Page 4 of Finding Her Sweet Spots

No way. Not how Deacon said ‘Ms. Fox’. It was the exact same way he calls me ‘Ms. Miller’.

Ok, fine. They just want to toy with me, just like all the fake flirting they always do, and I push away. This is no different. I just have to hold it together.

Deacon swings open a black door to a private room and it’s empty. Then he sticks his hand into his pocket and whips out his wallet, using one hand to deftly pull out a couple hundred billswhile still gripping me tight with his other hand, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.

“Make sure no one comes into this room.” He addresses the security guard, who is standing a few feet away.

“But-”, the security guard protests.

“Not even one person, thanks.” Deacon hands him a stack of hundred-dollar bills.

The security guard nods and slips the hundreds into his jacket. “You got it.”

I swallow hard, wondering if I should even step through the door.

But Deacon pulls me gently in and I follow like a little puppy. Apparently, something about them being in suits and plain leather masks is causing my brain to malfunction. We pass through the door into the private low-lit room. I slip my hand from his and gravitate toward the back wall to try to gain some composure. I’ve only had one drink tonight, and it was a super fruity cocktail. So it’s not the alcohol that is buzzing throughout my body right now.

I lean back against the wall. The soft velvet fabric lining it glides along the top of my back where my skin is exposed. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. When I open my eyes, the Sweet brothers are lined up in front of me and staring. The three men who have me cornered like prey should scare me. Their broad bodies tower over me and their full attention is intense. But behind those masks are the same eyes that I’ve stared at across study sessions for almost two years. I know the curves of their broad shoulders and they know my favorite kind of chocolate.

And I also know that I’ve dreamed about being pinned under any pair of those three shoulders more than any decent person should.

“Any other questions for us, Ms. Fox? This room should give us plenty of privacy.” Deacon says as he takes a step closer to me. My pulse quickens as his handsome dark features come more into focus.

A part of me wants to rip my mask off, make a joke, and punch him in the shoulder to bring us back to business as usual. Because, yes, we’re friends. We’re classmates. But we are not peers, just like we are not, well, potentialpartners. They could hook up with any 20-year-old in this place. Hell, probably any woman in Manhattan. So why are they looking at me like I’m their next meal?

“Well, there is a second question,” I finally admit, because it’s true and I hate the idea of incomplete data.

“Go ahead,” Graham is smiling. Damn, that smile in his mask and suit. It’s too delicious.

“On a scale from one to ten, in this particular setting, how much would you value your partner’s pleasure in relation to your own?” I ask because this is the question. I’ve asked many women and men here the exact same question, but the way it comes out of my mouth suddenly sounds like a dare rather than research.

Deacon takes another step closer to me, and I stop breathing. Literally, I am holding my breath. Because I need to use every single one of my senses right now. It’s dim as hell in here, there’s music playing in the background mixed with an increasing number of moans, and I am not entirely certain that this isn’t some depraved sex hallucination due to dangerously low non-self-induced orgasms. Coming to this sex club might have just pushed me over the edge into dry-spell-hallucination syndrome, a new disease for which I am patient zero.

“I value qualitative data more than quantitative data.” The words coming out of Deacon’s mouth might prove he’s still the same graduate student I know so well, but the way he is saying them is dirty as hell. He brushes a strand of hair that fell frommy bun behind my ear and I watch him closely. “Rather than us providing a boring number that we could lie about, how about we show you just how much we valueyourpleasure instead?”

“Oh, god,” I say out loud before I can stop myself. “Dea-” I start, almost saying his name. “-r.” I adjust awkwardly. “Dear. Oh, dear.

I see Deacon’s mouth twist in a smile.

“It’s just… I’m old enough to be your mother,” I blurt out, knowing it’s utter nonsense.

Now Ben is laughing. “You’re old enough to be our cool aunt at best. You’re not even ten years older than us…” He pauses, rubbing his hand on his chin. “I mean, I would guess. Of course, I don’t know how old you are.” Does this mean he’s playing along and pretending we don’t know each other? Because, of course, they know my actual age. We’ve talked about our age difference a million times.

“You think I’m cool enough to be your cool aunt, though?” I fish for more confirmation.

“Well,” he debates his answer. “In theshorttime we’ve known each other, yes.” One corner of his lip curves up, a playful smirk forming on his lips.

Yep, he’s committing to this game. This steels my nerves. They’re going to let me pretend we don’t know each other. I take a deep breath. For the first time, I let myself think that maybe I can let my guard down just a little bit. Maybe in this setting, playing this game, I can let myself admit how badly I want them. Maybe I can even get some release from all this damn tension I feel around them. I shudder just at the thought and my lips release a wisp of air.

Deacon is close enough to notice. He brings his hand to my cheek, running his thumb on the corner of my mask. He tilts my gaze up so our eyes meet. Deacon is the most playful man I know, but right now his eyes are dead serious, even tender.

“Let me kiss you,” he says in a deep, hushed tone. “Let me kiss you and if you still think I’m some inexperienced boy who doesn’t know how to please you, then I’ll stop and walk away and it all stays in this room.”

Does he think my hesitance is about him? Of course, it’s not. The need to let him know that I’ve never underestimated him feels suddenly like the most urgent thing in the world. My heart races, a powerful mix of panic and excitement, as I stand up on my toes and guide his head down to mine. He cups the back of my head and flattens his hand against my lower back, pulling me into him. Our lips meet softly. I’m surprised by his tenderness as his plush lips part mine. It’s nothing like how I was being kissed in my twenties, usually with drunken sloppiness and a selfish intensity. He continues to kiss me with gentle regard.

Suddenly, a horrible thought hits me. I pull away from him.

“Do you think you need to be gentle with me?”

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