Page 67 of The Accidental Dating Experiment
He swallows, then asks in a careful, controlled voice. “But what?”
There’s no pressure in his tone, just the razor’s edge of curiosity.
I flashback to Monday morning when he teased me about bike riding. “You said the other day you were good at teaching. And, fine, we were talking about riding bikes, but it got me to thinking, especially since this whole—” I stop before I say experiment. This thing feels like so much more, and yet it is just that. “Since this experiment is about teaching.”
A dark cloud passes over his eyes, but quickly it fades, replaced by a flickering flame. “And…?”
Chin up. No shame. “I want you to teach me to give a blow job you’d really like, but one I’d like too. Would you be my blow-job coach?”
He guns the engine, while I seize the moment, plugging in my phone and calling up a tune.
In seconds, Akinyele’s “Put It In Your Mouth” blasts through the air-conditioned car.
Monroe drives faster—maybe too fast. He whizzes past a sign for a road construction detour and then slams on the brakes as we hurdle toward the blockade.
24
LOLLIPOP TEACHER
Monroe
“Fuck me,” I groan from the center of my law-abiding soul. Okay, mostly law-abiding. There were those months in college when I hosted an underground poker game. But the money I nabbed from the rich frat guys? Worth the risk.
In the rearview mirror, a big, bearded guy in a hard hat and orange vest trudges toward me, his expression stern as a school principal’s behind aviator shades. Shit. “I should get my license and registration,” I say.
Juliet ends the racy song but gives me a doubtful look. “They don’t need license and registration at a construction site,” Juliet whispers, gently rubbing my arm in apology.
“Right, right,” I say, shaking my head then peering behind me. The guy looks pissed.
“But still, I’m sorry,” she adds.
I wave a hand dismissively, exonerating her. “I’ll take a thousand pissed-off dudes. Hell, I’ll take a thousand speeding tickets for being your?—”
I swallow blow-job coach, instead flashing a smile at the man frowning into my window.
“Did you miss the sign back there, buddy?” Doesn’t sound like we’re buddies.
“I must have,” I say, contrite.
He flaps an arm toward said sign. “It did say slow down. We do work here.”
And I am an asshole. “I know. I’m so sorry.”
He peers through the open window again, all business. “No one was hurt, but maybe it’s time for you to stop texting and driving, ya hear me?”
I wasn’t texting. I was racing to have my dick sucked.
I give him an apologetic smile. “Yes, sir. I will.”
Briefly, I weigh what to say next. Obviously, I deserve the reprimand, but I also need to know whether to turn around and go back the way we came or drive around those cones up ahead.
Then, my own voice fills the car.
“And this is your host Monroe Blackstone right along with Juliet Dumont on?—”
What the heck? That’s our last episode of the podcast. Juliet jumps to stab the end button on the display. “My bad, sorry!”
The construction worker whips off his shades, studies me, studies her. Then, in slow motion, his frown turns upside down. “Oh man! Seriously? Seriously? It’s Heartbreakers and Matchmakers in the flesh?” He taps his chest. “Big fan of the pod. And I’m telling you, I called it.” He’s punching the air triumphantly. “I can’t wait to tell my woman.”