Get it back? Doctor, I’ve never had it.”

  “That’s the saddest story I’ve ever heard, but I’m an optimist.” I run my finger down her side by her breast, along the curve of her waist as goose bumps rise on her skin. “And a scientist and a problem-solver. Also, I’m willing to sacrifice myself to the cause.”

  “What cause is that?”

  “Your orgasm cause. That’s the only cause that matters. We’re going to crack the case.”

  She lifts a skeptical brow. “We?”

  I nod, resolute. “Yes. We.”

  “In one night?”

  I wave a hand dismissively. “Please. That’s not enough time. I need a week. We’re going to spend a week in Tahiti, and I promise by the end of the seven days, I’ll get you purring. It’s a one hundred percent satisfaction guaranteed promise.”

  She laughs, then it fades, replaced by a tinge of resignation. “Malone, I love the idea, but there are a million reasons we can’t do that.”

  But I’m a persistent bastard. Especially when something as life-sustaining as a climax is at stake. “To come or not to come. That is the question. Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous faking. Or to take arms against a sea of non-climaxes and by opposing end them.”

  Her laughter bubbles up again. “Okay, so you’re trying to convince me by Hamleting me.”

  “Because this is a very Shakespearean tale. You not coming is a tragedy.” I grab her hand, clasp it. “But we can rewrite it.”

  “How? Isn’t it going to be difficult?”

  “Well, not as difficult as unearthing the Sinatra bootleg album of him singing at the Avalon Ballroom. Easier than locating a three-hundred-year-old shipwreck off the coast of the Florida Keys.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I’m glad you think finding my lost O is easier than tracking down the buried treasure of Frank Sinatra.”

  “I’ve been hunting that one for years. But all the guys who make trades are shady, so I haven’t found it yet.” I run my hand down her stomach. “But your climax? That I can absolutely do. Give me a week, and I’ll have you curling your toes, clutching the sheets, and arching your back.” I take a beat, giving her my best sultry stare. “You’ll be purring, Sloane.”

  Her eyes twinkle like she enjoys that prospect. “I do want to purr. I definitely do.” She sighs. “But what about the one-night-only thing?”

  I slam a fist on the bed. Time for another impassioned speech. “None of that matters. This is a triage mission, woman. Don’t you get it? I have a higher calling. Making you come is literally all that matters.”

  “How are you going to get my purr back?”

  “Lessons. I’m going to give you lots of lessons. I will be your butler delivering you Os on demand. Your concierge at the five-star hotel of the meaning of life. Because that’s what orgasms are.”

  She slides closer to me. “You’re saying we’re staying in Tahiti at Malone’s Luxury Resort of Earth-Shattering, Spine-Tingling, Toe-Curling Os?”

  “It’ll be the best trip you ever take.”

  I slide my way down her body, kissing her belly as I go. When I reach the top of her mound, she’s wriggling against me. “Are you starting tonight?” she whispers, a hopeful look in her brown eyes.

  I laugh and move back up to her face, dropping a kiss to her lovely lips. “No way.”

  She pouts. “Why not?”

  “Sweetheart, for a project this important, a man does not start without reinforcements. We will begin on Monday.”

  “Then, for the first time ever, I’m really looking forward to a Monday.”

  25

  Sloane Elizabeth’s Post-It Note for Sunday’s Important Tasks

  1. Go underwear shopping.

  2. See #1.

  3. Also, consider massage, yoga, meditation, and any other techniques for shutting off that annoying brain that’s getting in the way.

  4. Ooh! Idea! Tickle the pink ivories before you see him. No pressure then, right?

  5. Make time for #4.

  6. Text Piper and tell her everything.

  * * *

  Sloane: So that’s everything.

  Piper: And that’s interesting. Can we call it Project No More Thing?

  Sloane: How about we refer to it as Eradicate the Orgasm Thief?

  Piper: That does have a nice ring to it. Or maybe just Reversing the Thing?

  Sloane: The Thing Reversal?

  Piper: Love it. It feels like something that happens in a superhero movie when he has to turn back time to change the fate of the world.

  Sloane: Yes, the future of humanity and climaxes have a lot in common.

  Piper: Both are noble causes. However, I have one piece of advice . . .

  Sloane: Of course. ;)

  Piper: I’m an advice giver. It’s what I do!

  Sloane: It’s what you do so well!

  Piper: Here goes: have an open mind.

  Sloane: Trust me—the mind isn’t closed. The mind may even be too open. Too much is going through it at that critical moment.

  Piper: What I mean is this—if this man is really committed to giving you pleasure, see what you can do to get there too.

  Sloane: Like herbs, mantras, chants, voodoo, offerings, séances, and Ouija boards?

  Piper: That, and maybe also just letting go of some of the past.

  Sloane: Past what? What past am I clinging to?

  Piper: Past boyfriends, sweetie. Let’s be honest. You’ve dated kind of selfish pricks.

  Sloane: Whoa. Tell me what you really think.

  Piper: I’m just being blunt.

  Sloane: AS YOU DO.

  Piper: Why, thank you. *curtsies* Look, you know I’ve never been fond of your exes. You tend to go for guys who are a little distant, a little removed.

  Sloane: That is true. I can’t argue with you there.

  Piper: And hey, we all have issues. I have my fair share of issues. Big thorny issues.

  Sloane: True, your issues are bigger than my issues. *sticks out tongue*

  Piper: You know it! Mine are a mile high. But at least I’ve been to the mile-high club. :)

  Sloane: Show off.

  Piper: Anyway, all I’m saying is have an open mind to what you want in your body, your mind, and your heart. Also, it may not have felt entirely right being intimate with the dickhead jerks you dated.

  Sloane: And do you think I feel better being intimate with Ma
lone?

  Piper: I don’t think it’s any surprise he’s the one you’re playing “Midnight Train to O-ville” with.

  Sloane: Perhaps he’ll be the one to get me to that destination.

  Piper: You know where orgasms lead.

  Sloane: To bliss?

  Piper: That, but also intimacy. Watch out.

  Sloane: I’ll consider myself warned. On that note, want to meet me at that sexy lingerie shop on the Upper East Side?

  Piper: I thought you’d never ask.

  26

  Whoever said Sunday was a day of rest clearly never had a mission like mine.

  There is no rest when you’re tasked with something so critical. The pleasure of a woman is at stake, for fuck’s sake.

  I can’t watch sports. I can’t shoot hoops with Nick or Jason. I can barely even think about the jujitsu class on the schedule this evening.