Her laugh has her breast bouncing against my palm, and my thumb dragging across her nipple again. The laugh turns to a moan, her eyes half-closed as she licks her lips. And when I slide out slowly before pushing back in, her jaw drops open with a breathy sigh, and she opens her eyes again, locking her gaze on me.
The naked lust staring back at me ratchets up my own need, and when she drops her feet to the mattress beside my thighs so she can lift her hips to meet me thrust for thrust, it’s hard to hold back. But I’m determined to give her that second orgasm.
My fingers gently twist her nipple until she’s moaning again, and then I dip my mouth so my lips brush against her earlobe. “Your little moans are making it hard for me to hold back.”
She runs her arms along the sides of my rib cage and then wraps them around my lower back. “So why hold back, then?”
Sliding an arm under her lower back, I lift her lower body enough to slide one knee up and then the other, so I’m sitting on my heels with her thighs draped over my quads. This new position gives me better access to her body, even with me leaning forward above her.
I trail a hand up her abdomen and between her full breasts, spreading my hand against her collarbones and slipping my splayed fingers along either side of her neck and over her jaw, before I push my thumb between her lips. She lightly nips the pad before sucking it into her mouth and swirling her tongue around it. When I bring my thumb back down between our bodies and glide it over and around her throbbing clit, now soaked in her own spit, her back arches farther off the bed.
“Fuck, yes,” she whispers, and then I don’t let up. I fuck her while lavishing plenty of attention on her clit, working her back toward that orgasm. And when I lean forward, trailing my tongue across her breast, her moans grow louder and more frequent. I suck her nipple into my mouth with a deep pull against my tongue and she comes undone.
The words she’s uttering blend together with her moans. Her brows are furrowed above tightly closed eyes and then her lips part in a gasp followed by what looks to be a silent scream. I sit up just enough to watch the pleasure wrack her body while her core pulses around me. The moment her eyes open, I’m scooping her up, pulling her chest against mine to hold her tightly while my own orgasm rips through me. My face is buried in her chest, which muffles the loud groan I let out, and her fingers thread into my hair, holding me to her as my body convulses.
With her body still tightly wrapped around mine, she sighs and says, “I think I’m dead.”
The stubble on my chin and cheeks scrapes lightly against her breasts, and I can’t contain my smile. “You felt very much alive to me.”
“Nope,” she says, her body softening to the point she feels limp. When I lift my head, her eyes are closed. “Pretty sure that orgasm killed me.”
“As the second one should,” I whisper, gently lifting her off my lap and laying her back on my bed. Her breathing is even and slow when I get up to dispose of the condom, and when I return from the bathroom, she’s curled onto her side right in the middle of the bed.
I don’t cuddle after sex or spend the night with women because that always leads to expectations of something in the future—expectations I’m not willing to meet. I should scoot her over or lie on the far edge of the bed. But I don’t. I lie on my side next to her, slipping my arm around her almost protectively as I pull her against me and let myself drift off to sleep beside her.
The knocking on my door startles me out of a deep sleep, and I’m sitting up almost before I’ve even opened my eyes. I look around in confusion at my empty hotel room. Amy’s no longer in my bed. Her dress and underwear are no longer hanging on the chair. And the level of disappointment I feel is shocking. Her slipping out while I was still asleep should be a relief—the perfect non-awkward ending to a night of no-strings sex.
There’s another knock and I glance at my phone to check the time, but it’s dead. I slip on a pair of shorts and pad across the rug to the tiled hallway in front of the door. Peeking through the peephole, I find Max’s smiling face.
“C’mon, Danny.” His voice is muffled by the door. “Daylight’s ticking.” For an older guy, Max has nearly limitless energy. Must be why each of his new wives gets younger and younger.
I swing the door open to find him standing there in khaki shorts—the unofficial uniform of Bermuda—and a polo shirt.
“You don’t look ready for golf.”
“You can’t possibly be serious. You just landed and you still want to try to make that tee time?”
“I’m getting married tonight, but first, I’m spending the day at my favorite place with my favorite person.”
I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my bare chest. “Shouldn’t your bride be your favorite person?”
“I promised you when your dad died that you’d always be my favorite person.”
“I’m not a kid anymore,” I say with a sigh. Max does not truly seem to grasp this fact. “I don’t need to be your favorite person.”
“Too bad.” He reaches up and ruffles my already messy hair. “You still are.”
“Well I don’t want to crush your dream, but we got at least six inches of rain overnight. There’s no way the course is open.”
“But the driving range is.” He says, like it’s the best news he’s ever gotten the privilege of delivering. Given his job as a renowned plastic surgeon, that seems unlikely. “C’mon, put some clothes on and let’s go spend the day together.”
See, this is the thing about Max. You can’t possiblynotlike him. Even when he wakes you up from a dead sleep after you stayed up half the night fucking a girl you may never forget, and you just want to go back to bed but he’s not letting you... you still can’t not like him.
Trust me, I’ve tried.
Chapter Seven
MORGAN
