Sex Lessons with My Worst Enemy novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Lesson One

In his loft Anson makes her say what she wants out loud, and she gets her first night as a woman who is wanted; he won't let her touch him, and Whitley's text warns her about his interns.

I said his address.

I said it to the elevator wall, and my voice sounded like someone else's.

His loft was in an old flour mill by the river.

Brick walls, iron windows, a long table with nothing on it, a bed on a platform at the far end.

He turned on one lamp and the rest of the room stayed dark.

I stood in the middle of the floor in my good dress and my bad shoes.

I suddenly had no idea what to do with my hands.

"Sit," Anson said.

I sat on the edge of the bed.

He didn't touch me.

He pulled the one chair from the table, turned it around, and sat across from me with his elbows on his knees.

"Tell me what you want."

I laughed.

"I want to be taught. That's the whole point."

"No."

His voice stayed level.

"Tell me what you want me to do to you, right now, in this room."

My face went hot.

"You're the expert. You decide."

"I'm not deciding anything until I hear it."

He leaned back and waited.

The refrigerator hummed and the river moved somewhere below the windows.

I realized he would sit there all night.

I had spent three years with a man who never once asked, and I had never once said.

Now the legend of the agency refused to move until I did.

"Kiss me," I said.

"Where?"

"Anson."

"Where, Callie?"

"My mouth."

He stood, took my face in both hands, and kissed me.

It was slow and unhurried.

His thumb found the hinge of my jaw and I made a noise I had never made in front of anyone.

He pulled back a few inches.

"Again. What next?"

"Take my dress off."

"Better."

He found the zipper at my back and drew it down so slowly that I felt every tooth.

The dress fell around my hips, and I sat there in my bra and nothing else I could hide behind.

His eyes went over me.

"Lie back."

I did.

"Now say it."

"Touch me."

"Where."

"Between my legs."

My voice broke on it.

He hooked his fingers in my underwear and drew them down my legs.

Then he knelt on the floor at the edge of the platform and set his hands on my knees.

"Open."

I opened.

"Look at me."

I lifted my head.

He was looking up the length of my body, serious and focused, with his mouth an inch from my skin.

"Tell me when I find it."

He put his mouth on me.

I cried out and my hips came up off the bed.

His tongue was patient and certain, working slow circles that wound me tighter and tighter.

When I tried to hurry him he pinned my thighs down with both hands and made me wait.

My clit throbbed under every pass, and I heard myself begging without any words at all.

He slowed down to punish me and I swore at him, and I felt him smile against me.

"There," I said. "Right there, God, don't stop."

"Good girl."

Nobody had ever called me that and meant it.

It went through me.

He licked me harder, then slid two fingers into my pussy and curled them up.

He found a spot I hadn't known I owned, and my back arched off the sheets.

He fucked me with his hand in a steady rhythm and kept his mouth on my clit, and the pressure climbed until my legs shook.

"Anson, I'm going to..."

"Then do it."

I came with his name in my mouth, my fingers wound in his hair.

It went on and on until I thought I might cry.

He stayed there and gentled me down with his mouth, his hands steady on my thighs.

When I could breathe again, I looked down at him.

He was wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist, and his eyes were dark.

"That's what it's supposed to feel like," he said.

My whole body was still humming.

I sat up and reached for his belt.

His hand closed around my wrist, gentle and absolute.

"No."

"But you didn't..."

"Not tonight."

"Why?"

"Because you came here to learn, not to pay me back."

He stood and picked up my dress, and I saw that his hand wasn't steady.

It shook as he held it out to me, the same hand that had been so sure a minute ago.

I thought it was anger.

I thought he hated that he was doing this for me.

He walked me down to the street, held my coat for me, and buttoned the top button himself with his fingers trembling against my collarbone.

"Thursday," he said, like it was a question.

"Thursday," I said.

In the cab home I pressed my knees together and could still feel him.

My phone buzzed against my leg.

It was Whitley.

"Heard you're seeing Anson Merrow. Be careful, babe."

A second text followed before I could put the phone down.

"Ask him about the interns."

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