The brunette’s hand twists around my hard length in a perfect rhythm, and she takes me deep into the back of her throat. I hiss out afuckagainst the slick heat of the blonde’s pussy, the taste of her and whiskey lingering on my tongue.
For a second, I almost hear Jordan’s moans—her voice, not theirs. The thought hits like cold air, sharp and unwanted. I shove it away with a firm slap to the blonde’s ass.
This isn’t about them. It was never about them.
It’s about forgettingher, just for one stupid night.
I grip the blonde’s cheeks with both hands and flickmy tongue against her clit, years of practice in the art of eating pussy, making her cry out, cursing. It’s fucking music to my drunken ears.
The thoughts finally go numb, andfuck, it feels good.
I hadn’t planned on getting a hotel room or bringing back two women. But they were both hot, and between the flirting, the short dresses, and the way they were practically begging to come back with me—hell, habits kicked in. Before I knew it, I was flirting back, smiling, lying through my teeth. Told them my name was Daniel and that I was in New York on business.
One text to my hotel manager, and the Owner’s Suite was ready by the time we arrived. Perks of having your name on the building.
It’s easier this way. No selfies. No NDAs. No worries about tomorrow.
They know who I am. They always do. It’s why they approach me. Why they say yes. Why they don’t think twice about fucking a stranger in a hotel room after knowing nothing more than my name, even when it’s not the one I gave them.
But I don’t care. That’s one of the advantages of being Matthew Grayson. I get to come down one girl’s throat while her friend comes on my face, and no one asks for a thing. No awkward mornings. No numbers. No expectations.
And honestly, I can’t think of a better way to end a Saturday night.
Even if I’ll wake up tomorrow and go home to an empty penthouse. One where the only person who knows where I keep my personal things is Maggie, my housekeeper.
And Jordan.
Goddammit. Stop thinking about her.
But even as I tell myself not to, I picture her laugh. Her smooth, tanned skin. The smell of her perfume. Swear to God it’sherlips around my cock.
I blink, trying to get a grip.
My phone dings beside my head, vibrating against the sheets, and my gaze flicks briefly toward it.
Jordan
I need to talkto you.
I almost laugh.She’s getting married, not texting you, dumbass.
I must be drunk out of my mind.
I push a finger inside the blonde, warm, tight, and dripping, savoring the way she rolls her hips and arches her back, letting out a breathy moan. Her friend’s nails graze my balls, her mouth releasing me with a wet pop before her tongue drags slowly up my length.
Holy shit.
This is hot as hell. Whiskey’s the only reason I’m still going.
I refocus, locking in on the perfection hovering above me, determined to give them both a night they’ll never forget. Because one thing’s for damn sure:
I always,always, make a woman come.
I groanas sunlight slices through the curtains, stabbing straight into my skull.Jesus fuck, did we really not close those last night?
My brows pinch as I squint, rolling over to grab my phone, only to come face-to-face with the sleeping brunette. I don’t even know her name.
She’s pretty. Killer body. Reminds me of Jordan.
