He nods and smiles too. “Kinda.”

“I mean, we’re sitting here, and your dick is in my hand, and I’m asking you for tips, and you’re giving me advice for my first blow job, and I’m laughing, and you’re laughing, and it’s kind of awesome.”

Then I lick the head of his cock. “Holy fuck,” he says, and that’s all I’ve done, but he’s into it.

I lick more, kissing the head, then bringing more of him between my lips. He groans and moans, and I love the way he sounds, how he just lets go, and curses like a sailor, or a biker, or a guy in a bar.

Or really, like himself.

Like my Trey.

I pull my lips over my teeth, like he said to do, and I take him in further. I can feel myself start to gag, but then I relax my throat. I don’t know that this is my new favorite thing in the world, I don’t know that I’ve found a hobby like knitting is for Joanne, but I know this – he likes it.

And he likes it because it’s me. Because I’m doing it. Because I’m licking him, tasting him, and wrapping my lips around his hard length, and he likes it because he’s not paying me, and I’m not seducing him, and there’s no agenda. We are just a guy and a girl trying to figure out what it’s like to be with someone when it’s not a game, when it’s not an addiction, when it’s not a transaction.

Soon, as in seconds later, he grabs hard on my hair and moans loudly. “Fuck, Harley. Fucking, fuck. Use your hand too. Grip me with your hand,” he tells me in a hoarse voice, pulling me close, but not too far that I gag. Because, let’s face it, he’s occupying a lot of my mouth right now and I had no clue I could open that wide. I wrap my hand around the base as I move my mouth up and down. He’s salty and musky, and it’s a scent I could get used to because it’s him and I want him. I want him so badly, I am aching between my legs again. I am slippery wet because the sounds he’s making are the complete opposite of me. He’s loud as he curses and narrates everything. “Just like that. Oh god, Harley I’m going to come. I’m going to fucking come now.”

I could finish him off in my hand, but I’ve gone all in. I’m not giving my first blow job in a half-baked, half-ass way. I’m going all the way. He comes in my mouth, and I swallow the taste of him.

He shudders and hisses, and then he whistles. Yes, he actually whistles as I release him and slink up next to him. His eyes are closed, but his lips are curved into this crazy sexy grin, and he’s fucking humming.

“That’s adorable that you whistle after a blow job.”

“I’m whistling a happy tune,” he murmurs. Soon, he opens his eyes, and he looks drunk and happy. “Congratulations on your first blow job, Harley.”

I roll my eyes, swat his shoulder. He grabs me, pulls my naked body next to his.

“How was it?” I ask.

“You want to know?”

“Yes.”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes, idiot. That’s why I asked.”

“Now, I’m gonna tell you. But you can’t get mad at me. And you can’t analyze it. And you can’t hold it against me.”

I tense. “That’s not good.”

“No. It is good. It was good. Harley,” he says, holding my gaze, looking intensely serious. “It was the best ever. Because it was you.”

I melt and wriggle against him. Then, he slips his hand between my legs. Raises an eyebrow when he feels how wet I am. “You liked doing that to me evidently?”

“Yes,” I say, and I feel no shame. I did like it. I like him.

“A lot, huh?”

He slides his thumb across me, and in an instant I am gasping for breath.

“Yes,” I pant.

“So much that it made you this wet?” He draws a delicious line through all that wetness. I’m sure I’m coating his fingers right now, and I’m also sure I don’t care.

Nor does he. Because he brings his fingers to his mouth, licks them, them returns them to me. “You’re so fucking delicious,” he tells me, as he strokes me more, and I grab his shoulder to hold on. We’re lying next to each other, facing each other, and he slides his fingers across me, and I moan.

“Oh,” I say, and I start to close my eyes and just let go, let myself feel what he’s doing to me.

“Open your eyes, Harley,” he tells me, and I do. “I want to watch you when you come. I want you to look at me as I touch you.”

I nod, whimpering heavily as he rubs his thumb against me where I want him most. I open my legs more for him, hooking my thigh over his as he runs his finger across me. I’m so aroused again, throbbing with heat, and I can’t believe I am already this ratcheted up after what he did to me, but I am.

My body is unlocked. Everything I’ve kept inside, everything I’ve forbidden myself from feeling, is happening. It’s like I had lost my voice for ages and I didn’t even want to find it, but then I found it, he found it, and he opened the treasure chest and set me free. Now I’m feeling the most delicious, delirious, intense feelings in the world, in the solar system, in the whole damn universe as he strokes me, his fingers slipping across my wetness. “Rock into me,” he tells me in a hot whisper as I dig my nails into his shoulder. “Rock into my hand. I want you to get off again. I want to be the one who makes you come again and again. I want to hear my name on your lips.”

“Trey,” I whisper.

“Like that,” he says, and I move again, arching into his hand, his touch some kind of deliciousness, his eyes searching me, knowing all my past, all my secrets, all my shame, and even so, he still wants everything about me, every part of me, and this part too. I grip his shoulder harder, needing terribly to hold on to him as pleasure ripples through me, lighting me up, like fireworks sparkling through my whole body. My belly tightens and my breathing grows erratic as he sends me off into another orgasm.

“Trey,” I say, then I manage two more words. Words I have never said out loud to a man. “I’m coming.”

“Yes, you are. You’re coming for me Harley. You’re coming for me.”

“I’m coming for you,” I repeat as the pleasure floods me, and I close my eyes, rocking into his hand, the spasms and aftershocks rolling through me.

Chapter Eighteen

Harley

That’s how it goes for the next few days. We are together. We make it to our final classes and work. He takes me to the tree he planted for his brothers in Abingdon Square Park. We hold hands the whole time, until I see the tree. I let go of him so I can I wrap my arms around the tree and kiss the small trunk. Then we return to his place and we touch each other more. He gives me more orgasms than I ever knew I could have, and I learn how he likes everything.

We don’t go all the way though. I know we will. Just not yet.

I even hear back from Miranda. She emails me on Thursday morning.

The final file you sent has been received. The material contained in it has been approved. I will take care of everything from here. The terms of our agreement have been fulfilled.

It’s over then. My debt is paid. The slate is wiped clean.

I should feel light as a balloon. I should feel buoyant, ready to float to the sky on a cotton candy cloud. But I feel oddly unsettled when I see the next note. It’s from my mother.

I have to tell you about the story I’ve been trailing. Meeting with a source now. About to bust this wide open. Love, The Cleaner.

I remind myself that she’s investigating a congressman. That she busts big-time liars and cheaters. She’s probably going to call me soon, and want to celebrate her next potential award-winning piece.

But she’s not the only writer in the family. I can write again, and I can write for me.

While Trey’s showering, I take out the notebook Joanne gave me, opening it to the first page. It’s fresh and white, like falling snow. I imagine a dusky night sky, stars twinkling, and a bright shining moon. It’s cold, but a pair of walking, talking dogs joke about not needing jackets. It tickles a memory of when I was younger, of making up stories like this for someone. But who? I try to grasp at the memory, but it’s too hazy and it fades away. Still, the image is enough for me to go on, and I start jotting down notes about a new story. Because I can finally write what I want to write. Something simple, something magical, something for kids.

When Trey steps out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, he tips his forehead to the notebook. “You writing?”

“Just playing around with some ideas,” I say.

He sits down next to me on the futon, and I’m thoroughly distracted by the fresh, clean, sexy smell of him. I lean into his neck and plant a quick kiss. He pulls at the strap on my tanktop, and I’m pretty sure we’re about to go for another round of something.

But he taps my shoulder instead. “Hey. Weren’t you going to tell about your red ribbon? You were supposed to tell me what it meant to you.”

I cast my eyes down. “You won’t like it.”

The muscles in his arms tense. “It better not be for Cam.”

I shake my head, then raise my eyes. “It’s for my mom. It’s to remind me of her. She used to put this red ribbon in my hair when she did my hair for her parties,” I say, and as I tell the story I hear it for the first time as a dispassionate observer. I was her pretty pony. Her little doll of a daughter. Then I became the prize to help her catch men.

He blows a long stream of air from his lips, shakes his head. I swear I can feel the fumes of his anger. But he’s not mad at me. He’s mad at her. And maybe, just maybe, I am too. I didn’t want to be dressed up and paraded around. I didn’t want to be her wingwoman. I wanted to be her daughter.