The Dirty Truth

“You’re so damn sexy,” I say under my breath. “You know that?”

Climbing over her, I run a finger down her wet slit before sliding it inside of her, my thumb circling her swollen clit. Her hips buck, a silent urge for more. And as if my body has known hers a hundred times before, I glide another finger inside, stretching her wetness before lowering my mouth between her thighs to taste her arousal, to consume every damn ounce of her.

Digging her fingers into my back as I devour her, she writhes and sighs until she utters the hottest dirty truth I’ve ever heard: “I want you inside of me.”

Reaching over her, I tug a nightstand drawer open and retrieve a gold foil packet, ripping it with my teeth before sheathing my swollen cock. A second later, her thighs are wrapped around my hips, and I’m pressed against her slick entrance.

Our eyes hold for an eternity. We’ve come too far to turn back—not that I’d ever dream of that. But what comes next is anyone’s guess.

“What are you waiting for?” she whispers, slipping her arms around my neck. “Having second thoughts?”

“Never.”

Plunging deep inside of her, I bury my face in the warmth of her neck as she rocks against me, accepting every inch of my need for her until our mutual satisfaction leaves me drained and her breathless in a way that transcends the physical.

Elle Napier isn’t just some woman, and this wasn’t just sex.

Collapsing beside her, I’m washed in a warm euphoria like nothing I’ve ever felt before, and I steal a glimpse of her perfect peach-shaped ass as she saunters to the en suite to clean up—a quiet parting gift to fill the emptiness on the bed. And that’s exactly what it is when she isn’t with me—a void. One that only she can fill with her radiant warmth and that unapologetic illumination in her eyes when she looks at me.

“Top drawer on the left.” I point to the dresser in the corner when she emerges from the bathroom. “Grab a T-shirt. You’re sleeping in my bed tonight.”

I don’t normally extend overnight invitations, but in Elle’s case, I’m willing to make an exception.

This entire woman is one giant exception.

And I’m here for it.

CHAPTER THIRTY

ELLE

“Hey, stranger,” Indie greets me in our apartment Monday morning. “Wondered when you’d be rolling in here. Sex hair is on point, by the way.”

After ten years of best friendship, I should know by now that nothing gets past her.

Nothing.

I wheel my bag inside and lock the door behind me, casually dragging my fingers through my bedhead.

“So?” She pours an overflowing bowl of apple-cinnamon Cheerios. “Was it worth it?”

I haven’t even had a chance to ask myself that, let alone prepare an answer for someone else. Everything happened so fast last night. The tension was ripe, palpable almost, and suddenly the wicked glint in his familiar blue-green irises was sending shock waves through my body.

It’s the strangest thing—swinging from one extreme to another. While West is unnervingly gorgeous and a powerhouse of a man, I’d never let myself so much as consider him as a romantic option. But as he stood there, telling me he’d thought about kissing me before, that he wanted to kiss me, that he thought the world of me—it changed something inside of me.

“Why are you so quiet?” she asks before I have a chance to gather my thoughts. “This is weird. You’re weirding me out. Say something.”

West was gone when I woke this morning, but he’d left a note on his pillow telling me to dial three on his bedside phone and Bettina would bring me breakfast in bed. He also asked that I wait until eight to leave so I wouldn’t run into Scarlett. My mind instantly flashed to my suitcase, since I’d left it in the foyer before he’d invited me up for a drink. But when I sat up in bed, I noticed it resting beside the door, as if he were one step ahead of me.

“We got caught up,” I say. “It just sort of . . . happened.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“It doesn’t mean anything.” The second the words leave my lips, they burn like lies. So much for living my truth. I, Elle Napier, am officially a certified hypocrite. I don’t know what it meant last night—just that it meant something.

“Would you hook up with him again?”

“I don’t want to complicate things. With Scarlett being in such a fragile state right now . . .”

“Is that how you really feel, or is that what you’re telling yourself?” She points her spoon at me, giving me side-eye.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel—all that matters is how it should be. We got carried away, and it can’t happen again; that’s all.”

“Okay, wait, wait, wait.” Indie plunks her spoon against her bowl, shoving herself up from the kitchen table before diving for a stack of magazines on the living room coffee table. A moment later, she fans through an old issue of Made Man I didn’t know was there. “I literally just read this one the other day. Yes! Here it is. ‘The Dirty Truth about One-Night Stands.’”