Chapter 9: The Art of the Blowjob
The waiting was the worst part.
You had the carbonara ready by six, the pasta twirled into perfect nests on warm plates, the pancetta crisp and glistening. You had set the table with the good linen napkins Brian's mother had given him, the ones he kept in a drawer for special occasions. You had lit a candle that smelled like sandalwood and amber, something you found in the back of the bathroom cabinet, expensive and untouched.
By seven, the pasta had cooled into a sad, congealed mass. You scraped it into the trash, washed the plates, and put the napkins away. You had changed out of the black lace and into an oversized t-shirt, the fabric soft and worn from a hundred washes. It was Brian's shirt. You had stolen it from his laundry basket days ago, needing something that smelled like him, something that made the whole arrangement feel less like a transaction and more like a life.
Your phone buzzed at 8:47.
Running late. Double shift turned into a nightmare. A kid came in with a fever of 104 and it just spiraled. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. Don't wait up.
You stared at the text for a long moment. The word sweetheart hit you somewhere soft, somewhere you hadn't expected to still have nerve endings. You typed back:
Take your time. I'll be here.
You fell asleep on the couch, the TV murmuring to itself, some reality show about house flippers that you didn't care about. Your body was still humming with the strange, electric energy of the Xchange pill, the unfamiliar curves and softness of your hips pressing into the cushions in ways Marco's body never had.
You dreamed of your old roommates. In the dream, they were standing over you, laughing, their hands on your shoulders. But your body was wrong—too soft, too curved, too much. You woke with a gasp, your heart hammering, your hand pressed between your thighs, the familiar unfamiliarity of your own body a shock all over again.
The apartment was dark. The TV had gone to sleep. And the front door was clicking shut.
You sat up, rubbing your eyes. Brian stood in the entryway, shrugging off his jacket, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. His hair was disheveled, his face drawn, dark circles carved beneath his eyes. He looked like a man who had been hollowed out by the day and was running on nothing but fumes.
"Hey," you said, your voice still rough with sleep.
He looked up, and something in his face shifted. The exhaustion didn't leave, but it softened at the edges. "Hey, baby. I didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't." You stood, padding across the room in your bare feet. "You look like death."
"Feel like it, too." He dropped his bag by the door, ran a hand through his hair. "There was this kid, Marcella. Five years old. Came in with what looked like a cold, and then—" He stopped, shook his head. "You don't want to hear this."
"I do." You reached him, your hands finding his chest, the worn cotton of his scrub top. "Tell me."
He let out a long breath. "She coded twice. We brought her back both times. Her mom was in the waiting room, and I had to go out and tell her—" His voice cracked, and he pressed his forehead to yours, his eyes closed. "It's just hard, sometimes. The weight of it."
You didn't say anything. Marco would have made a joke, deflected with humor, changed the subject. But Marcella knew better. Marcella knew that sometimes a man just needed to be held. So you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close, feeling the tremble in his shoulders, the way he sagged against you like you were the only thing holding him up.
"I've got you," you whispered into his neck. "You're okay. You're here now."
He held you for a long moment, his face buried in your hair. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were wet. "God, I'm a mess."
"You're human." You took his hand, leading him toward the bedroom. "Come on. Let me take care of you."
The bedroom was bathed in the golden glow of the floor lamp, the sheets still rumpled from the morning. The air smelled like lavender lotion and the faint ghost of coffee from the mug on the nightstand. Brian stood in the middle of the room, looking lost, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides.
You turned to face him. "Let me take care of you," you repeated, softer this time.
He nodded, a small, vulnerable movement.
You reached for the hem of his scrub top, lifting it slowly, revealing inch by inch the pale skin of his stomach, the light smattering of hair, the defined lines of his chest. He was beautiful in that unassuming way—not gym-sculpted, but solid, real, warm. Your fingers traced the waistband of his pants, and he shivered.
"Marcella," he breathed, a question in his voice.
"Shh." You pushed the pants down, letting them pool at his feet. He stepped out of them, standing in just his boxers, his skin goosebumped in the cool air. "Lie down. Edge of the bed."
He obeyed, sinking onto the mattress, his hands braced behind him, his eyes fixed on you with a mixture of exhaustion and something else—trust, maybe. Need.
You knelt between his legs. The floor was cold against your knees, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off his body. You looked up at him through your lashes, letting him see you, letting him watch. This was the part you had rehearsed. The part you had drilled into muscle memory. But nothing could have prepared you for the reality of him.
You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down slowly, savoring the way his breath hitched. He was already hard, half-there, the exhaustion of the day warring with the arousal blooming between you. You wrapped your hand around him, feeling the weight of him, the heat of him.
He groaned, low and long. "You don't have to—"
"I want to."
The words came out steady, sure. And wasn't that the wildest part? Somewhere between the practice and the research and the desperate need to be enough, you actually did want this. You wanted to be the thing that made the weight of his day fall away. You wanted to be the reason his shoulders unclenched, the reason his eyes went soft and dazed.
You leaned down, pressing a kiss to the inside of his thigh. Then the other. His skin was salt and soap and the faint musk of a long day. You dragged your lips along his length, teasing, feeling him twitch against your cheek.
"Please," he whispered, and the word broke something in you.
You took him in your mouth.
Slow. That was the key. Slow enough to savor, slow enough to make him beg. You let your tongue map every ridge and vein, let your lips stretch around him, taking him deeper with each pass. You remembered what your roommates had taught you, back in those desperate, fumbling days when you were Marco and this was just something you did for them, something you endured. They had been rough, careless, quick. They had used your mouth like it owed them something.
But Marco had learned. He had cataloged every angle, every pressure, every nuance of what made a man lose his mind. And now Marcella was putting that knowledge to use.
You hollowed your cheeks, pulling back until only the tip remained in your mouth, then plunged down, taking him to the back of your throat. You held there, breathing through your nose, feeling him pulse against your tongue. His hand found your head, not forcing, just resting, just there.
"Jesus," he breathed. "Marcella, I'm not going to last—"
You didn't slow down. You wanted him to lose control. You wanted to be the reason his composure shattered. You reached between his legs, cupping him, feeling him tighten. You took him deeper, opening your throat, the stretch familiar now, the discomfort a distant echo of the practice that had brought you here.
He came with a broken sound, half-groan, half-sob, his hips bucking as you swallowed around him. You kept going, gentler now, drawing out every last tremor until he collapsed backward onto the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes, chest heaving.
You sat back on your heels, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Your jaw ached. Your lips were swollen. Your heart was pounding with a strange, fierce pride.
He pulled his arm away, looking at you with something that made your chest constrict. Wonder, maybe. Awe. He reached down, grasping your hands, pulling you up until you were straddling his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips.
"Marcella," he said, and his voice was raw. "You're incredible."
He kissed you. Deep and slow, tasting himself on your lips, his hands cupping your face like you were something precious. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were wet again.
"I don't deserve you," he whispered.
You opened your mouth to argue, to deflect, to make a joke. But the words wouldn't come. Because the truth was a knife in your chest: he didn't know you. He didn't know Marco. He didn't know the debt, the lies, the desperate calculation behind every touch. He thought you were just a woman who wanted him.
And maybe that was the worst part. Maybe that was the part that would destroy you.
So you kissed him instead, swallowing the confession before it could escape. You would be his Marcella. You would be perfect. You would be the thing that held him up when the world tried to crush him.
Even if it killed you.