I flop to my back and play with the waistband, teasing. “Pick door number two. Now. Fucking now.”
She climbs over me, grabs at my waistband, but then stops. Her head drops to my chest, her chestnut hair spilling across my pecs as she moans in frustration. “Condom. I don’t have one with me. It’s been a while,” she mutters.
I push my head into the pillow and groan too. But then, I man up. “I’ll go downstairs and get one.” Unless . . . I glance at the nightstand. “This hotel did say the rooms are fully equipped.”
Her green eyes sparkle. “Please let it be equipped for safe sex.”
With a laugh and a hope, I stretch an arm to the drawer, slide it open, and reach inside.
Yes! The feel of foil makes my dick even harder. “That is turndown service.”
“And now I will open that door,” she says, then hooks her thumbs into the waistband of my boxer briefs and slides them down, moving along my body as she strips me.
My cock gives her a one-eyed salute.
She draws a sharp breath, then she nibbles on the corner of her lips. Once more, the mood tilts. She crawls back up my body, straddles me again, and grips my dick.
Everything else vanishes into the Vegas night. All the choices. All the consequences. All the what-ifs.
They distill down to the feel of her hand on me. The heat in her eyes. The way I can’t stop looking at her as she strokes me.
I still her moves then wrap my arm around her waist and slide her down to the mattress so her back is against those soft hotel sheets and she’s spread out before me, a naked masterpiece to admire. “Want to look at you. Touch you. Fuck you like this,” I say as I kneel between her legs, slide my hands down her thighs, press them wide open. I dig my thumbs into her flesh, my short nails scratching her skin.
Her back bows, and she pushes the side of her face into the pillow like she’s hiding her moan.
I grab her jaw, pull her face back so she’s looking at me. “Let me see you.”
“Okay,” she murmurs, her expression one of frenzied need.
Yeah, sometimes you just give in. Because you’re thirty years old. Because you’ve thought about fucking her more times than you want to admit. Because you’re wildly attracted to your best friend.
Because there are so many reasons not to, but you’re two adults who want each other. That’s sometimes the only reason that counts.
I roll on the condom, rub the head of my cock against her wetness, then slowly, deliciously, push inside. She breathes out, tenses, then gives me a nod to keep going. I sink in, filling her all the way, pushing her knees up toward her chest, my pecs a few inches from her tits. She reaches for me, hands curling over my shoulders, and lifts her face toward mine, asking for a kiss.
And it’s the best kind of kiss, and the best kind of sex.
It’s kissing and fucking. Fucking and kissing.
Finding that rhythm. Moving with the other person.
I follow her cues. Listen to the sound of her breathing. Watch her face. She’s loud—surprisingly so. I guess I thought she was just flirty for fun, just dirty for show.
But that mouth becomes something else in bed, a sort of unfettered truth as her fingers race through my hair, tugging.
She cries out.
Moans.
Begs.
It’s incredible, and I fuck her harder. One hand slides down to her ass and I grip her flesh. “You like that?”
“I do,” she rasps out.
I grab and knead, maybe leaving marks. She urges me on with those gorgeous moans.
I dip my face to her neck, bite down on her collarbone. A long ohhh spills from her lips as she grabs my ass, jerks me deeper, and whispers in my ear, “I’m close.”
I push up on my elbows. “How can I get you there?”
“Let me be on top.”
Fifteen seconds later, we’ve maneuvered around.
She’s on top of me, riding me. Playing with herself and losing her mind.
I squeeze her tits, pinch her nipples, and stare. Just stare shamelessly at the woman riding my cock, parting her lips, and then breaking apart.
She calls out my name like she did that night on the roller coaster, her face flushed pink, her hair wild.
But it’s better. So much better. All real, all true.
I suppose this is the moment when there is no choice. I literally have no choice but to follow her into the land of orgasmic bliss.
9
Morning Peacock Reckoning
Emerson
* * *
The thing about fantasies is they end when you’re done.
As in done with the deed.
While I’ve pictured sex with Nolan countless times, I’ve never thought about the morning after. There’s been no need to. The director of my late-night bedroom dreams was always focused on the between-the-sheets action sequence and didn’t bother to script out the following day.