Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend

Byron’s manager returned several minutes later and told us it was lunchtime, that Byron was free for the next hour and a half. We could grab food here in the big suite or go elsewhere if he needed a break. Unsurprisingly, he opted to go elsewhere.

Holding my hand, he steered us toward the exit, offering a quick and sincere thanks to his publishing team—which they seemed genuinely surprised by—and out of the room.

We made it about three steps down the hallway before someone behind us said, “Excuse me. Can I have a moment?”

I felt Byron’s hand in mine go tense, his shoulders and neck visibly locking. “No,” he said flatly, and picked up the pace.

I was just thinking, Geez. These people are relentless, when the speaker clarified, “Not you, Mr. Visser. I’d like to talk to the Chemistry Maven, if she’ll give me a moment.”

My feet stalled and, instinctively, I glanced over my shoulder, prepared to say, No, thank you. But I found the first interviewer—Jes Ekker—standing behind us, some distance away. She was leaning a shoulder against the wall and holding a copy of my favorite STEM projects for kids book, the one I always recommended in my videos.

I paused, bringing Byron to a stop with me, and asked, “Why do you wish to speak with me?”

She gave me a hopeful and sheepish half smile but made no move to come toward us. “It’s actually for my kids. They’re big fans. I was hoping you would sign this for them.”

I frowned at the book. “I didn’t write that book.”

“I know, but we bought it because you recommended it and use it all the time. However, I don’t want to impose, so if you prefer not to, that’s totally fine.”

I inspected her. She seemed wholly genuine. And she hadn’t approached. And I’d never met one of my followers before. I was curious.

Tugging Byron along with me, I walked slowly back over to her. “I’m Winnie,” I said, giving her a tentative smile. “How old are your kids?”

“My daughter is fourteen and my son is six. They both watch your STEM videos.” She held the book out toward me along with a pen. “I’ve tabbed their favorite experiments with sticky notes, if you wouldn’t mind making the first one out to Ryann—with two n’s—and the second one out to James.”

“Sure,” I grinned, glancing at Byron to make sure he wasn’t in a rush. He lifted his chin toward Ms. Ekker while wearing one of his barely there smiles. This one looked proud.

Releasing Byron’s hand to reach for the book, I beamed at Ms. Ekker. How exciting!

“When did they start watching?” I asked, flipping to the first page and carefully spelling Ryann with two n’s. “This last year?”

“No. It’s been about two years now. My husband stumbled across your videos on YouTube and showed our daughter. She was going through this phase where—I don’t know how to describe it—like she didn’t want to be smart or be seen as smart.”

“She was twelve? That’s not unusual for girls,” I muttered while signing. “There’s all sorts of peer-reviewed research about that. Some girls who excelled at academics all through elementary school will purposefully start doing poorly around the age of twelve—especially with math, science, engineering, and technology since those have traditionally been considered male-dominated subjects—not wanting to be perceived as smart. It’s a real problem, and actually why I decided to teach seventh and eighth grade STEM classes.”

“I love that you’re an actual teacher. It’s very obvious in your videos that you know how to connect with kids. Also, we love the new content. Ryann is into makeup now, thanks to you.”

“Really?” My question came out high pitched with disbelief, my heart soaring.

“Yes. We went out and bought her eye shadow. I was so surprised. The pendulum swung in the other direction when she started faithfully watching your videos and seeking out other engineering related stuff, TV shows and books. Instead of not wanting to be smart, it was like being smart—you know, nerdy—was all she wanted to be and there wasn’t room for anything else. She didn’t want to wear dresses, go with her friends to the mall. Which, fine. If that’s what she wanted. But now she’s been practicing makeup in the mirror.”

I felt like hugging Ryann’s mom. “That’s so great.”

“It is so great.” She stepped forward, her eyes big and excited, looking like she wanted to hug me too. “I’m not a big pusher of makeup or anything, I don’t usually have time to wear any. But, I guess, thank you. It was sad to me that she was either rejecting being smart or rejecting other parts of her, denying other interests. Like she thought she couldn’t be both. We try to model better at home, but I don’t know. She doesn’t want to be a journalist or an art historian—that’s what my husband does—she wants to be an electrical engineer. Maybe she needed someone to say ‘Hey, it’s okay. You can be everything you want to be, you’re allowed to be interested in whatever you want. Nothing is off-limits.’ You know what I mean?”

Finished signing both pages of the book, I handed it back to her and leaned a shoulder against the wall, settling in to talk. “Yeah. I do. Growing up, I was always looking for someone to do that for me, model that for me. And it was my friend Amelia who pointed out that I should model that for the girls who watch my videos.”

“Well, you’ve modeled it for my son as well.” She laughed, tucking the book and pen in her bag. “My son, James, also watches your videos and—get this—he asked me if boys can be engineers too or if it’s only something girls get to do.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Well, if you need or want an account that shows male educators who also do live experiments and engineering projects, I have some suggestions.”

She tilted her head back and forth, as though considering. “I might take you up on that. But you’ll always be the first person that comes to mind when he thinks of his favorite engineers and scientists, and I love that. I love that he relates to you and it’s perfectly normal. I don’t think it’s been encouraged for boys and men to relate to girls and females as personal heroes, until this latest generation. And it’s just so beautiful to see it happen.”

“I agree.” I nodded exuberantly. Oh my gosh. I loved this woman. I wanted to put her in my pocket and keep her forever.

Her gaze drifted to the right, glancing at where Byron stood silent next to my shoulder, and her smile dimmed like she’d forgotten he was there. “Anyway.” She shrugged, backing away, and offered her hand to me. I shook it. “Thank you so much for this.”

“Anytime,” I said, meaning it. “And if you’re ever in Seattle, let me know. The science center there is awesome.”

“I will. Take care.” Giving Byron a tight, polite smile, she walked around us, down the hall, toward the elevator.

Meanwhile, I was grinning wildly, feeling amazing. So happy. So energized. My brain buzzing with new ideas, new experiments, new content possibilities.

“You know—” Byron came to stand in front of me, leaning his shoulder against the same spot Ms. Ekker had earlier “—you’re extraordinary.”

Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I gave him a quick kiss. “That was awesome! Wasn’t that awesome? Wow. I just—I feel like everything I’ve been doing has been so worth it. I love this feeling, it’s why I became a teacher, you know? The difference I can make in young peoples’ lives at this critical time is worth so much more to me than all the money or fame in the world. All that stuff is so worthless in comparison to making a real difference. And I, uh, I . . .”

His warm smile had become an amused smirk, and one of his eyebrows arched.

Oh no. ACK! I didn’t realize how those words sounded until they were out, and I clamped a hand over my mouth, saying through my fingers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean, I didn’t—”

“Don’t apologize.” He pulled my hand from my mouth and held it, giving my lips a light kiss. “I know you didn’t mean to imply that what I do is worthless.”

“I didn’t. You do make a difference.”

“Hmm . . .” His eyes narrowed, but it looked playful. “But maybe not as much as a difference as you?”

I shook my head. “Nah. No way. I’m not discussing this with you.”

“Why not?” He tugged on my hand, leading us toward the elevator again.

“You used to bring up how underpaid I am for the work I do, and I don’t want to talk about that.”

Byron was quiet, his narrowed eyes growing thoughtful as we walked. When we reached the doors, he pressed the call button and faced me. “I’m not going to say you’re underpaid, I know it bothers you.”

“But?” I asked dryly, preparing myself for whatever he said next.

“But I was wrong about the fundamental issue, and I’m sorry.”

My eyebrows jumped. “Excuse me? You don’t think I’m underpaid anymore?”

“All teachers are underpaid by at least a factor of ten—in my opinion—but watching you with that woman, witnessing your happiness, your joy, I was wrong about why you accept the hefty workload for the paltry salary.”

“And why do I accept the hefty workload?” Bracing myself, I sent him a side-eye.

“You measure success of a life in the difference made, not in the amount of money or fame earned, and not in terms of the freedom you’re afforded.” Byron’s barely there smile returned, looking just as proud as it did before. “The work you do is important.”

“I know.”

“Good. And I’m sorry for all the times I was an asshole about it.”

“You’re forgiven.”

“You’re still underpaid—”

I rolled my eyes. “Byron.”

“—but no matter how much they paid you, it would never be enough.” He stepped closer and encouraged me to wrap my arms around his neck. “It’s like trying to calculate the salary for a superhero.”

I laughed. “I’m a superhero now?”

“You’ve always been a superhero.” Byron slid his nose against mine, brushing our lips together and whispering, “You’re a teacher, aren’t you? The only difference is that teachers don’t wear capes.”

“Maybe you should get me one for my birthday.” I nipped at his lip.

“Maybe I will.”

“Maybe I’ll wear it.”

He leaned a few inches away, looking hopeful. “Maybe you’ll wear it and nothing else?”

I tossed my head back and laughed.

We ate a quick lunch in our suite. It had to be quick. We’d spent most of the allotted time making out on the tiny sofa, me straddling his hips with my shirt unbuttoned, him biting and kissing, licking and touching every inch of skin I’d exposed.

Again I’d asked if he wanted me to ease his suffering, again he’d asked for a rain check, making me wonder if Amelia had been right, that Byron had a pattern of self-denial.

I should push him. I should . . . beg him, maybe? If I begged him, I wonder what he’d do? Would he give it to me?

These were my current thoughts as I stared at Byron from across the room during the second batch of interviews, which was probably why his eyes kept darting to me and he kept stumbling over his rehearsed answers.

“Did you two have a fight or something?” his manager leaned over and whispered from her spot next to me.

I shook my head, locking eyes with Byron again, my attention dropping to his mouth when he flicked his tongue out to wet his lips.

“Excuse me,” he said to the interviewer. “I—I need a half hour break.” Not waiting for the man to respond, Byron stood suddenly and made a beeline to where I leaned against the wall.

His manager stepped forward. “What is—”

“I need a half hour break,” he repeated. But then he added in a quieter voice, “I will give you a twenty-thousand-dollar bonus if you clear everyone out of here in less than a minute.”

Not waiting for her answer, Byron grabbed my hand and pulled me toward a closed door on the far side of the suite. He opened the door and walked us through. He closed the door and pressed me against it. And as his mouth crashed down to mine, I could just make out the urgent sound of his manager’s voice telling everyone to leave.

“I can’t concentrate,” he said between frantic kisses, “when you’re looking at me like that.”

He grabbed handfuls of my skirt, lifting. But I hurriedly shoved his hands away, pushing him a step back to give me space to quickly survey our surroundings. We were in the suite’s bedroom. The room was dark. The bed was king-sized. And I still didn’t have a condom.

DARN. IT.

Byron reached for me again, but I dropped to my knees, my shaking fingers unfastening his belt.

“Winnie. What are you doing?” His voice shook and his fingertips fell to my shoulders, then jumped away, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

“You asked me what I’ve never done before,” I said on a rush of desire-fueled bravery. “I’ve never done this.”

Maybe I wanted this so badly because every part of Byron was beautiful to me. Or maybe it was the primal, needy, clenching and twisting and demanding bit of me, the disobedient voice in my head that told me to ask for what I really wanted even if it might mean pushing him outside his comfort zone. The risk to my heart if he said yes was totally worth the possibility of him saying no.

“Fuck. Win, do you—are you—” The words were choked, a scrape of feeling and sound that reverberated through my body. I felt his restlessness, his uncertainty and reluctance, and—instinctively, somehow—I knew his reluctance and worry were for me. If he wanted me to stop, if he didn’t want this, he would say no. I trusted him to tell me what he wanted.

So I used his statements from last night to cut him off. They were a perfect reflection of what I felt in the moment. “If you want me to do something, if you want something from me, please continue that thought. But no more careful check-ins, no more asking me if I’m okay.”

I watched his hands ball into fists on either side of his hips, his mouth snap shut. A moment later, his head nodded with a jerk, and his eyes grew impossibly dark. And then I unbuttoned his pants, lowered his zipper, reached inside those gray boxer briefs that had driven me wild when he’d sent his last photo, and revealed his erection.

A primal, needy part of me clenched at the sight of him, my mouth filling with saliva, heat blooming across and beneath my skin. I couldn’t remember thinking of a penis as beautiful before, but I did now. So incredibly stunning. I’d never wanted to have one in my mouth either, never felt like I might die if I didn’t touch it to my tongue and taste it, suck on it, use my lips to elicit a reaction. I needed his reaction, his undoing, I needed his loss of control more than air.

Gripping his hips, I started at the base and licked upward along the shaft, watching with gleeful fascination as his erection jumped, the muscles of his lower abdomen—just visible between the parted front of his shirt—tensed, making them stand out in relief beneath his skin.

When I sucked the smooth, hot length of him into my mouth as far as I could, he groaned, a terrible, wonderful sound. In my peripheral vision, I saw his hands at his sides clench and unclench, like he still didn’t know what to do with them. On a whim, as I pulled back, I grabbed one of his hands and brought it to the back of my head.

He immediately removed it like my hair burned him. “No. No—I’ll—I don’t want to do that. Not this time. You set the pace.” Byron reached forward and gripped the doorframe, his eyes closing. “Please,” he said, his voice cracking. “Please move. Please—I think—fuck. I need to be in your mouth, Win. Please.”

I realized I’d been staring up at his face, greedy for all the expressions arresting his features, and hadn’t taken him inside again. Giving myself a quick shake, I refocused my attention on his penis and opened my mouth wider, working to take more than before, then pulling back just to repeat the action again and again.

And I felt . . . like maybe I was doing it wrong? I couldn’t get more than half of his length in my mouth without wanting to gag, his dick so freaking beautiful but also thick, the head of it pressing uncomfortably against the back of my throat. I tried licking him again, holding his erection in my fist as I studied the problem, mentally measuring his inches against the approximate distance between my lips and tonsils.

Licking my lips, I tried again. This time, I kept my hand at the base of his penis and tugged like I was jerking him off as I moved back, and a guttural sound shook out of him—half groan, half growl.

Eyes now scrunched closed, he pressed his forehead against the door, forcing me to lean backward on my knees to continue my ministrations.

Now trapped between his body and the door behind me, I hit the back of my head as I retreated.

“Oh, fuck. Sorry!” Byron straightened to give me more space, his face twisted in what looked like pain, his cheeks red. “Are you okay? I mean, fuck—” he covered his face with this hands. “Dammit. Sorry.”

I wanted to preen and gloat when his apologies continued. More than how hard he was or the sounds he made or the expression he wore, more than anything, his fumbling statements betrayed how completely he’d lost control.

A surging sense of satisfaction roared through me, and I forced myself to go deeper, take more of him. Even if my movements were clumsy, and I was doing it wrong, and even if my eyes teared up and I made unattractive sounds as I gagged, I didn’t care. Byron seemed to like everything I was doing very, very much. His unsteady sounds, curses, and complete loss of composure turned me on like a 500-watt halogen bulb. Soon, I was also groaning, my free hand gathering my skirt, reaching between my legs. I felt like I’d die if I wasn’t touched.

“What are—are you—” He croaked the beginning of a thought and never finished it, his entire body going rigid. His hands coming to the part of my head he’d labeled forbidden, his fingers twisted in my hair and pulled. “Shit. I’m going to come. I’m—”

Abandoning my own need, I cupped his deliciously sculpted ass with both palms and yanked him forward, hungrily sucking his dick deep in my mouth. I wanted it. I wanted him. I wanted all of him. I was crazed with the idea of him spending anywhere but inside me.

And then he came and—holy scratched record, Batman—it tasted god-awful.

My friends had told me it didn’t taste great, but nothing could’ve prepared me for the disgusting, gelatinous spoiled fish and mayonnaise flavored goop presently in my mouth, forcefully shoving me out of arousal town and thrusting me into repulsed town. I’d had no idea it was possible to flip off my sexy switch so incredibly fast.

Gagging around the texture and unexpected spunky tang, but being the champ that I was, I managed to regain control of my throat and swallowed it anyway—while also promising myself I would never swallow it again.

It was a promise I fully intended to keep until the moment I glanced up and saw the look of wonder on Byron’s face. The look of complete devotion and longing and astonishment and desire. And love. So much love. I licked my lips, tasting him there, and his eyes were glued to the movement of my tongue, as though it held every answer to the universe and he planned to worship it, and me, always.

Then again, maybe sperm isn’t that bad.

Byron gripped my shoulders and lifted me to standing with one strong, fluid motion, his attention still fastened to my lips. Pressing me against the door, he leaned forward as though to kiss me and on instinct I stiffened, my palms flat against his chest holding him at bay.

“Hold on. Let me go rinse out my mouth.”

“I don’t care about that. I need to kiss you.”

I turned my head to the side and he still advanced, his mouth now against my cheek and neck, his tongue swirling just under my ear.

“I need to taste you. Will you let me taste your pussy?”

A hot spike of desire was immediately doused by the idea of Byron tasting me. No way was he going down on me. Yeah, I’d had fantasies about it—specifically about Byron doing it— I’d always wondered what it would be like, I’d heard it felt amazing, but no way was I asking him to do what I’d just done. Unlike with blow jobs, the liquid excretion would be constant. He’d have to taste me on his tongue the entire time, not just at the end. No way was I asking him to suffer through that grossness just so I could get off. His fingers were perfect, I did not need his mouth.

I grimaced. “Uh. No. No thank you.”

At my refusal, Byron’s kisses tapered, and I turned my head to find him frowning at my answer, his gaze questioning. “We have time.”

“I know, but it’s fine.”

He blinked. “It’s fine?”

“I mean, I’m good. You’ve already been more than generous.”

The severity of his frown increased. “You realize that each time I’ve touched you has been an act of pure selfishness, not generosity, right?”

I laughed, kissing his jaw and chin.

Byron’s hands came to my upper arms and held me slightly away, his narrowed eyes searching mine. “What’s happening right now?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what are you thinking? What’s going through your head? Did you hate it?”

“Hate it?”

“Giving me a blow job.”

“What? No! I loved it. I loved watching you. You are very sexy, you know.”

The lust haze that had darkened his eyes earlier was now gone and the blue-green depths sparkled with intelligence and apprehension. “Fred. What did you dislike about it?”

“Byron—”

“You disliked something about it, and that something is why you don’t want me to go down on you.”

My jaw dropped open and a squeaky sound of surprise hissed out of me. “How—what—why would—” I didn’t know how to respond to his mind reading, so I snapped my mouth shut. How could he possibly know that?

“Why won’t you tell me the truth?”

“Why do we have to talk about it at all? If you enjoyed yourself, and I said I loved it—which I did—why are you pushing so hard for me to tell you what I didn’t like? Wouldn’t that ruin it for you?”

“No. If there’s something I can do or change about you giving me a blow job that will make you more likely to do it in the future, I want to change that thing. But, more importantly, if that same something is holding you back from giving me the chance to go down on you, then I most definitely want to know.”

My jaw dropped open again.

This time, he used my stunned surprise to gently tug me forward, slide his hands down to my hips, and start gathering my skirt in his hands. “I want to taste you, Winnie. I want you to come on my tongue.”

I exhaled a shaky breath of longing but caught his hands. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

His movements ceased and we stared at each other for a long moment, mine wary, his sharp with frustration.

“Why don’t you trust me?” he whispered.

“I—I do.”

“Are you not ready? Is that it?”

“Yes.”

The intensity of his examination increased. “Do you think you’ll ever be ready?”

I pressed my lips together, not wanting to answer. The answer was no. No, I would never be ready to have Byron taste me and find me gross. Nor would I ever be ready to tell him how much I’d hated the taste of his sperm. I couldn’t imagine a scenario where that information wouldn’t hurt his feelings, especially not after the way he’d looked at me moments ago when I’d swallowed.

He inspected me for a while longer, letting my skirt drop back into place and removing himself a step. “How about this, will you ever be ready to tell me why you don’t want to do it?”

I shifted my attention to the room behind him, crossing my arms, and ignoring the panicky heat spreading from my chest to my neck. “I don’t understand why you won’t let this drop. Most guys would be relieved.”

“Would they?” I felt his eyes move down my form. “Would they be relieved to never taste you? To have that pleasure? To never have your naked body spread before them like a banquet? I don’t think so. On this subject, I believe I’m firmly in the camp of just like other guys.”

Having nothing to say to that, as I was overheated and unfairly turned on and feeling trapped between the terror of honesty and the fear of hurting his feelings—both of which seemed to spell my doom and would ultimately make him angry—I turned and opened the door, needing to escape the confines of the bedroom, this suite, and Byron’s relentless no-win questions. That’s me. I’m no-Win.

“Where are you going?”

“I need some space.” I sprinted to the suite’s exit.

Byron’s palm landed on the door just as my hand closed around the handle and he came around to stand at my side. “Wait, Win. Don’t leave yet. If you don’t wish to discuss this now, I understand. I will give you space, as much time and distance as you need. But may we discuss this later?”

“I don’t wish to talk about this ever.” Keeping my eyes forward, I didn’t look at him, and I had to stiffen my spine to keep from listing toward his addictive heat and strength.

“Then will you at least tell me where you’re going? Please.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided.”

“Win—”

“Maybe I’ll go down to the concierge and ask her to get me some condoms.”

His exhale rustled my hair, fell along my cheek and ear. “Please don’t do that.”

I looked at him then and saw his request was serious. “Why not? Don’t you want to have sex with me? Don’t you think about it all the time? What’s changed?”

“Yes. And yes. And nothing has changed, not for me.” His expression grew pained. “But if you’re not ready to tell me why you don’t want oral sex with me, then I’m not ready for intercourse with you.”

My jaw dropped open for the third time in three minutes and I reared back, my temper flaring quick and hot. “You—you’re—you think—” I sucked in a breath as I labored to gather my flailing, incensed thoughts. “You’re going to punish me now? Because I don’t want oral sex?”

“That’s not what’s happening.” His hand fell from the door and lifted to my arm.

I flinched away. “Do not touch me.”

He made an exasperated, growly sound and pushed his hands through his hair, the strands standing in spiky chaos. “If you can’t talk to me, if you don’t trust me yet, then we should wait before doing anything else until you can and do.” Despite his outward frustration, his tone was irritatingly measured and calm. “I don’t want lies or half-truths between us. I want you to trust me like I trust you. I’m not fragile. I can handle the truth, no matter what it is.”

I couldn’t talk to him. All I wanted to do was scream. Here I was, trying to be kind, trying to spare his feelings. And there he was, punishing me for it.

Affixing my eyes forward, I said, “Move.”

Unspoken words seemed to rise around us, and I felt his hesitation like a real, tangible thing, a hand on my back or fingers tugging in my hair. But eventually, he moved. He stepped to the side enough that I could open the door, which I did. Then I was out and walking down the hall to the elevator.

He didn’t follow.