I unzip my boots, peel them off, then hook my thumbs in my panties and slide them down my legs. They're ruined. Completely soaked through, strings of my arousal connecting the fabric to my pussy, and one wash definitely isn't going to be enough to get these clean.
But right now, I don't give a single fuck.
I toss them toward my suitcase and climb onto the bed, the rough motel comforter scratching against my bare skin. I should be grossed out, who knows how many people have been on this bed, but I'm too far gone to care about anything except the throbbing ache between my legs.
I lie back, spread my thighs, and slide my hand down my stomach.
The first touch against my clit makes me gasp, my back arching off the bed. I'm so sensitive, so worked up, that even my own touch feels overwhelming. I start with slow circles, trying to ease into it, but my body has other ideas.
I'm already picturing him. The stranger. His dark eyes that looked almost black in the dim bar light. His strong jaw covered in just enough stubble to be sexy without being rough. Those hands… Fuck, those hands, big and callused and so confident as they touched me.
My fingers move faster, pressing harder.
I remember his voice. Low and rough, with that hint of gravel that made my knees weak. The way he said *you're so fucking wet* like it was the hottest thing he'd ever experienced. The way he groaned when I pressed against him, when he felt my breasts against his chest.
"Oh God," I whimper, my free hand coming up to palm my breast, squeezing.
I think about his fingers inside me. How he'd added a third, stretching me, filling me in a way Derek never did. How he'd curled them just right, hitting that spot that made me crumble. How he'd kept going even when someone walked in, thisdangerous edge to the whole thing that should have terrified me but instead made me wetter.
My hips buck against my hand, chasing the orgasm that's been building since the moment he first touched me.
And then I think about what I didn't let happen. What I ran from.
His cock. I felt it against my stomach, thick and hard and straining against his jeans, and God, I wanted it. Wanted to unzip his pants and free him. Wanted to drop to my knees and take him in my mouth, taste him, feel the weight of him on my tongue. Wanted to suck him until he groaned my name, except he doesn't know my name any more than I know his.
The anonymity makes it hotter somehow.
I add two fingers, pushing inside myself, trying to replicate what he did. It's not the same. My fingers are smaller, the angle is wrong, but I'm so wet that it doesn't matter.
I imagine him bending me over that stall. Pulling my panties down completely. Freeing his cock and sliding into me with one hard thrust. I imagine him grabbing my hips, using me, fucking me against the cold metal until I forgot everything. Forgot Derek, forgot Jessica, forgot the wedding that didn't happen and the humiliation that did.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I pant, my fingers moving frantically now.
I think about his body. The solid muscle I felt through his flannel. The strength in his hands. The way he moved on the dance floor, confident and in absolute control. I imagine all that power focused on me, on making me come, on taking his pleasure from my body.
My thumb finds my clit again, pressing hard, and suddenly I'm right there.
"Oh God, oh God, yes—"
The orgasm hits me like a freight train. My whole body goes rigid, my pussy clenching around my fingers as waves of pleasure crash through me. I bite down on my lip to keep from screaming, my free hand fisting in the comforter, my toes curling.
It goes on and on, aftershocks making me twitch and gasp, and the whole time I'm seeing his face. His dark eyes. His knowing smile.
Finally, it ends. I collapse back against the pillows, sweaty and boneless and completely wrung out.
For about thirty seconds, I feel amazing. Sated. Relaxed.
Then reality crashes back in.
"What the hell am I doing?" I whisper to the stained ceiling.
I just arrived in this town yesterday. Yesterday. And I'm already getting into trouble with a man I don't even know. A player who probably fingers a different woman every weekend. A stranger who I let touch me in a bar bathroom like I have no self-respect whatsoever.
Did I learn nothing from Derek? From Jessica? From the spectacular implosion of my entire life?
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, making me jump. I reach for it, my hand still shaky from my orgasm, and see Mom's name on the screen.
Shit.
