The Two Week Stand (Sizzling Beach 1)

“Cool.”

“Whose party is it?”

“Well, it’s my stepmom’s fiftieth birthday.”

“Your stepmom. As in the First Lady?”

“Yes …”

“And where is this party going to be held?”

“At their house.”

My hands freeze again. Actually, my whole body freezes, stiffening. “You mean, the White House?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re asking me to go to the fiftieth birthday party of the First Lady of the United States at the White House?”

“Your voice sounds all squeaky.”

“Of course it’s squeaky!” I squeak. “It’s the White House! The president and First Lady! It’s a lot.”

“It’s really not. They’re just people.”

“To you!”

Shit! What am I gonna wear? I’m gonna have to go shopping. And also Google what one should wear to a party at the White House.

“You can’t back out of going with me, Double D. You already said you’d go.”

I stop freaking out and look at him. Really look at him. His brow is tense.

“I’m not backing out.” I soften my voice. “Should I take it that you’re not keen on the thought of going?”

His shoulders lift under my hands. “I just know how it’ll go—that’s all.”

“How will it go?” I ask the question carefully.

Another shrug. “My dad will find some way to tell me what a disappointment I am to him, and I’ll retaliate with some shit from the past.”

“So, why go to the party?”

“Because it’s expected. And I like Catherine. She’s a decent person. She just married a dick.”

I know he has a difficult relationship with his dad. But that’s the most he’s ever opened up to me about it. He’s usually quite evasive when it comes to his father.

I’m not really sure what to say. I just know that I want to make him feel better. So, I do one thing that I know always makes him feel better. I lean in and press my lips to his, kissing him.

As I go to move back from the kiss when it comes to an end, West’s arms band around me, keeping me close.

“You know, I was just thinking that you’re probably going to need some inspiration for all those sex scenes you’re gonna be writing.”

I lift a brow. “I won’t write the actual sex we’ve had,” I remind him.

“I never said write the actual sex. I said inspiration to help you write it.”

I see the look in his eyes, which screams sex, and my lower belly coils with anticipation.

“Oh, yeah, I could definitely do with the inspiration.” I’m not gonna need to watch porn for any sex-scene inspiration while I’ve got him here to give me plenty.

“Wanna get started on that inspiration now?”

I bite my lower lip. “Uh-huh.”

West slides his hand up my back and grabs a handful of my hair. He guides my head down to his, but he doesn’t kiss me on the mouth. Instead, his lips land on my neck, and he starts to suck on that magical spot he found, which sends bolts of lust straight to my clit, making me moan.

“You like that?” he murmurs against my skin.

“So much.” I like you too. Way too much.

Fuck, where did that thought come from?

He moves me so that I’m lying on my back on the huge sofa, and he’s now lying between my legs.

We start kissing, and he’s moving his hips, rubbing his hard cock, which is encased in his sweatpants, against my clit, which is trapped beneath panties and leggings. But even through all this material, it feels good as hell.

“I need you inside me.” My chest is dancing up and down with excitement.

“I know I said inspirational fuck but quickie now. Long, inspirational fuck later.”

When West says quickie, he means no foreplay. Not that this will be quick. The man doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

Not that I’m complaining, of course.

He sits up, divesting himself of his clothes, while I quickly pull off my leggings, panties, T-shirt, and bra.

Then, we’re both naked, and he’s back on me. Skin to skin. And nothing has felt better in my life than being naked with this man.

He kisses my mouth while he slides inside me.

When he’s to the hilt, he pauses. Stops kissing me. Just stares into my eyes.

My heart starts to thrum in my chest.

I feel like something changes in this moment. I don’t know exactly what. But something.

He starts to move, slowly fucking me, but doesn’t take his eyes from mine.

“I like you,” he says in a rough, quiet voice.

My mouth dries. I lick my lips. “I like you too.”

Our eyes stay locked on each other’s, and with his slow thrusts and words ringing in my ears and the intensity of the moment, I start to feel a pressure on my chest.

Like the feelings that I have for him—the ones I’ve been hiding, locking away—are breaking down the door and forcing their way out.

It’s too much. I’m feeling too much for him. And if I keep looking into his eyes, he’s going to see exactly how I feel.