As I lather myself with lavender-scented body gel, my hands glide over my breasts. I imagine they’re being caressed by Slayer, strong yet gentle.
I turn off the water and wrap myself in one of the hotel’s plush white robes, the Egyptian cotton soft against my sensitized skin. Iapply the matching lavender body lotion, my skin drinking in its rich moisture, leaving a subtle sheen.
As I tighten the robe’s belt, a decision forms. I need release before facing the press—before facing him again. I check the drapes. Closed. The door? Locked.
I strip off the robe and slip between the sheets, still feeling the soft drag of lotion on my skin. The thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton slides cool and smooth against my naked body.
I take a long breath, then another as I try to imagine what sex with Slayer would be like.
It’s not typical of me to pleasure myself, especially during the day. But I need this. Especially after our charged moment on the hill, after seeing the raw possession in his eyes by the pool.
I’m now certain he’s as wild for me as I am for him.Why else would he be so jealous of Carlos?
I reach up. My breasts are still warm and slick from the body gel and lotion I smoothed on. I cup them gently, teasing my nipples until they stand erect, sensitive points of pleasure.
One hand lingers at my chest while the other drifts lower, tracing the inner edge of my thigh as I think about Slayer.
In my imagination, he’s touching me now. His hands stroke my shoulders, trail down along the curve of my spine.
My back arches at the phantom touch.
His forefinger drifts from my ribs to my belly, then lower to my inner thigh. I feel a crackle—a live wire—just under the surface.
“Now,” I whisper to the empty room. I touch myself—lightly, carefully. Not directly on my clit. Not yet.
I want to make this last, savor the anticipation that’s been building since the moment our eyes met at that noodle shop.
My fingers move faster now. I picture him above me, his dark eyes intense with desire—eyes that see the real me, not Sterling’s creation. My body responds instantly, growing slick with anticipation.
I’m almost there.
The pulsing grows stronger inside me. I imagine him grabbingmy hips, his lips pressing against mine, tasting like morning croissants and mountain air.
“Yes,” I murmur. “Yes.”
Careful with my clit, my hand hovers close, not touching. Not yet.
In my fantasy, the head of Slayer’s cock presses against me. His breath is hot in my ear, his teeth grazing the shell of it.
His voice is ragged, whispering my name the way he did on the hillside.
Not Ms. Bismark. Not Sterling’s creation. Just Bix.
I move my fingers again. A little faster.
He flips me over—face down, bare, willing. He grinds against me. The length of him so full, so ready.
He nudges my thighs apart. The blunt head of his cock is right there, right where I need him.
“Yes,” I whisper again. “Slayer. Yes.”
And that’s it.
Suddenly, I’m cresting, burying my face in the pillow to muffle my cries. My body arches with the delirium of release, every nerve ending alive with sensation.
The orgasm swells to something beyond me—like my body has shot into outer space, beyond Saint-Tropez, beyond contracts and jealousy and the complications of the real world.
It takes minutes to come back to Earth. My heart hammers in the quiet. My hand rests between my legs, aftershocks pulsing through me.
