Graham

What. The. Hell?

I rub my finger against my ear as I wander through Central Park in a daze an hour later.

Maybe I’ve slipped into an alternate reality, like in Fight Club, only I’m now playing the part of a sex tutor after-hours. And the first rule of Sex Club? When the woman you’re supposed to look out for like a little sister propositions you, SAY NO.

Right?

How can I possibly say yes?

My job is to scowl at potential suitors, to tell her no one is good enough for her, and to make it clear she should never settle for some schmuck who regifts candles to lubricate the path to sex.

You would lubricate the path in a much classier fucking way . . .

And Devil Graham is back in a big way.

She needs you. You’re the only man for the job.

No, Devil Graham, you are wrong. I can’t be the guy who looks out for her during the day, and her sex tutor at night.

Look how well those split roles worked for the narrator in Fight Club. I would rather stay out of the mental ward, thank you very much.

“Get out of the way, Wall Street.”

I snap my gaze up as a speed-demon jogger tears by, barking at me. Huh. Apparently, I’m walking in the fast lane on the running path. Well, excuse the hell out of me.

I raise a hand in a mock-friendly wave, calling out, “No problem, man. I’ll just be the guy passing you tomorrow.”

But I don’t run in Central Park. I’m a Hudson River Greenway guy. Besides, wearing a button-down shirt doesn’t make me look like a Wall Street douchebag. I’m just a guy dressed nicely for brunch with a friend I’ve known since she was a kid, who wants me to teach her sex tricks.

As I walk east across the Great Lawn, I try again to make sense of CJ’s desire to learn how to please a man. Something is off with that. It should be the other way around. Some lucky bastard should be busting his ass—and everything else—to please her.

My dick insists he and I could teach her how a real man treats a woman. But my dick isn’t the best barometer. Dicks are notoriously untrustworthy. A dick knows one thing—it wants to go home. All the time. Home being the promised land between a woman’s soft, welcoming thighs.

That’s why I can’t trust my dick to make this call, even though the prospect of sweet, funny, clever CJ asking me—no, begging me—to fuck her is a bigger turn-on than I would have imagined possible.

And that’s the problem. I need to get my head in the game and put my libido on the sidelines. As I walk, I focus on the best boner-killer known to heterosexual man.

Another man.

Yep. Works like a charm.

Down-boy achieved in seconds as I think of Sean.

We were raised on the proverbial different sides of the tracks, but none of that mattered when we interned at the same company in high school. Hockey fans through and through, we connected over a shared devotion to the sport, as well as our drive to conquer the business world. Hell, we hatched the idea for our company back when we were dirty-minded teens. But we stuck with it, all through college and beyond, launching Adored and turning it into a success.

He guarded our company like a bear, watching over it with unwavering devotion.

He was like that with his sister, too. That was his style. He had the overprotective brother thing going in spades. Their mom died when they were both young, and when their dad moved to Greece, all roads to CJ’s social life went through Sean. At six-foot-three, with a bruiser body and a gruff exterior, no one wanted to fuck with him. It’s no surprise, I suppose, that she didn’t date much in Manhattan—not when she was living down the hall from someone who could put the fear of God into other men with one look.

But even so, it’s still messing with my head that she’s a virgin. Like, a real virgin? Not just today’s virgins, who consider themselves chaste if their ass hasn’t been deflowered?

How could a woman as beautiful, outgoing, and fucking adorable as CJ be a card-carrying member of the V club at age twenty-five? CJ is the stuff erotic dreams are made of. And in those dirty dreams, I can picture leading her somewhere private and stripping off her blouse, kissing those luscious tits of hers, making her moan. I can imagine discovering the flavor of her kiss, making her gasp as my tongue sweeps across her soft skin for the first time.

A horse and carriage clomp by, the horse neighing.

Yeah, that’s my cue to whoa nelly on my brain.

And to violate the first rule of Fight Club. The real rule.

I have to talk about this.

I need a reality check.

I need my good friend Luna, former business school study buddy and person I can always count on to give it to me straight—even when it hurts. And it just so happens she’s not far away.

I head to her food truck, texting her that I’ll be there in three minutes.

As I head up the cobblestone path not far from the carousel, she pops out of the doorway of the blue Luna’s Sweets truck on the other side of the roundabout. “Hey there, stranger.” Luna waves at me, smiling from behind her cat-eye glasses, her blond ponytail swishing in the breeze. “What are you doing here on a Sunday? Let me guess—you couldn’t keep away from my whoopie pies.”

I hold my arms out wide. “Who in the world can resist a whoopie pie?”

“No one. And let’s keep it that way. We open in thirty minutes, and I want a line as far as the eye can see. But you can have one now.” She winks and then slips back into the truck, returning a few seconds later with a whoopie pie in a paper boat. “For you, you closet pie junkie.”

I pat my flat belly. “Shh. Don’t tell anyone the real reason I run five miles every day is that I’m addicted to your whoopie.” I hold up a hand. “Wait, that sounded filthy. Reboot.”

Luna laughs. “It’s okay. I’m used to your dirty mind. But thankfully, I’m immune to your charms.”

“You wound me.”

“I know. You’ve never recovered from me choosing team chick over team dick, have you?” She waits for my usual assurances that yes, having my only bisexual friend swear off cock for the rest of her life was the most traumatizing event of my graduate school experience.

But my brain is fuzzy, and I’m not ready to fire back with our usual repartee. She seems to sense it, her brows drawing together as she scans my face. “Wow, you look like shit. What’s up?”

“You look lovely, too.”

She punches my shoulder. “Shut up. I mean that with great affection.”

I rub my shoulder, pretending she hurt me. “And I appreciate your affection, even the kind where you punch me.” I take a deep breath and dive into the crazy end of the pool. “Ever feel like everything you thought you knew about the universe went up in smoke in a single morning?”

“Seeing as I barely understand how string theory supposedly ties the universe together, no. But I get what you’re saying. Come on. Let’s take a walk.” She unties her apron, wadding it into a ball and tossing it to the teenager in the truck. “Hold the fort. I’ll be back.”

We head through the trees and into the shade, Luna wiggling her hands into the pockets of her oversize sweater. “Talk to me.”

“It’s CJ Murphy. You know, Sean’s little sister?”

Luna hums thoughtfully. “Cute, curvy brunette at graduation? The one Sean treated like she was made of glass and made her go back to the hotel with their dad before we all went out for drinks?”

“Yes, that’s the one,” I say. “We’ve stayed close since Sean passed, and I, um . . . well, I learned something about her today.” I take my time with this. A part of me thinks I shouldn’t be sharing CJ’s secret, but Luna is a vault. She keeps all my confidences, always has, and I can’t process this new intel solo.

“She’s an ax murderer in her spare time?” Luna quips.

“Ha. Funny. But you’re not far off, oddity-wise.” I take another bite, finishing the pie and taking a deep breath. “But listen, this is personal. So please don’t share.”

She gives me a you-can’t-be-serious look. “As if.”

“I mean it, Luna. You can’t even tell Princess,” I say, referring to Valerie, Luna’s tall, strong, kick-ass-and-take-names wife. She’s the head of ticket operations at Madison Square Garden, as well as a part-time karate instructor, and about as far from the princess stereotype as you can get, but it’s sweet that Luna uses that nickname.

She frowns. “It better be important if you’re asking me to keep it from Valerie. We don’t do secrets—even other people’s secrets.”

I toss the pie boat in a trash can, stop in my tracks, and heave a sigh. “Yes, it’s important, and I probably shouldn’t breathe a word, but this is screwing with my head, and I need your help.”

She taps her watch. “I hear you, Graham Cracker. And you know I’ll help if I can. But I can’t do anything until you spit it out.”

“She’s interested in going back to school,” I blurt out.

Luna furrows her brow. “For what? Business? Doesn’t she run her own company already?”

“Not that kind of school.” I cut the bullshit, adding in a softer voice, “She wants me to be her teacher. Her one-on-one, private sex ed teacher.”

Luna’s mouth falls into an O. “Wow. I just can’t picture . . .” She blinks behind her glasses. “She seemed so shy the one time I met her. She actually came out and said she wanted a sex tutor? Are you sure you understood her?”

I scoff. “Please. I earned an A-plus in that subject.”

A sharp-eyed stare is my response.

“Trust me. There was no innuendo. No subtlety. She was one hundred percent direct. She wants me to develop a lesson plan in how to please a man. Apparently, she doesn’t feel she’s as well versed as she wants to be.”

Luna snorts. “But no way she’s a virgin, right? She’s a babe. Straight-up foxy. I mean, if I weren’t madly in love with Princess, I’d do her.”

I roll my eyes. “Good to know.” Then I sidestep the virgin question because that’s not my confidence to share. I don’t have to reveal the full truth to get Luna’s advice. “She’s inexperienced. And she wants some . . . how shall we say, fine-tuning. I guess she feels in today’s world, she needs a few tricks up her sleeve to hold her own on the battlefield.”

“It is pretty crazy out there,” Luna murmurs. “I thank God every day that I’m not single anymore. And well, I guess it’s natural that she would ask you. You’re her friend, and you have a reputation as a talented guide through hetero O-town, if you’re into that kind of thing.” She shrugs. “So, what did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything. I mean, this is crazy, right?” I ask, shocked that Luna isn’t immediately telling me to back away from my best friend’s little sister. “I have to tell her no. Sean would have lost his fucking mind. I can’t do that to him.”

“Sean would have been happy if the poor girl ended up locked in a convent somewhere.” Luna presses her lips together. “And Sean, rest his sweet, over-protective soul, isn’t here to make this decision. CJ is, and you are. And if the woman needs and wants help, it’s something to consider. Do you want to do it? To help someone you obviously care about?”

I shake my head because I can’t go there.

But I also can’t help but think of how CJ would respond to a kiss, my body pressing tight to hers. I can practically feel her curves against my chest, hear her calling my name in her husky voice.

Now that the idea has been planted, I can’t get her out of my mind.

“But that’s not the point,” I say, clearing my throat. “The point is, I have to convince her to let this go, don’t you think? She should flush the sex ed idea and stick to dating until she finds the right guy.”

Luna laughs. “You’re a dumbass, Graham,” she says bluntly. “CJ knows what she wants, or she wouldn’t have had the guts to ask for it. Besides . . .” She waves a hand at the city skyline rising like jagged gray teeth above the green trees of the park. “You’ve romanced and bestowed orgasms upon half the female population of the city. And now you have a chance to put all that experience to use for good.”

I scoff. “Seriously? For good? That’s how you see this?”

She nods vigorously. “Yes. You’ve been asked to help a friend. And if she doesn’t get a yes from you, what makes you think a determined, bright woman like CJ isn’t going to find someone else to teach her the ropes?”

My gut clenches at that thought. Someone else teaching her? Touching her?

“You really think she’d ask someone else?”

Luna shrugs. “Never underestimate the determination of a woman when it comes to getting what she needs. And for the record, if she played for my team, and she’d come to me before I was a married woman, damn straight I would have taught her how to float down the Lesbian River.”

“I didn’t realize it was a river,” I say drily.

Luna wiggles her eyebrows in response. “Just think. What if she goes to a sexpert? Do they have those? If there are people who get paid to cuddle, surely there are sexperts? Guys who will teach CJ all the dirty deeds as long as she’s willing to pay the right price . . .”

The thought is stomach-turning. I don’t want her going to some sleazy sexpert, or even another friend.

I don’t want her turning to anyone else. Period. Sex-batical or no sex-batical, that’s unacceptable. And honestly, it’s probably worth breaking my two-months-and-counting fast.

I raise my gaze heavenward. Sean’s not here—may he rest in peace—but if his sister is fixated on finding someone in this city of millions to teach her how to come undone, and make a man do the same, it’s going to be me.

And fuck, do I ever want to see her come.

Maybe that makes me a bad man, but I’m finding being good is rapidly losing its appeal.

I walk Luna back to her truck, hug her goodbye, and then open CJ’s number on my phone.

I’m her friend, and I care deeply for her. I want her to know that. I also want to show her what kind of teacher I am.

The kind who doesn’t settle for less than 100 percent from his student.