CJ

This could be it. The night everything changes. The night I start the journey from Behind the Sex Curve to Head of the Fucking Class.

Assuming, of course, that the gift box Graham had sent to my apartment means what I think it means.

“Sexy panties in a fancy gift box mean exactly what you think they mean, genius,” I murmur to my reflection in my compact as my cabbie whizzes down Sixth Avenue, weaving in and out of traffic in a way that would give me a heart attack if I made the mistake of looking out the window. “This is it. Time to get your head in the game and think positive, ready-to-pounce thoughts.”

Oh God . . . ready-to-pounce thoughts.

I thought I was ready—I’m the one who put this kinky bargain on the table, for goodness sake—but now that my theory is about to become reality, I’m so nervous it feels like my tongue is trying to crawl down my throat and hide out in my stomach. I was expecting lesson one to be something tamer—a way to ease into this, like sinking into a pool of slightly too-hot water—but then there were panties.

And panties mean business.

“Let you out on this side?” the driver asks, motioning to the corner just ahead.

“Yes, th-that’s fine.” I fluff my hair, run my tongue over my front teeth, and snap my compact shut with a firm click before swiping my credit card and adding a healthy tip.

And then me, my black skirt that hits at the knees, and the black lace panties that reveal more of my butt than I’m pretty sure I’ve ever revealed to anyone are off to the races. The lace underwear isn’t a thong, but it doesn’t cover my cheeks, either. They cut halfway across my rear. Perhaps that means Graham is an ass man. The thought makes me simultaneously want to giggle and to hide my face behind my hands while I blush ruby red.

There’s also an embroidered butterfly on the semi-sheer front, right at the top by my hipbone. If I’m trying to read his panty selection like a mug of tea leaves, I guess that means he thinks I’m a butterfly. Hopefully he’s right, and I’m finally ready to emerge from my cocoon.

But I remind myself that I’m a business butterfly, and that breed keeps the heart separate from anything below the belt. I move faster down the street, shivering slightly at the chill in the night air, wrapping my arms around my silky pink blouse.

A few minutes later, after visiting the Starbucks bathroom a few doors down from the restaurant, because anxiety makes my microscopic bladder even more hyperactive, I’m stepping out of the elevator at Patio West.

Excessively well-dressed and on-trend people gather in cozy clusters around the deck, which is illuminated by antique gas lamps and humming space heaters scattered across the rooftop bar. At this hour, the sun is long down and the lights are turned low, but it’s bright enough for me to spot Graham. I could pin-point him a mile away on a cloudy day with a bag over his head, based on his broad, take-no-prisoners shoulders alone.

But he’s not here. There are no suitably-sized shoulders in attendance at the bar, or at any of the tables.

Doubt flashes through my chest for the thousandth time since my panty present arrived. What if Graham’s changed his mind? What if the panties don’t mean what I think they mean? What if he was on his way here and was in a horrible accident and is now in the hospital, fighting for his life, because I’m cursed and will go to my grave an inexperienced virgin haunted by the ghosts of all the penises I’ve never known?

With my anxiety reaching the tipping point that will send me running home to spend the night watching Hugh Jackman in Les Mis with Stephen King, my senile cat, even if he chews a button off my blouse like he did the other night—the cat, not the actor—I whip out my phone and place an emergency call.

Chloe, my best friend and the marketing guru who has helped make Love Cycle Creations successful beyond my wildest dreams, answers on the second ring. “Have you run home to hide yet?” she asks, proving I am a predictably predictable coward.

“No,” I whisper, gliding to the edge of the balcony to stare down at the traffic zipping by below. “But I’m considering jumping off this roof and putting myself out of my misery. My date’s not here.”

I didn’t tell Chloe that my mystery date is Graham—I’m not ready to cough up that gossip morsel—but I had to tell someone I was leaving the house to see a male of the species for the first time in nearly six months. “Why isn’t he here?”

“Um, so many reasons—stalled subway car, shitty Uber driver, construction blocking a major artery to the Lower West Side? Need I go on?”

“He has a driver and a town car,” I mumble, arranging myself behind a potted tree with a view of the elevator.

“Ooh la la. A fancy man, eh? You didn’t tell me he was fancy,” she says, barreling on before I can reply. “But still. His town car doesn’t have wings, does it? He could be stuck in traffic.” Chloe pauses and mumbles something under her breath along with my name, making me think she’s not alone on the other end of the line.

Of course she’s not. Chloe is sexy, funny, fabulous, and completely comfortable in her own skin. She loves men and they love her, and she’s rarely without a man of the moment, even if she does tend to shy away from long-term relationships.

“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling terrible for being the needy boss-friend who interrupts a Monday-night booty call. “Am I interrupting your evening? I can go. This isn’t a big deal.”

“Of course it’s a big deal, and no, you’re not interrupting,” Chloe says. “So quit being crazy and repeat after me: I’m CJ Murphy. I am a sweet, generous person who loves animals and small children and would do anything for a friend. I also own my own company, am smoking hot, and any dude is lucky to be going on a date with me.”

Lucky to be going on a date with me.

Lucky to be going on a date with me . . .

But this isn’t really a date—it’s a sex lesson—but I can’t tell Chloe that. I’m not ready to confess that to anyone. Maybe not even myself.

I’m so much more scared than I thought I would be.

Dear God, this is really happening. Graham will be here any minute—he runs late, but he always shows—and my life is going to be changed FOREVER.

“You know what, Chloe? I think I need a drink.” Tucking my purse under my arm, I make a beeline for the bar. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

“Or call me later,” Chloe says. “I want to hear how it goes! Good luck.”

“Thanks.” I end the call and slip onto an empty stool beneath an antique replica of a World War II fighter plane. In a heartbeat, the bartender spots me and heads my way, clearly sensing my sudden and powerful need for liquid courage.

But before I can open my mouth to order, he says, “You’re CJ, right?”

I straighten, surprised. “Um, yeah. Yes.”

He fetches a dirty vodka martini with extra olives, my favorite drink, from beneath the bar and slides it across the smoothly polished surface. “Your friend ordered this for you about ten minutes ago. Glad you showed. I hate to waste good vodka.” He departs with a wink, leaving me even more unsettled.

There, underneath the elegant stem of the martini glass, is a folded note, my name on it in Graham’s handwriting.

Drinks and winks and mysterious notes, oh my . . .

My face flushes as I reach for it. He’s going to tell me he made a mistake. He’s going to tell me to go home, change into my snowman-covered flannel pajamas, and embrace my life as a person who is always on the outside looking in.

The cool spring breeze on my exposed arms suddenly feels like ice, summoning goose bumps from my skin. With shaking hands, I unfold the note and read: Go to the restroom.

I wrinkle my nose and murmur, “I already peed before I came up, thank you.” Who knew meeting a man who knew you so well could be so . . . completely unromantic?

But then, this isn’t about romance. This is a business arrangement with pleasurable benefits, and I would be a fool to forget it. The part of me that’s still a young girl with a crush on her older brother’s best friend has to stay out of sight and out of mind. There’s no room for her around here, only for grown-up CJ and her practical and grounded expectations.

I glance around the patio, but there’s still no sign of Graham, and I confess I feel silly texting him to say I don’t have to pee. Seriously, this isn’t a doctor’s visit where you need to whiz in a cup.

I take a small sip of my drink, then a larger one, my foot bobbing as I await the arrival of the man of the hour. The man of the week, who might very well be planting his flag in my moondust before the evening is through.

Cursing under my breath, I down the entire cocktail in one long gulp. Hell, I need it. And—bonus points—I think maybe I can pee now. If I try really hard.

Licking the sea-salty goodness from my lips, I slide off my stool and amble down the hallway toward the restrooms, already feeling looser in my limbs, my equilibrium slightly off in the three-inch peep-toe heels Chloe insisted were the only choice for a “first date.”

More like first bang . . .

I take a deep breath. Then another. “That’s right, cool, easy, and breathing. Always breathing,” I whisper as I squint at the doors on the left, looking for the ladies’ room sign. “You can do this.”

I pause in front of a door marked private. Before my stress-and-martini-affected brain can sort out what’s so hush-hush about this room, the door opens and a familiar hand clamps around my upper arm, pulling me into a darkened room, a private lounge it seems.

I blink, my pulse spiking as my eyes adjust to the dimness, and Graham chastises me in a deep voice. “Don’t ever drink a cocktail that you haven’t personally watched the bartender pour.”

“Then don’t order me drinks to leave with your notes.” I’m impressed with how sassy I sound, despite the hammering of my heart. “And were you spying on me? That’s not creepy at all.”

“Creepy?” He shakes his head in the near darkness as he draws me closer, until the spicy, addictive smell of him swirls through my head, making me even dizzier than I was before. “Miss Murphy, are you trying to hurt my feelings?”

“Never,” I whisper, adrenaline making my chest feel as if it’s filled with a swarm of butterflies on a sugar rush. “I’m going to be very respectful of your feelings. And very appreciative of your time and attention.”

“That’s sweet,” he murmurs. “But before you start thanking me, let me give you something to be grateful for, beautiful.”

My lips part to tell him I’m already grateful, but before I can speak, his mouth finds mine, needy, urgent, hungry.

This isn’t a soft and tender first kiss.

It’s a downright claiming.

His big hands cup my cheeks, and as he holds my face, he devours my lips. My knees go weak. Tingles spread everywhere. My insides hum. Holy hell. This is kissing. This is kissing like I’ve never been kissed before.

I feel owned, and I relish it as his tongue explores me, his teeth nipping, his faint stubble rubbing against me. Everything, all of it, sets off a swirl of sensations inside me, making those sugar-rush butterflies spin like they’re caught up in a hurricane.

I’ve spent so many nights dreaming about the taste and feel of him—from the days when I imagined him kissing me at homecoming, to sometime last week when I woke up from a dirty dream starring Graham in a pair of running shorts and nothing else. But no fantasy could ever have prepared me for this. He tastes exactly like I thought he would, like mint and salt and that clove-and-brown-sugar aftershave he wears.

And, oh, how I want to be thinking deep, meaningful thoughts. Or at least taking copious mental notes about how un-freaking-believable this feels, but all I can think is Holy crap, Graham Campbell is kissing me. He’s kissing me, and it’s the best thing that has ever happened to my mouth, bar none. Forget gourmet cupcakes and that chocolate bar from Paris. They’ve got nothing on this man’s drop-dead sexy lips.

You’re going to be hooked in one go, like a drug addict . . .

The thought flitters through my mind, funny and scary at the same time, before I lose the ability to process any thoughts or feelings aside from the intense sensation of heat—sizzling, burning, exploding like a thousand fireworks inside me.

Graham wraps his arms around my waist and tangles his fingers in my hair, holding my mouth prisoner, though there’s no need. I have absolutely no urge to escape.

No, I want to be right here. Right now. With Graham kissing me as if he’s never wanted anything as much in his life. His tongue, lips, teeth, and powerful chest are all pressed to mine, assuring me of his commitment to lesson one.

Oh, lesson one, you’re already so much better than I could have hoped . . .

“Yes,” I murmur as his lips drift down my jawline and tug aside the fabric of my blouse, baring my collarbone.

“Yes?” he echoes. “So far, so good?”

“So, so good,” I assure him, my fingers driving into his thick hair as he drags his teeth across the skin at the base of my neck.

“Good. Because that’s what tonight is about. Making you feel good. You shouldn’t worry about pleasing any man until he’s proven he can please you.”

My heart beats faster, the sentiment thrilling me. Or maybe it’s just that I’m already falling under this wild spell of sensation, this kiss that feels like a prelude to so much more. To everything I’ve never experienced but so desperately want.

Deftly, with an ease that makes this crazy thing we’re doing seem wholly sane, he cups my breast, his thumb rubbing the outline of my nipple. His touch sends sparks racing through me, and my entire body screams with arousal as he tilts my head back, leaving me to stare helplessly up at the ceiling as his tongue laves my neck.

“First lesson,” he rasps against my skin. “The public quickie. Tell me you’re ready.”

Public? Is this public?

Dim red light casts shadows on lush burgundy walls. The notes of faraway jazz music skitter through the air in this dark little room, but it feels like we’re alone. Not that it really matters—right now, I would say yes to anything Graham wanted to do to me. Anything, anywhere, as long as he doesn’t stop making me feel like I’m shot through with starlight.

My lips part to tell him so, but I can’t seem to make my vocal cords cooperate. I can’t remember ever feeling this overwhelmed by pure, electric sensation.

“Tell me,” Graham urges, teasing my nipple harder through the fabric of my blouse.

“Yes!” I gasp, as his other hand skims the hem of my skirt, roughly edging it up over my thighs as my brain begins chanting oh my God, oh my God over and over.

“Perfect.” His voice is calm and controlled, as if he isn’t the least bit affected by the dark magic he’s working on my body. “Now turn around for me, Butterfly.”

I do as I’m told, spinning to find myself staring at my own reflection, but I don’t look like myself. I look wild, hungry, and . . . sexy as hell.

“That’s right. Look at how hot you are,” Graham says, suddenly so close his chest presses against my back as his hands slide up the sides of my skirt, baring my thighs and then that scrap of black lace he insisted I wear. That delicate, beautiful fabric that is the only thing covering where I’m already so wet, so desperate to be touched. “You’re a goddamned sex goddess.”

He’s right. I am, I realize as he lifts my skirt higher, smoothing his hand over my bottom as my eyes go dark with hunger.

I look like I’ve been possessed by the spirit of some ancient fertility goddess, a creature with no shame, only hunger, desire, and bottomless, fathomless passion.

I know it won’t last, and that cautious, careful CJ will be back sooner or later, but I mean to make the most of every second, every kiss, every husky groan as Graham glides his finger beneath the lace on one side of my sexy new panties.