I do as he asks, far too eagerly.
The backpack lands on the bed, and I fish my phone out.
He smirks at the screen. “Who’s Drama Queen?”
“Someone who will never let me hear the end of it if she knows I’m in bed with a man,” I answer. “Whatever it is, Myra, the answer is no.”
Harrison nips my butt cheek as he whispers, “What if I’m about to make you a very dirty girl? Is the answer still no?”
“Shh,” I hush.
Myra’s voice explodes through the line. “The media is losing its mind. I lined up six shows today. You have to do them.”
When Harrison’s thick tongue swipes me from behind, I see stars.
“Today?” I ask. My overly sensitive body responds instantly. My nails rip into his sheets. “I c-can’t today. I…” I bite my lip to stifle a moan.
The thick head of his cock is at my entrance, his hands gripping my hips.
“Are you listening to me?” Myra barks. “We need to get ahead of this.”
Get ahead of what?
Harrison’s hand fists my hair. “I’d rather get behind it,” my lumberjack growls.
At this point, I’m trembling. I try to form words. “I’m, mmm, just?—”
Then he shoves in, and I lose the ability to speak.
“Argh,” I gasp, suddenly a panting mess. “Have. To. Gooo…”
I shut off my phone, toss it aside, and ride this man’s cock like it’s Derby Day at Churchill Downs.
If this is Good Morning, Manhattan-style, sign me up.
For a long while after, we don’t rush anything. We stay tangled, touching, kissing, drifting in that quiet space where time feels optional. Slow, lazy presses of mouths. Fingers tracing familiar lines like we’re memorizing something we already know we won’t get to keep.
Eventually, he exhales and rests his forehead against mine. “I have to go.”
Relief loosens something in my chest. I’m grateful he says it first.
I smile. “Me, too.”
He rolls away and reaches for his tux pants, then pauses, like the thought physically pains him. I can’t help myself. “I bet you’d give anything to get your clothes back.”
“I really would,” he says dryly.
I grab my backpack. “Catch.”
I toss it like a basketball. He snags it, one-handed, without even looking.
“Your clothes are pretty light,” I say. “Your boots, not so much.”
“My clothes?” He unzips the bag and digs inside, tugging out jeans, boots, and what must be his favorite flannel.
He yanks it free and hugs it to his chest like a woobie. “Yes.”
I arch a brow. “I’ll try not to take it personally that you’re this excited to see a worn shirt.”
