The Ex-Girlfriend Test — Bonus Chapter

The Thing She Whispered
by Blair Lennox

⚠️ Spoiler warning: This scene takes place during the epilogue of The Ex-Girlfriend Test. Read the book first for maximum impact. This scene is explicit, graphic, and significantly hotter than the main book. You have been warned.

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The Thing She Whispered

A bonus scene set during the epilogue. What Hannah whispered on the couch — and everything that happened after the cacio e pepe.

The cacio e pepe was getting cold.

This was entirely Hannah’s fault, because Hannah was the one who’d leaned across the couch and put her mouth against my ear and whispered seven words that rearranged every molecule in my body, and now the pasta was congealing in its bowl on the wobbling table and neither of us was thinking about dinner.

“Say that again,” I said.

“You heard me.”

“I heard you. I want to hear you say it again. Slowly. With eye contact.”

Hannah set down her wine glass. Turned to face me on the couch. She looked at me with the steady, unhurried intensity that had been undoing me for a year.

“I want you,” she said, “to tie my hands.”

“Since when?” I managed.

“Since the hallway. The night you dropped your hand.”

“The cacio e pepe,” I said, because my brain was short-circuiting and the pasta was the only noun I could locate.

“Fuck the cacio e pepe.”

“Bedroom. Now.”

“The grey scarf. Top drawer. Left side.”

“You planned this.”

“I’m an architect, Piper. I plan everything.”

I wound the scarf around her wrists. Carefully. One wrap, two, a gentle knot that held without biting.

“I trust you,” she said. “I’ve trusted you since the night you dropped your hand in the hallway because you knew saying yes would have been another impulse. That’s when I knew you’d never hurt me.”

“You can’t touch me,” I said. “You can’t direct me. You can’t do anything except tell me how it feels. Use your words, Hannah. The way you always make me.”

Her breath hitched. The tables had turned.

I kissed down her chest. Took her nipple in my mouth and she arched off the bed — hard, involuntary — the arch of a woman who couldn’t grab the sheets for balance and had to trust her own spine.

“How does it feel?”

“Every sensation is louder. Because I can’t steer. I just have to receive.”

“Is that hard for you?”

“It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Good.”

I kissed lower. Her ribs. Her stomach. The crease of her hip, where I paused long enough that she pulled against the scarf and made a helpless, gorgeous sound.

“Piper, please — I want your mouth. Between my legs. Now. Please.”

“Since you asked so nicely.”

I settled between her legs and put my mouth on her, and the sound she made was the most gratifying thing I’d ever heard. She was soaked. I held her hips firmly, because she couldn’t hold herself, and gave her everything I’d learned in a year of devoted study.

I brought her to the edge and kept her there. Backed off every time her breathing went silent. Let her body drop from the precipice just enough that the climb started over.

“I need to come. Please. I need you to let me come.”

“One more minute.”

“I will die in one more minute.”

“You won’t die. You’ll come harder than you ever have.”

I slid two fingers inside her and curled them and held the pressure — steady, relentless — and her body went taut. The scarf pulled tight, the headboard groaned, and she came with a full-throated, apartment-shaking cry. Her body clenched around my fingers in deep, sustained waves. I worked her through it, untied the scarf, and her arms came around me — tight, crushing, fierce.

“It was the safest I’ve ever felt,” she said. “Because you were holding everything. The way I’ve always held everything.”

She rolled me onto my back. Pinned my wrists herself and took me apart at double speed. I came in under three minutes with a sound the Carroll Street neighbors definitely heard.

We ate reheated cacio e pepe at midnight at the wobbling table. The pasta was slightly overcooked. The pepper ratio was perfect. We were barefoot and half-dressed and completely, ridiculously, permanently in love.

Every day. On purpose. Especially the Tuesdays.

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