She’s the sweetest creature alive, and I am going to ruin her in the best possible way.
6
SELENA
He enters me again as I'm standing with my back against the glass wall of the shower, and this time, I'm ready. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and tuck my head against his neck as he slowly slides in, holding my right leg up against his hip.
He’s even more beautiful fully naked with the lights on. His body is strong, muscular, every ridge and valley of his perfect form exquisitely defined by the water cascading over us.
I'm not going to lie—having him come inside of me and then treat the thought of a possible child like a disease I need to take a pill for is off-putting. Yet, to his credit, Griffin has never pretended to be somebody he wasn't. He told me he was here for sex. He told me he was looking for a transaction. People who randomly fuck each other don't plan families together; they do their thing and leave.
I knew this. The problem is, I was getting attached. In the few hours we’d been together, a crazy fantasy formed in my mind that maybe we’d date or, at the very least, become friends.
When he handed me that black box, I realized the evening was just a deposition for him. He’s a lawyer, and the condom breaking was an unfortunate liability he mitigated with stipulations and chemical clauses. I'm not used to men like Griffin. I thought Landon was a "decent man," but he cheated on me. At least Griffin is honest about his ruthlessness.
This is what I'm thinking as Griffin thrusts into me, reclaiming my body.
My senses ignite one last time. I look into his eyes, and there is genuine affection in those deep grey orbs. I know people well enough to read that he is, at the very least, enjoying this as much as I am. Seeing me staring at him, he kisses me again, and I realize I'm becoming addicted to the taste of his mouth. I love the way he feels—so tall, big, and consuming. He envelops me as the warm water pelts us both. All I feel is his rock-hard length deep within me, and it's a wonderful, intoxicating, scary place to be.
Not once during this whole exchange do I feel cheap. In truth, I feel adored.
He starts moving with more intention, his breath hitching. I giggle, a nervous release of pure joy. He’s lost to his lust as he thrusts into me, pulling me into a crushing embrace so our bodies are flush. For that one moment in time, he’s a part of me.
“I’ve lost my mind,” he groans against my throat.
In this frantic state, he slips a hand between our bodies and finds my clit. With expert pressure, he tips me over the edge. I shatter against him, my body shivering with release. Before my pussy can cage him again, there’s a sharp intake of breath, a whoosh of movement. He pulls out just in time, pumping his release onto the shower floor where it swirls away with the soap and water.
“You drive me nuts,” he pants, jerking the last of his spent desire out. “I’m like a blathering idiot with you; I nearly did it again.”
He turns to me and smashes a kiss against my mouth. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.”
I’m fucking stunned, is what I am.
He pumps expensive shower gel into his palm—it smells of sandalwood and money—and slathers it over my body. He doesn't miss a single inch, worshiping me with his soapy fingers. We don't speak over the rush of the water; his benediction is enough.
When he stands up and faces me again, his smile is a little sad. “You’re all clean,” he says quietly. He quickly washes himself, the intimacy shifting back to efficiency.
“I can do that,” I tell him, though my eyelids feel heavy. I might fall asleep standing up.
“If you touch me again, Selena, you’re going to end up pregnant,” he laughs, though the sound is rough. “No pill in the world is going to stop me next time. My instinct is too feral around you.”
He kisses my forehead to soften the blow. “I have a meeting in...” he checks his waterproof watch, “four hours. Let’s get some sleep.”
He shuts off the water and wraps me in a big fluffy towel. He rubs me dry robustly, then does the same for himself before scooping me into his arms. He carries me to the massive bed, and moments later, we’re nestled into buttery soft sheets, covered by a thick, warm duvet.
I feel sleep tugging at me immediately. He must as well, because he leans over and kisses me one last time.
“I have to leave early,” he whispers, “but you can sleep in this room as long as you’d like. Order room service. There’s a digital menu on the wall. Call yourself a car from it. It all goes to my account. Don’t balk at me paying; you’ve more than earned it.”
There’s one more weak smile, and his eyes close. “Go to sleep.”
“Thank you,” I murmur as he starts to drift.
“You shouldn’t be doing the thanking,” he slurs, and then he is out like a light.
His circadian rhythm must be ironclad because within seconds, his breathing evens out. I lie there for a moment, absolutely wrung out. Despite the exhaustion, I find it difficult to sleep. My body aches in a good way, but my stomach feels absolutely horrific—like Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees are having a knife fight in my gut.
I chalk it up to the stress hitting me all at once. The adrenaline crash is making me nauseous. But before I can analyze it further, I slip out of bed, run to the bathroom, and literally puke my brains out. I do it a second time, and a third, until there is nothing left but dry heaves.
