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“And did he?” Jorge’s eyes widen, and a coy smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth.
“You mean?” I glance down at my crotch. It’s been a day and a half, and Tristan definitely wasn’t lying. I am still acutely aware of how we spent yesterday morning. While there is a tinge of discomfort from how hard he took me, it’s the ache for more that concerns me.
“Your pussy?” Jorge shakes his head. “Sweetie, it’s obvious he’s completely destroyed that thing. I just meant men.”
I merely stare back at Jorge, unsure how to respond to him. Not knowing how to answer a question I haven’t yet asked myself.
“You like him, don’t you?” he presses.
“I barely know him,” I denounce the idea as I shake my head. “It’s been, what, a week? A couple of dates and a few rounds of sex?”
It’s crazy.
We’re just having fun.
The mind-blowing sex is why I can’t stop thinking about him.
Right?
Jorge tips his head and cocks a brow like a fucking puppy, as though he can currently read the thoughts running through my head.
“Are you going to ask him?” Jorge inquires, abruptly changing the conversation.
“You mean to teach me?”
“Yeah.” His answer is short. “I saw the books and all your notes scattered on the coffee table. The way you talk about being with him… One, it makes me swoon…and jealous as hell. But you’re obviously into it. I have never heard you talk about a guy like this before.”
“Yeah, but?—”
“Yeah, but nothing.” Jorge cuts me off. “Who better to teach you than a man who literally owns sex clubs full of people who live this lifestyle? He obviously knows the ins and outs; and you already know he’s not just some creep pretending to be into it so he can do weird as fuck, borderline-abusive shit to you.”
He's not wrong.
I take a tiny sip of Chardonnay as I mull over his very logical take on the situation.
“Plus, he fucks like a god and…” He cocks a cheeky eyebrow as he gestures penis length. Lightly gripping his wrists, I spread his hands a little wider before standing from my cushion on the fire escape to climb inside.
“So, seriously,” Jorge calls out, clamoring in the window behind me. “These brothers. There’s how many of them?”
My conversation with Jorge has been weighing heavily on me since he left earlier. It’s well after midnight; probably too late to be sending Tristan a text. But if I don’t send it now, while I’m fueled with liquid courage, I don’t know if I ever will.
Can we talk?
Sending the text and not expecting a response any time soon, I place my phone on the nightstand and throw back the covers to slide into bed. Tristan’s name glows across the screen.
Before I have a chance to say a word, he hastily asks, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.” My words carry a slight slur. “My pussy is sore as hell.”
“Lay—”
“But I like it,” I giggle as I interrupt him.
“Have you been drinking, darling?” His tone is soft but carries a tinge of disapproval.
“A little,” I lie horribly. Taking a deep breath, I word vomit before I have a chance to lose my nerves. “I’ve read so much. Well beyond what you’ve given me. I want to know more…to learn…but with someone I trust. With you. I want to learn more with you.”
“We can talk about this tomorrow. When you’re sober,” he responds. “We can meet in the morning. The club, my office at eleven.”
