The Sexpert

“Will you eat me like dessert?” I say. “Swirl your tongue around in my frosting and hit my cherry button?”

He laughs. “What?”

“Oh, my God! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to say that. I was working on an article for the magazine earlier and that just popped into my head! I’m so—”

But the rest of my words get cut off. Because his mouth covers mine in a kiss.

I kiss him back. We’re just gonna jump right in, I guess. And I’m glad. No awkward small talk for us. His hands are on my cheeks, holding my face close to his as we tangle our tongues together. His mouth demanding and hard, but only in all the best ways.

My mouth is soft and pliant. Willing to give in and let him lead.

And then his hands are on my button-down shirt. Pulling it over my shoulders and down my arms. Peeling it off until he gets it free and tosses it across the room.

I stop kissing him. Look up into his half-mast eyes as he stares down at me.

And then he says, “Fuck, yes. I am more than happy to lick your frosting.”

He pulls my wet t-shirt down, my bra going with it, so my tits bounce up and out as he sets them free.

I feel ridiculous. And I want to say, Hold up a second. Let me take my shirt off so we can do this right.

But I’ve done enough Sexpert research to know that contorting clothing—especially bras—to make a girl’s tits pop up like this is considered HAF.

Hot. As. Fuck.

So I let it ride. In fact, I do something I would never have dreamed of last year. I flaunt it. I grab his hands and place them on my breasts. He squeezes automatically. And I say, “My cupcakes are waiting.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN – ANDREW

The erection I had back in my office was nothing compared to what I’m rocking now. Holy shit. It’s not like I’ve never felt breasts before. And it’s not like I’ve never felt nice breasts before. But these… these are something else. Other. They’re like the Sistine Chapel of tits. Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam if instead of creating Adam to be placed in Eden, God had created these breasts to be placed on Eden.

“How does this happen?” I whisper out, involuntarily, as I squeeze her wet, tender skin.

She swallows and whispers back, “How does what happen?”

I didn’t realize I said it aloud. And it’s kind of embarrassing. So I opt for obfuscation. In this case, the distraction comes in the form of my mouth on the delicate flesh around her nipple.

She moans, and her hands grab for the sides of my head, taking me by the ears and holding me there. And I’ll be goddamned if she doesn’t, in fact, taste like a cupcake. Not the sticky sweetness that comes from the adornment of the frosting, but the buttery richness that’s baked in and radiates from every delicious morsel. And, like a cupcake, there’s something delicate and playful about her. She is decadent and sinful, but at the same time she is joyful and giddy.

Her breasts have, if such a thing is possible, personality.

Wait. I feel like—

A clap of thunder outside causes her to jolt.

I laugh a small breath of air out of my nostrils as my lips draw back from her body. She is wet, and shy, and anxious-looking, for which I cannot blame her. Thirty-seven hours ago, we didn’t know each other. We still don’t know each other, but it looks like we’re about to discover a lot in the next couple of minutes.

“You OK?”

“Uh-huh.” She nods her head. “That’s incredible.”

For a second I think she’s talking about the feeling of my mouth on her, but then I notice that she’s staring just past my shoulder at the white sheets of rain teeming down outside my windows, the mountains in the background, out beyond the concrete and steel of the TDH. She’s correct. It’s something to see. Some sort of messy Ansel Adams photograph in real life. In real time.

“Come here,” I say, and draw her topless and shivering body over to the windows. I pull the handle and they open and fold in on themselves just like they did yesterday when Eden and I saw my place together for the first time. The rain splatters against the terrace and ricochets up and into the apartment.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“I wanna show you something.”

“What?”

“That.” I point.

“What? The rain?”

“No. That”—I point again—“is Pikes Peak. Did you know that?”

“What are you—?”

“And I don’t know if you knew this or not, but while many people think that Pikes Peak is the tallest peak in Colorado, it’s not. Common misconception.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me! It’s not! Hell, it’s not even the second tallest. It’s like… the twentieth! The tallest is Mount Elmo.”