Page 10 of Business or Pleasure

Just when I’m starting to think I could lie here all night like this, he lifts up, starts kissing down my stomach. There’s an impatience to him now—he doesn’t linger. And maybe I can understand that, even if foreplay’s always been my favorite part. He hooks his thumbs on either side of my panties and pauses, lifting an eyebrow at me, waiting for my nod before he slides them down. Then his hand is inching up one thigh, everything in me tensing, anticipating before he parts me with two fingers.

Oh. Yes. I sigh into his touch, wrapping my arms around his neck and fisting strands of his hair. And then... yes?

His technique isn’t bad, exactly... it just lacks finesse. He pumps a finger in and out. In and out. And that’s it. No variation. Surely he’s just warming up. I refuse to believe that he thinks the key to a woman’s pleasure is treating her body like one of those finger-trap toys he just—can’t—escape from.

The bed squeaks as he shifts around, getting off to retrieve the drugstore bag. He drops the condoms on the nightstand and holds up the tiny bottle of lube, asking a silent question. Yes.

But then he squirts—

Too much.

Way too much.

It drips between my legs and onto the bed beneath me, my ass in a slippery puddle that smells like strawberry vanilla.

“Came out a little faster than I thought, sorry,” he says sheepishly, grabbing a few tissues and doing his best to mop it up.

Bless the man, he’s persistent. Even if he’s not hitting the right spot, the lube makes everything better, slick and warm and sensitive.

“Does she like that?” he asks.

“She?”

A smirk as he uses his other hand to point between my legs. It takes me longer than it should to process what he’s saying—and then it hits me.

He’s talking about my vagina. Like we’re two separate entities.

“Mm-hmm” is all I can say.

It’s a relief when he dips his head, and I try my best to focus on what his tongue is doing instead of the wet patch of comforter beneath me.

At first, I think it’s a joke—that he can’t really be this inept. But nope, he is entirely serious about what he’s doing down there, and I’m worried that if I open my mouth to give him some direction, I’ll start laughing. Because he’s really just perched right there on the edge of the bed, licking my pubic bone like it’s a firecracker Popsicle on the Fourth of July.

“You’re doing amazing,” he says. Amazing at... lying here? And then, as he continues to work his tongue around the same spot: “Oh yeah. Right there?”

Two things become instantly clear to me. One, that this man has no earthly idea where the clitoris is. And two, it’s not the room that’s cursed—it’s Drew.

Drew, who blushed when I rolled up his sleeves. Who spoke in one of the Elvish languages in a way that was weirdly charming. Who kissed me like he couldn’t wait to get my clothes off but is evidently mystified by oral. A night like this isn’t supposed to come with instructions. At least, I don’t think so.

“Could you—a little lower?” I finally manage.

He obliges, switching back to his fingers, which is better in the sense that I can feel something. “You feel so good,” he says. “So hot. So ready. I love how hot and ready you are.”

In the parts of my mind that aren’t cringing, I remember that Little Caesars sells pizzas called Hot-N-Ready, a fact that does not make me any hornier.

His erection strains against his boxers. Gently, I push up on his chest so that I can flip us around. He is extremely Hot-N-Ready, and one additional benefit to all this lube is that when I slip my hand inside his boxers and wrap my fingers around him, his head falls back against the pillow, all his freckles giving the impression of filthy, sexy innocence. Jesus. The way he shuts his eyes, exposing his elegant neck... I don’t hate the view. Not at all. And damn it—despite all our mishaps so far, I still want this to be good. Tonight was supposed to get me out of a rut, remind me I can be wild and carefree. I’m not ready to give up just yet.

“I need you,” I say into his ear, wondering if there’s more truth in those words than I care to admit. His groan and mumbled please bring me closer to orgasm than I’ve been all night.

With my remaining shards of hope, I reach for the box of condoms. He gives me a sly lift of his eyebrows as he takes one from me, and before I can tell him not to, sinks his teeth into it. When he removes it from his mouth, he frowns down at the torn wrapper. A Casanova, he is not.

I grab another one and open it myself this time, giving him a few hard tugs before I roll it on. His eyes flutter shut as he lets out a low hum, shifting me back against the bed with his cock poised at my entrance.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he exhales as he pushes into me. “Fuck. Yes. Fuck. Yes.” He punctuates each sentence with a pump of his hips.

I try to meet his strokes, but he’s going so fast, I can’t keep up. When I reach down to where our bodies are joined in a halfhearted attempt to get myself there, he interprets this as me reaching for his hand.

“Oooh, there it is,” he pants out as he threads our fingers together. “There it is.”

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