Today, the only makeup I wore was a clear lip gloss and a bit of concealer; I couldn’t remember the last time I’d shaved my pits, and my lingerie was composed of anti–chub rub bike shorts, an old thong that hadCutie Piein peeling white vinyl on the crotch, and an industrial-grade strapless bra with four rows of clasps and memory foam cups.
“Gorgeous,” Mal muttered, one hand palming my ass, the other hooking around the back of my neck to keep me close. He kissed like a man dying of thirst and I was an oasis, like he’d been plotting where to touch and grab and hold from the second we met.
No wonder Dahlia enjoyed fucking so much. If this was what I’d been missing out on, I had a lot of catching up to do.
And tonight, I was certain that Mal would be down for some fucking, if the length that had formed in his pants was any indication. He rocked against me, letting me ride the hard ridge of him through his jeans, the room growing balmy with our mounting lust. His hands reached into my bike shorts, skating blunt nails along the backs of my thighs, and I cried out as a lightning bolt of sensation coursed into my center. Mal had only been touching me for five minutes, and I was already desperate for him, something deep inside of me pulsing, hungry, eager to be filled.
Feeling bold, I grabbed for the hem of Mal’s T-shirt, and he didn’t hesitate, chucking it off and giving me barely a second to appreciate the work of art that was his body—those tawny, broad shoulders, the deliciously powerful arms—before helping me outof my dress. Then he paused, holding me firm to him while his eyes roved greedily over my skin.
I’d never assigned much value to the aesthetics of my body. When I was young, I’d heard nothing positive about it—my dark skin deemed meburned toast, a roach, a shadow, my fleshy thighsthunderous, and so I became more preoccupied with its utility, grateful that it could stand during my long shifts, stay awake for twenty-eight-hour calls. It was only when I started posting as Dr.Jojobee that I started to factor in its appeal. The Ghanaian hips that Ashley Biernacki had once declared needed a Wide Load sign now got me envy, BBL accusations, and the occasional brand collaboration.
And this. It got me this: Mal regarding my body like it was something he’d dreamed up, his calloused hands following a reverent trail up and down my sides. Silently, I reached behind me, undoing the clasps of my bra one by one until it fell, useless, onto my lap. Mal’s eyes darkened instantly, and I felt his stare like I did his hands.
“You are so fucking sexy,” he muttered, almost more to himself than to me. He palmed my breasts, weighing them in each hand, circling my nipples with his thumbs. Then he leaned forward, sucked one into his mouth, and released it with an indecentsmack. “You know that, Jo?”
If I had been of sound mind, I would have told him,Yes, but in a clinical way, the way that I know to start a statin when someone’s LDL is above 190, and certainly not the way he was making me feel now, like I was barely real, like I was something to be worshipped. But my forebrain had long ago vacated the premises, and so instead I moaned, pushed into him, whimpered against the friction. Mal’s head fell back against the sofa, his hips risingto meet mine. He kissed me hard, our mouths colliding, then suddenly pulled away.
“That’s enough,” he said haggardly.
“What...?” I started, ready to launch a complaint, but then, to my complete shock, he hoisted me, shrieking, into his arms.
Mal smirked, tossing me higher in his arms like I were a sack of potatoes. Then, with a deft foot, he guided his bedroom door open and kicked it shut behind us.
The reporter at HuffPost sent a message over my website’s contact form just minutes after the video that would label me as the “Virgin Sex Doc” surpassed ten million views. Over our video call, she looked prim, her brown hair tied into a lacquered bun, matte plum lipstick perfectly even.
“How can you give advice on sex if you’ve never had it?” she asked.
“The same way I can tell someone how to manage their diabetes,” I responded. “By reading the literature.”
“Shit,” Mal said, grasping the sheets as though they would ground him. His grip on my head tightened, caught between not wanting to let me out of his sight and keeping his eyes from rolling back. “You sure you haven’t done this before?”
I smiled around him, watching him wince as I lapped at his head with the flat of my tongue.
“I have a doctorate, Mal,” I said. “Is it really surprising that I’ve done a little research?”
Any potential retorts were cut off when I tried out a move I’d read about in Paul Joannides’sGuide to Getting It On, which had been an exceptional resource, if I did say so myself. And effective,judging by the way Mal’s hips were rocking off the bed. First attempt at fellatio, and I’d give the experience a solid seven out of ten. A bit rough on the jaw, sure, and there had been that brief snafu when I’d grazed him with my lower teeth, but overall, good. I was already feeling new, exciting sensations, like the rush of want that flooded my body when he lowered his pants and unveiled himself to me, the way my mouth watered with a Pavlovian need to have him in it. The satisfaction of watching Mal struggle beneath me, his chest heaving, his skin glistening, his core tense from the effort of keeping himself from thrusting down my throat.
Sublime. Nothing I had ever conjured in my mind could compare.
I was pretty sure that when Mal threw me onto the bed, he’d intended to get to me first. But he should have known that there was zero chance that he was going to get away withcarrying meinto his bedroom without getting his dick sucked. Virgin I may be, but I was still a grown woman, and I knew that that type of behavior had to be rewarded. Besides, now that Mal had finally given me access, I had a laundry list of tests to run. How long would I last riding him before my thighs cramped? Would I enjoy being eaten out? Doggy was supposedly good for G-spot stimulation, but how was I going to convince this very nice man to go face down ass up with me on the first encounter? I swallowed him down, and he quivered, his grip on my hair tightening.
“Stop stop stop stop,” Mal hissed, reflexively pulling my head back. I released him with a pop, and he dragged me up his body to kiss me, catching his breath. When we pulled back, he smiled brokenly, bowing his forehead against mine.
“Is that what you spend your time doing when you’re alone?Reading dirty books and taking notes?” he asked. His voice had become husky, low. “Touching yourself?”
“Sometimes,” I confessed.
Mal grunted, then, in a quick motion, flipped me under him and slotted himself in between my knees.
“Show me,” he said.
His gaze was direct, unblinking, and for the first time, I felt shy. It hit me, suddenly, that I was naked, all of the bumps and crevasses I’d taught myself and my followers to love suddenly on full display. I guided my hand in between my legs, turning away as if to hide, but Mal’s firm hand on my chin guided me back, his eyes jumping greedily from my face to my moving fingers. I watched him too, the ardency of his arousal feeding mine. Silently, Mal brought a hand to my lips, requesting entry. I gave it, sucking his fingers into my mouth and watching as something wild flickered across his face.
“You nervous?” he asked softly, trailing his wet fingers down to join mine.
I laughed, breathless. “A little,” I confessed.
He nodded, serious as sin. “Don’t be,” he said. “I got you.”
