Page 38 of The Boyfriend Experience

“Twice?” I laugh. “We’re not done yet.”

She lifts her head up a little so she can look at me. “Is it your turn now? Should I give back?”

Her wicked smile tells me exactly what she thinks “giving back” means. “I’ll get there, don’t worry. And while your offer is appreciated, my cock is very happy inside your pussy. Tonight is about you. Next time—if there is a next time—it can be about me if you want.”

“If?” She chuckles.

I shrug. “Life doesn’t come with a guarantee. I know that better than most.”

“Hmmm,” she says.

“But enough of the talk. Are you ready to go again?”

“Again.” She says it almost like a question. “Three times. I dunno if that’s possible.”

“Oh, it is.”

She looks at me, blushes a bright pink—which looks good on her bronze skin—and shrugs. “OK. But I’m warning you, the next time won’t be that easy.”

I stand up, taking her with me once again. And this is starting to feel like a familiar move between us, because her legs automatically wrap around my middle. Then I turn her around and place her on the couch. “Turn around,” I say. “Put your hands right here.” I pat the back of the couch. “And your knees right here.” Indicating the cushion she’s sitting on.

She smiles big. Blushing again.

I decide I like her. I think she’s capable of a lot of things. Has a lot of ideas. Most of them probably borderline crazy because of this weird obsession she has with Hanna Harlow. But Oaklee Ryan is one of those fun girls. The kind who keep you on your toes. The kind who make bad decisions based on emotion. The kind who probably make very bad exes because they end up doing psycho things like showing up at your work and texting you forty-seven times in one hour.

But all that makes it exciting, right? And if we get this TV deal, who knows. Maybe we’ll never be ex-anything. Maybe we’ll be friends, or lovers, or business partners forever.

She maneuvers herself into the position I want, placing her hands on the back of the couch and her ass directly in front of me.

“Nice tattoo,” I say, noticing it for the first time.

She looks at me over her shoulder and whispers, “Thank you.”

Its lettering spans the entire space between her shoulder blades. Not big and gaudy, like a gang tattoo. But small and feminine in script handwriting.

I lean over to read it out loud. “‘The world worships the original.’ Who said that?”

“Ingrid Bergman,” Oaklee says. “It’s supposed to say, ‘Be yourself. The world worships the original.’ But I think that first part goes without saying, so I left it unsaid.”

“Words to live by.”

“As I do,” she quips back, smiling at me.

I position myself close to her. Letting my cock slip between her ass cheeks as I move in a slow, back-and-forth motion.

“That feels nice,” she whispers.

I say nothing. Just concentrate on what I’m doing. Which is trying to hit her clit with the tip of my cock with each small thrust forward.

When I succeed, she moans. Bowing her head to rest it on the soft, overstuffed cushion of her couch. I do it again, and again, and then on the third time, she arches her back, which relieves her of the stimulation.

“Something wrong?” I ask, not bothering to hide my smile.

“It’s… intense.”

“It’s supposed to be.”

“A part of me wants you to just fuck me hard. Just slam your cock inside me. I’d come that way, you know. I can tell. I can feel it building.”