Chapter 21 The Lesson
The Lesson
SYDNEY
We shut the door to keep Gus out—that dog is not watching us tonight—then fall onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs, shirts coming off, and breathless laughter that quickly turns to sighs as his mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, the sensitive spot below my ear that he discovered last night.
My hands explore the broad expanse of his back, the defined muscles shifting beneath my fingertips.
Feeling bold, I say, “Teach me,” again, this time meaning something entirely different.
Brooks pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, questioning.
“I want more,” I say. “And I know you know more.”
I don’t like the thought of him with all those other women, but he’s not now, and everything he knows can be put into worshipping me.
As if reading my mind, he says, “None of those women mattered, Syd. This is different.” His voice goes soft. “It’s you.”
My heart flutters, and I feel something shift between us. I meet his gaze, telling him with my eyes what I can’t seem to put into words. His are dark, focused. “So… you sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“Do you trust me?” His voice is low and rough in a way that sends heat spiraling through my core.
“That’s a loaded question.” I try for sarcasm, my default setting when emotions get too real, but my voice catches.
“I’m serious, Syd.” His thumb traces my bottom lip. “Do you trust me?”
The question hangs between us, weighted with more than just this moment. Do I trust Brooks Kingston? The boy who chopped off my ponytail? The bonehead who crashed my sleepover in high school, drunk with my brother? The hockey star who sleeps with different women in every city?
But that’s not the Brooks Kingston I know now. This man knows how to make my coffee better than I do. He respects and supports me in every way—my career, my flaws, my wishes. He’s the man who held me through a panic attack and shared his sanctuary with me.
“Yes,” I whisper, surprising myself with how true it is. “I trust you.”
Relief, desire, determination takes over his expression. “I want to try something. But I need you to tell me if anything doesn’t feel right. We need a word—something you wouldn’t normally say.”
“A safe word?” I arch an eyebrow, trying to mask how his intensity is affecting me. “Kinky Kingston.”
He doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t smile. “I’m serious. I want you to feel safe. Always.”
The earnestness in his voice melts something inside me. “Pineapple,” I say after a moment’s thought. “My safe word is pineapple.”
“Pineapple,” he echoes. “If you say it, everything stops. No questions asked.”
“What exactly are you planning to—” But he silences me with a kiss, deep and thorough, stealing the question from my lips.
Then his mouth moves down my body, and coherent thought becomes impossible.
All I know is the heat of his touch, the skill of his hands, and the growing certainty that whatever this is between us—fake, real, or something in between—it’s far too powerful to deny.
I arch into his weight, a delicious pressure that pins me to the mattress.
His mouth finds that spot on my neck that makes my toes curl—and I gasp, threading my fingers through his hair to hold him there.
The bedroom suddenly feels too warm, and I wonder if he can feel my heart hammering against his chest.
“Sydney,” he murmurs against my skin. His fingers trace lazy patterns along my side, dipping under the waistband of my pants before retreating, teasing.
“If you’re trying to drive me wild,” I say through a heavy breath, “it’s working.”
He laughs, the sound vibrating against my collarbone. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”
In one smooth motion, he hovers over me, his weight supported on both his arms, a new development. When he pulls back, he’s reaching for something on the nightstand—his tie, I realize, the dark blue one that I said I liked. But it was a lie because I love it and how much it smells like him.
“Is this okay?” He lets the silky fabric slip through his fingers.
My heart rate kicks up another notch. “Define ‘this.’”
“I want to blindfold you.” His voice drops to a register that makes my stomach flip. “Take away one sense to heighten the others.”
I swallow hard, unexpected heat flooding through me. “I—yes. That’s... yes.”
His smile is slow, predatory in a way that should scare me but only makes me want him more. “Good. Take off the rest of your clothes.”
There’s a command in his voice I’ve never heard before, and my body responds to it instantly. I shimmy out of my remaining clothes, suddenly shy despite the fact that he’s seen me naked before. This feels different—more deliberate, more exposed.
Brooks’ eyes darken as he takes me in, stretched out on the bed. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” His simple statement is more potent than any elaborate compliment. “Lie back.”
I comply, watching as he removes his own clothes with efficient movements, his body a testament to years of athletic discipline. When he’s as naked as I am, he kneels on the bed beside me, the tie still in his hand.
“Last chance to back out,” he says, but we both know I won’t.
“Just do it already.”
He smirks, recognizing the bravado for what it is, but obliges, slipping the tie over my eyes. The world goes dark as he secures it at the back of my head, not too tight but snug enough that I can’t see anything. And, yes, the smell is intoxicating.
“Okay?” His voice comes from somewhere above me.
“Okay.” My pulse races.
The loss of sight is immediately disorienting.
I can feel the mattress shift as Brooks moves, but I can’t track him.
My other senses rush to compensate—I can hear his breathing, elevated; smell the lingering scent of his soap mixed with something muskier, more primal; feel the slight breeze as he moves around me.
“Relax,” he murmurs, and I realize my muscles have coiled. “I’ve got you.”
His hands find my shoulders, kneading, working outward to my arms, then back in toward my collarbone. It’s a simple touch, not even explicitly sexual, but without sight to ground me, each point of contact feels magnified, electric.
I gasp when his mouth replaces his hands, trailing kisses along the path his fingers just mapped. Without vision, I can’t anticipate where he’ll go next—each touch is a surprise, each kiss a tiny shock to my system.
“Brooks,” I breathe, already feeling untethered, floating.
“Shh,” he soothes, his breath warm against my skin.
My back arches involuntarily when his tongue circles one nipple, then the other, the wet heat sending jolts of pleasure straight to my core. I reach for him, needing an anchor, but he catches my wrists, pressing them gently back to the mattress.
“No touching.” There’s that commanding tone again, the one that turns my insides to liquid.
I whimper but comply, fisting my hands in the sheets instead as his mouth continues its torturous journey downward. The anticipation is almost unbearable—I know where he’s heading, can feel his breath getting closer to where I’m aching for him, but I can’t prepare for the moment of contact.
When it comes—his tongue, hot and insistent against my most sensitive spot—I nearly come off the bed. My hips buck, a cry tearing from my throat before I can think to muffle it.
“God, Brooks,” I gasp.
I feel rather than see his smile against my thigh. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick with approval.
His hands grip my hips, holding me in place as his mouth returns to its task with renewed purpose. The dual sensations of his tongue working precise circles and the gentle pressure of his fingers digging into my skin drive me higher, faster than I’ve ever experienced.
Without warning, he hooks one of my legs over his shoulder, changing the angle, opening me further. “Jesus, you’re limber, Syd.”
The new position allows him deeper access, and when his tongue dips inside me, I cry out again, louder this time.
The blindfold amplifies everything—each stroke, each flick, each gentle suck feels impossibly intense, like my entire consciousness has narrowed to the points where his mouth touches me.
Just when I think I can’t take any more, he adds a finger, then another, the stretch and fullness a perfect counterpoint to the attention of his tongue. He curves his fingers upward, finding a spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my closed eyelids.
“Right there,” I manage, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears. “Please don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. Instead, he increases the pressure, the speed, his fingers and tongue working in tandem to drive me higher, closer to an edge I can feel approaching like a tsunami.
When it hits, it’s unlike anything I’ve experienced before.
The orgasm crashes over me in waves that seem endless, my back arching off the bed, a scream tearing from my throat that I have no hope of containing.
My body convulses around his fingers as he works me through it, gentling his touch but not stopping completely until the aftershocks finally begin to subside.
I’m vaguely aware of him moving away, the distinctive sound of a condom wrapper tearing, the mattress dipping as he repositions himself between my legs. I’m still trembling from the force of my climax, oversensitive and boneless, when I feel him against me—hot and hard but not entering yet.
Instead, he slides his length along my folds, teasing, the head of him catching against my still-sensitive center in a way that makes me gasp. The blindfold remains in place, keeping me in darkness, heightening the sensation of him so close but not where I desperately want him.
“Brooks,” I plead, my hips lifting in invitation. “Please.”
“Please what?” His voice is strained, evidence that he’s not as in control as he’s pretending to be.
“Inside me,” I manage, past caring about how desperate I sound. “I need you inside me.”