The Girlfriend Tutorial — Bonus Chapter

An exclusive scene by Blair Lennox

⚠️ This bonus scene takes place thirteen months after the epilogue. Contains spoilers and explicit sexual content (18+).

Peer Review — After Hours

The conservatory is closed. Everyone is gone. And Greer has the keys.

“This is technically trespassing,” I say, following her through the maintenance entrance at eleven on a Friday night.

“It’s technically an after-hours access arrangement.” Greer holds the door for me, her hand finding the small of my back. “I asked for a private walkthrough. She gave me a window.”

“A private walkthrough. At eleven p.m. On our anniversary.”

“Thirteen months.”

“I’m counting in everything.”

A blanket on the stone floor. Sparkling water, two glasses, and a wireless speaker. She produces a printed screenshot — Rose Handling — Introductory. The first calendar label.

“I want to redo it. Practice Date One. Except this time, I don’t have to pretend.”

“Flirting is not a script. It’s attention.” Her fingertips land on the inside of my wrist — the exact spot from that first coffee-shop lesson — and my pulse jumps the same way it jumped thirteen months ago.

“When you look at her mouth and she sees you looking —”

“And she doesn’t step back.”

I grab the front of her shirt and pull her mouth down to mine. She catches me around the waist and lifts — actually lifts me off the ground — and carries me to the stone wall of the south gallery.

My back hits the wall. Cold stone, hot skin, the hard press of her hips between my thighs.

“Here. Now. In the conservatory. Under the ceiling where we built something impossible.”

She gathers the hem of my dress. Her palm is rough and warm against my bare thigh. “I think about this constantly,” she says against my neck. “When I’m climbing. When you walk through the gym in those fucking work trousers.”

Her fingers hook into my underwear. “Can I?”

“If you don’t, I’ll do it myself.”

She pulls them down and pockets them — casually, like she’s collecting equipment — and the proprietary confidence makes my stomach drop.

“Every sound reflects off the glass and comes back three times louder,” she says. Her fingers hovering. “Which means I’m going to hear everything.”

“That’s a feature, not a bug.”

She touches me. The first slide of her fingers through wet heat makes us both groan, and the sound bounces off every surface and returns amplified, as if the building is participating.

“Be specific.” The old instruction, and even after thirteen months it makes my stomach flip. She circles my clit with her thumb — slow, steady.

“I want your fingers inside me. Deep. And I want you to talk to me while you do it.”

Two fingers sliding inside me in one smooth stroke. The fullness and the cold wall and the heat of her body converge into a single overwhelming sensation.

“Thirteen months and you still make this sound when I —” She curls her fingers. Hits the spot. I make the sound. “— that one.”

She fucks me against the wall with the patient, precise intensity she brings to every difficult route. Her thumb works my clit in the rhythm she knows I need. Her fingers curl and press and retreat and return, building in increments that make my thighs shake.

“I want to come. I want you to make me come against this wall in this conservatory where we built a garden out of nothing, and I want to hear it echo, and I want you to watch my face.”

She shifts deeper. Faster. Watches me with those blue eyes — focused, hungry, reverent.

“Let go. I’ve got you.”

I come hard enough that the sound bounces off every surface and returns multiplied. She holds me through it, keeping me upright while the aftershocks roll through.

She eases her fingers out slowly. Brings her hand to her mouth and licks her fingers clean, eyes on mine. The sight sends a bolt of fresh heat through my spent body.

“Greer Halston, if you try to defer right now, I will climb you like a wall.”

“That’s not how climbing works.”

“Then teach me.”

I push her backward until she sits on the stone ledge. Drop to my knees on the blanket — she was right, the stone is cold, and I love her for the planning and for the particular Greer-ness of bringing a blanket to a seduction.

I unbuckle her belt. Pull down her trousers. Press my mouth against her through the fabric. The dampness, the heat, the sharp intake of breath above me.

“You’re wet.”

“I’ve been wet since I watched you come against that wall.”

“Your mouth. No teasing. I don’t think I can survive teasing right now.”

I pull the underwear to the side and put my mouth on her — direct, open. My tongue slides through her folds and finds her clit and she makes a sound that hits the glass ceiling and comes back from every direction.

Every gasp multiplies. The wet sounds of my mouth on her resonate off the stone and iron and glass. I work her with my tongue — long, flat strokes, then tight circles that make her fingers grip my hair.

“There — right there — fuck, Tilly, your tongue —”

I slide two fingers inside her while my mouth stays on her clit. Hands fisting in my hair, thighs clamping around my ears, back arching off the ledge. I fuck her with my fingers and eat her with my mouth and look up the length of her body — and she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, coming apart under my mouth in the building where we hung a garden in the sky.

I press harder. Curl my fingers. Suck her clit between my lips.

She comes with both hands in my hair and a sound that echoes off every surface. Her voice breaks on my name three times, each rawer than the last.

“Get up here.”

I climb into her lap. She buries her face in my neck. “I’m not done.”

She pulls my dress over my head. I’m naked in a public building, skin prickling in the cool air. She takes my breast in her mouth while her hand slides between my thighs from behind.

“Ride my hand,” she says, and the instruction makes my hips move before my brain processes the words.

I ride her hand on a stone ledge in a dark conservatory, with her mouth on my breast and her fingers inside me and the glass ceiling showing us a sky full of city-scattered light.

“You look like the woman I imagined for nine years and the reality is better than every version.”

“Thousands.” She curls her fingers inside me. “In the shower. In bed. At the gym when you’d walk in wearing those work trousers and I’d have to climb a V10 to survive it.”

She adds her thumb against my clit. The combined pressure makes the laughter stop and the urgency take over.

“Come for me. Not as practice. Not as a lesson. Because you’re mine and I’m yours and this is permanent.”

I come for the second time — a rolling, full-body wave. She holds me through it with both arms, steady and strong.

We stay tangled for a long time. The conservatory settles around us. The silence is warmer now.

“I’m going to keep counting. In everything. In mornings. In toothbrushes. In sparkling-water bottles. In every time you rearrange my spice rack and I don’t say anything because watching you organize by color is one of the great pleasures of my life.”

“I organize by flavor family.”

“You organize by whatever system occurs to you in the moment, and I love every iteration.”

In the truck she takes my hand. “The results are still in. Peer-reviewed and published. Conclusion: permanent.”

I kiss her knuckles. The calluses. The chalk-roughened skin of a woman who holds ropes for a living and held me when I didn’t know I needed holding.

“Permanent.”

She drives us home.

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