Chapter 8

• His eyes roll back in his head. “You are one hot fuck.” He picks me up by the hip bones and slams me back down on his cock, and I laugh out loud at the overwhelming sensation of being filled to the hilt.
• “God, fill me up,” I moan. “Give it to me,” I beg. I love how he’s losing control. It’s making me crazy. And then as if in some kind of alternate universe, my mouth latches on to his neck, and I suck hard as I ride him.
• He hisses, and as if he’s completely losing control, he bucks me off and pulls out and throws me onto my back. He lifts my legs over his shoulders and slams in deep—so deep that the air is knocked from my lungs.
• I smile. So he likes dirty talk, does he? Well, that just happens to be my specialty.
• Game on.
• I hold his face in my hands. “God, you’ve got a beautiful cock,” I whisper. “Is it weeping for me, baby?” I whisper as I clench around him. “I can feel your pulse in it.”
• He gives me a slow, sexy smile as he pumps me. “I’m going to rip this condom off and blow in your dirty mouth in a minute.”
• “Please.” I laugh as he pumps me hard, and in a moment of perfect clarity, he turns his head and tenderly kisses my inner ankle. We stare at each other as something intimate runs between us. A closeness that the reality of the situation shouldn’t allow. “Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper to break the seriousness of the moment, “or I’m going to give you another hickey.”
• His eyes widen. “I better not have a fucking hickey, Emily.”
• I laugh out loud as I look at the huge purple welt rising on his neck. God, what the hell? I’ve been reading way too many vampire romances. “Will you be in trouble with your mother?” I tease.
• He laughs and slams into me and hits just the right spot, and I moan. Oh . . . this man knows his way around a woman’s body.
• Every touch is perfectly placed and magnified. He knows exactly how to take me apart at the seams. He lifts my hip with his hand and circles deep, and my body takes on its own agenda because I need to come. Hard.
• “Fuck me,” I beg. “Give me that beautiful cock of yours. Harder,” I moan. “Fuck, I need it harder.”
• His eyes close in pleasure, and he pumps me at piston pace. I grab on to him as tightly as I can as I convulse. He holds himself deep and cries out into my neck, and I feel his cock jerk as it releases.
• We pant as we cling to each other, wet with perspiration, our hearts racing wildly together, and he smiles up against my cheek as if remembering something.
• “What?”
• “Welcome to the Miles-High Club, Emily.”
• I giggle as I kiss him. “First class is the only way to fly.”
• Jim smiles sexily down at me as I lie naked in bed. He’s dressed, and his bag is packed and by the door. “I have to go.”
• I screw up my face and hold out my arms. “No, don’t leave me,” I tease in a whiny voice.
• He chuckles as he bends and takes me into his arms one last time. We’re not on the same plane back to New York this morning; his flight leaves early, and mine leaves late. He kisses me softly. “What a night,” he whispers.
• I smile as his head drops to the crook of my neck, his teeth nipping down toward my collarbone. “I won’t be walking for a month—actually, a year,” I mutter dryly.
• He bends and bites my nipple hard, and I jump. Then he comes back up, and his eyes meet mine.
• I cup his handsome face. “I had an incredible night.”
• He smiles softly. “Me too.”
• I reach up and put my finger on the huge hickey on his neck, and his fingers go to it too. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
• “I have no idea what came over me.” I giggle. “Your dick was too good, turned me into an animal.”
• He bites me again. “How am I supposed to get on a plane with a huge-ass hickey on my neck?” he scolds. “If you knew how many important meetings I have this week, Emily . . .”
• We both laugh, and then his face falls as he watches me. I’m not joking—I don’t want him to leave me. This man is everything I’m not looking for, but he’s somehow ticking every box.
• What if I never see him again?
• How am I supposed to move on from a night like this, erase it from my memory bank, and pretend it never happened? I close my eyes in disgust with myself. This is why I don’t do one-night stands. I’m not cut out for sex without strings—it’s not who I am. I will never be that person.
• I hate that he is.
• “Actually, I have a scarf in my bag. Do you want it?” I ask.
• “Yes,” he snaps.
• I climb out of bed and go to my suitcase and begin to rummage through it. He takes the opportunity and stands behind me and grabs my naked hip bones in his hands and pumps me with his hips. I stand and turn to face him. “I’m not even joking now—stay another night.”
• He traces his finger down my face and cups my jaw in his hand as our eyes lock.
• “I can’t,” he whispers, his eyes searching mine . . . with something unspoken.
• Does he have someone at home? Is that why he hasn’t asked for my number? Uneasiness fills me. I’m not made for this one-night stand crap.
• I turn my back on him and dig out the scarf and hand it over. It’s cream and cashmere, and it’s initialed.
• E.F.