Bonus Chapter: After Hours at Blackthorn
Read Me Like a Dirty Book — Bonus Content
by Blair Lennox
🔥 After Hours at Blackthorn
An Exclusive Bonus Chapter from Read Me Like a Dirty Book
⚠️ This bonus scene takes place one year after the epilogue. Contains spoilers and extremely explicit sexual content between adult women. 18+ only.
Callum handed me the keys at noon and didn’t ask questions.
“Back Sunday,” he said, shouldering his overnight bag. “Studio’s powered. Kitchen’s stocked. The porch railing on the east side is loose — don’t lean on it.”
“We’re here to work.”
He gave me a look that communicated, with the economy of a man who’d been watching us for a year and a half and had never once commented: I know exactly what you’re here to do and it isn’t work. Then he walked to his truck, and the crunch of his tires on gravel faded into the birch forest, and Romilly and I were alone at Blackthorn Audio House for the first time since the blizzard.
“He knows,” Romilly said from the porch.
“He’s known since book one.”
“Do you think he judges us?”
“I think Callum replaced the mixing board, told you it was for unrelated technical reasons, and has never mentioned the Sancerre again. The man is a professional.”
She laughed — the full one, the stomach laugh, the one I’d been addicted to since she first produced it in this kitchen over overcooked pasta during a snowstorm.
“Every surface.”
We started in the kitchen. She lifted me onto the counter. The granite was cold through my jeans and I gasped against her mouth. She stepped between my thighs.
“I spent three nights sitting on that stool watching you cook and imagining you on this counter with my head between your legs. I think the kitchen has earned it.”
She undid my jeans. Pulled them down. My underwear followed. She kissed my inner thigh first, then breathed warm air across me without touching — close enough that my nerve endings fired.
Then her tongue touched me and I grabbed the edge of the counter. She’d gotten good at this. She knew that alternating between flat strokes and the tip built the heat faster. She knew that sliding two fingers inside me while her tongue kept working made my hips buck against her face. She knew that curling those fingers forward while sucking gently on my clit would reduce me to a shaking wreck.
She pulled back. Right at the edge. Kissed the inside of my thigh. Looked up at me with dark, wicked eyes.
“The woman who set water on fire should not be this good at anything that happens in a kitchen.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“I also contain your fingers and I need you to not stop.”
I came so hard I knocked the coffee press off the counter. It shattered and neither of us cared.
“That’s one surface.”
The common room couch. I pushed her down and straddled her. She was fully clothed. I was still naked from the waist down, and the asymmetry — the denim rough against the swollen skin between my legs — made us both gasp.
I ground down against her thigh. She pulled my shirt off. Put her mouth on my breast, teeth grazing the nipple. She slid her hand between us — two fingers, then three, her palm pressing against my clit as I rocked against her hand.
“I would have done this,” she said. “On this couch, with the fire going, I would have put my hand inside you and felt you come apart and I would have known — this is what I was supposed to be doing with my life.”
I came on her hand. Then I slid off her lap, pulled her jeans down, and put my mouth on her before she could think about it. She came with a shout that echoed off the lodge ceiling.
“That’s two.”
The studio after dark. Romilly in the control room chair with headphones. Me in the booth with mine. Looking at each other through the glass.
“Tell me what you imagined,” I said.
“I imagined you sitting on the mixing desk and telling me exactly what to do. In your performance voice. I touched myself in this lodge to that fantasy every night. I’d lie in the dark with your recording in my earbuds and my hand between my legs. Coming to the sound of your voice telling me exactly how to make you feel good.”
“Come here.”
“No. You come here. I’ve been waiting a year and a half to live this version.”
I left the booth. Four steps. Took the headphones off her head. Kissed her until the talk-back button got pressed by her elbow and the empty booth filled with the sound of her breathing.
I sat on the mixing board. Spread my legs. “Tell me what to do,” she said. “Use the voice.”
“Unbutton my shirt. Slowly. Kiss every inch you uncover.”
She obeyed. Each button, her mouth followed.
“Take off my bra. Use your teeth.” She fumbled. Laughed. Got it. Her mouth found my nipple.
“Good. Now put your hand between my legs. I want you to feel how wet I am before you do anything else.”
Her fingers traced through the slickness. “Two fingers. Inside me. Slow. One knuckle at a time.”
She slid inside me with excruciating slowness. “Now curl your fingers. Forward. Press — yes, right there.”
The sensation detonated. The talk-back circuit broadcast my breathing through the monitoring system — loud, raw, filling the empty booth.
“Faster.” Her thumb found my clit and pressed and circled. “Don’t stop. Don’t change anything —”
My narration failed. I came across the mixing board, faders sliding under my shoulder blades, the booth monitors humming with feedback.
“Your turn. Booth floor. I told you a year ago I wanted to make you come in the place where your words live.”
I undressed her in the booth. She stood naked under the warm light, gripping the mic stand. I knelt. Put my mouth on her. She tasted sharp and clean and irreplaceably her. I slid two fingers inside and curled them. The sound she made bounced off every acoustic panel.
She came standing up, gripping the mic stand so hard her knuckles went white. The stand rocked. Her legs buckled and I caught her.
“Four surfaces.”
The porch. Blankets and the July night. Her hand found me and her mouth was on my neck and the sound I made when she entered me drifted across the grounds into the forest. I came watching the fireflies.
The bathtub. Me behind Romilly, her back against my chest, steam rising around us. I washed her hair. She said, “This is the one I didn’t put on the list. The tenderness. The part where you wash my hair and neither of us is performing anything.”
Then her hand slid under the water and between my legs. Her fingers inside me, her voice whispering: “I love you. I love the sounds you make. I love that I get to do this for the rest of our lives.”
I came in the bathtub with her arms around me and her mouth saying true things in the voice that had no page between it and the world.
The king bed. “How many surfaces?” “Seven.” “We missed the hallway.” “Tomorrow.” “And the pantry.” “You’re just naming rooms now.” “I contain multitudes.”
She fell asleep in my arms. The lodge held us. The microphone stood dark and silent. The fireflies pulsed their slow code. We had all weekend. We had the rest of our lives.
It was enough. It was everything. It was real.
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