Page 80 of The Trade

“No amount of begging is gonna work on me.”

“Hmm, what about a hand job, then?”

“Oh, sweet Christ,” I sputter, choking on my own saliva.

“Is that a no?”

“You want to take a picture of me to send to your brother ... in exchange for sexual favors?”

“I mean, when you put it like that ...yes?”

“Sex is not currency, Jade.”

Her laughter echoes around the room, her eyes gleaming with unapologetic delight. “Aw yeah, I forgot. Sex is sacred to you, isn’t it?”

“It is when it’s with you,” I tell her, my words laced with sincerity.

The grin on her face spreads wide and bright. “God, you’re corny.”

“And you like it.”

“Nahh, but I do likeyou. So much.”

Her words wash over me, sparking an affectionate glow in my chest. “And I like you ... enough to let you take a picture of me in that ratty-ass sweatshirt. For free,” I clarify, plucking at the end of her curls. “No handy necessary.”

She slides closer to me now, her hand inching even further up my thigh. “Mm, you’re so generous,” she coos, her fingers toying with the waistband of my sweats. “So thoughtful. And oh, so—” Her voice drops to a sultry whisper, her hand slipping beneath my boxers. “—dramatic.”

Oh, fuck.

Her delicate fingers envelop me, a perfect contrast to the raw heat pooling in my gut. She moves, her touch fluid, heavy over the ridges and contours of my cock. A primitive groan slips past my gritted teeth as she cradles my aching balls in her free hand.

My hips jerk upward instinctively, seeking more of the friction. “Ah, shit,” I gasp, my composure slipping as she teases the sensitive underside of my shaft with a flick of her nail.

God bless my girlfriend; I don’t think a hand job has ever felt this good.

In a matter of minutes, I’m completely undone. I mean, full-on groaning, rocking my hips into her hand as she moves beside me. And then, she pulls my boxers down and takes me into her mouth. The sudden shift in sensation, the heat, the pressure—it’s enough to make my world spin.

When I finally come, my cock is buried deep inside her throat.

I’m still catching my breath as she swipes her thumb across her bottom lip. “You owe me a picture,” she says simply.

“You can have a hundred pictures,” I mumble. “Whatever you want.”

“Mm, I like the sound of that.”

She leans back, plucking her discarded journal off the coffee table. With a casual flick of her wrist, she starts writing again, as if that little interruption never even happened.

It’s in this moment, panting and spent on her couch, that I’m once again reminded how un-fucking-believable my girlfriend is. Not to be dramatic, but I think I’m the luckiest bastard that’s ever lived.

* * *

Yesterday was finallythe day of reckoning.

I tackled that exam with everything inside of me and, by the end, felt as though I had, if not hit a home run, at least managed a decent hit. It wasn’t so much the content itself that posed a challenge—Jade and I had drilled that thoroughly—but the translation of thoughts into words, the articulation of arguments under time pressure that really tested me.

But I took a deep breath, did my best, and now all that’s left is to let the chips fall where they may. Or maybe, to let Jade’s magical sweatshirt do its thing.

Ah, that sweatshirt. When I pulled it over my head, I felt a surge of belief so strong I could almost see the A+ on my test paper. Okay, maybe it wasn’t just the sweatshirt but the entire sentiment it represented: Jade’s faith in me.

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