“Shit.” He bounces up and grabs his trousers and fumbles around in the pocket for his wallet, and then his face falls in horror. “Fuck it. I only have one. How do I only have one?” He opens it and rolls it on.
I look up, surprised. “What kind of player are you?”
“Unprepared, obviously.” He lies back down over me and brings my legs up around his hips, and in one sharp movement he slides home deep. His eyelids flutter. “Fucking hell, Anderson,” he pants as he slowly slides out.
I smile up at him in wonder.
“Happy to report . . . the vagina is a perfect specimen,” he pushes out through gritted teeth. “No insecurities here.”
I burst out laughing. “Shut up, you fool, and fuck me.”
He widens his knees and slides in deep, and we find a rhythm. He does a circular thing, and it drives me wild. I begin to thrash beneath him.
His eyes are rolled back in his head.
“You have an ugly sex face,” I say.
He bursts out laughing. “I told you, no talking.”
We both laugh, and then he falls serious and watches me for a moment as he pumps me deep. This just feels so raw and real.
“You need to come. You need to come,” he stammers. “I can’t stop it. You need to come,” he begins to chant. “Anderson.” He screws his face up, as if in pain.
“No,” I snap. “I’m not ready.” I ride his beautiful deep pumps . . . so good.
“Oh . . . fuck it.” I feel the telling jerk of his cock, and he moans, deep and loud, and then goes into a frenzy of deep pumps to completely empty himself.
God, I want to do this all night. “Tristan,” I whisper. “What the fuck . . . too quick?” I tease. If I’m honest, I love that he couldn’t hold it. I love that he was so turned on that he had no control. This isn’t about orgasms for me. It’s about a connection that I’ve been missing, but I’ll never let him in on my little secret.
“It’s not my fault,” he stammers in an outrage. “You shouldn’t feel so fucking good. That never happens to me.”
“One condom,” I whisper. “Are you serious?” I pant.
“I have another way to fuck you that won’t result in pregnancy.” He smiles darkly down at me.
I giggle up at him. Oh, he’s fun, all right. “Forget it, Mr. Miles. You only got one go.”
I roll over and feel a hand on my naked hip bone, and I frown. Huh? Oh shit.
My eyes snap open. Tristan Miles is in my bed.
We had sex.
I had sex with Tristan fucking Miles.
Shit . . . you idiot.
I shake him. “Tristan,” I whisper. I shake him again. “Tristan, wake up.”
“Huh?” He frowns and props up on his elbow. “What’s wrong?”
“You need to go,” I whisper. I don’t know why I’m whispering; nobody can hear us.
“What?” He looks around in confusion. “Why?”
“Because it’s five a.m., and everyone is going to be up soon, and I don’t want anyone seeing you leave my room.”
He frowns over at me. “Why not?”