Page 15 of Ten Day Affair

God, his hands.

The way they gripped my thighs, held me open, pressed me down. The sound he made when he sank into me. It was low and possessive, like I was his to ruin.

I slide my fingers beneath the waistband of my sleep shorts. I’m already wet. I don’t even pretend to take it slow.

Two fingers slip between my folds, finding that slick, swollen place that’s been throbbing since he was there. I circle it once, slowly teasing. My hips jerk.

The pressure builds so I press harder, gliding over that sensitive bundle of nerves again and again until my breath stutters and my thighs clench. The ache is maddening. I need more.

I shift my hips and slide my fingers deeper. I gasp as I push inside. I'm tight, wet, tender. The stretch makes me moan. My body clenches, hungry for him, for more.

I pump my fingers, slow at first, then faster, curling them just right. My palm brushes my clit with every thrust, sending sparks through my core.

The tension coils inside of me. My toes curl into the sheets. My other hand grips the edge of the mattress.

I can feel the weight of him, his breath on my neck, his voice. It's low and coaxing, just a little cruel.You like that?

I moan quietly and sharply. My legs tremble as the orgasm hits. I chase it fast and rough, the way he was with me. The way I like it. The way I wanted it again, the second he walked down the steps after he devoured me.

When it hits, I cry out breathlessly. My walls pulse around my fingers, waves crashing through me, leaving me wrecked and shaking.

I stay like that, panting, hand still buried between my thighs, fingers still inside of me. My heart thuds in mychest, and I still rock my hips into my hand, mindlessly coming down from my orgasm.

And even then, with the aftershocks rolling through me, I want more.

I wanthim.

And I can’t want him. Not again. Not when I know how slippery this slope could be.

FOUR

Cole

The cab drops me at 44th and Madison. Three Kings sits between an overpriced steakhouse and a jewelry store that probably pays more in rent than most people's annual salary.

I need a drink.

The heavy oak door swings open, releasing the scent of polished wood and expensive liquor. I nod at the hostess, bypassing the front area for the bar in the back.

This place has been my sanctuary since before I bought a stake in it five years ago. Dark wood paneling, leather seats worn just enough to feel comfortable, and jazz that's never too loud.

"Mr. Houston." The bartender already has a lowball ready.

"Thanks, Kent."

He pours two fingers of Macallan 25. The amber liquid catches the dim light. I loosen my tie and take the first sip, letting it burn away the memory of soft skin and ocean air that's been haunting me all day.

"There he is." Dorian slides onto the stool next tomine. "Was beginning to think you'd gone native in Florida."

I don't look at him. "Been back since midday, prick."

"Working from home today? That's not like you."

I shrug. The truth is, I spent half the day staring at acquisition proposals without absorbing a word, and the other half drafting and deleting text messages.

Dorian signals Kent for his usual. He likes some complicated gin thing with herbs floating in it. I don't know how he drinks that shit.

“I'm guessing the new place is pretty sweet. Didn't know if you decided to become the youngest snowbird in Florida.”