Her pussy clenched around me like a fist, pulsing hard as she came. The rhythmic squeeze, the gush of fresh slickness, the way her whole body arched and trembled beneath me—it pushed me straight over the edge.
I buried myself deep and came with a guttural groan, hips jerking as I spilled inside her in heavy pulses. The pleasure was blinding, intense, every muscle in my body tightening as I filled her.
We stayed locked together for a long moment, panting, our bodies slick with sweat. The only sounds left in the room were our ragged breathing and the faint sounds of me still buried inside her.
Finally, I pulled back just enough to look down at her flushed, satisfied face—her lips swollen from kissing, her hair wild against the green felt, eyes half-lidded and glowing.
“This game room hasn’t seen this kind of action before,” I said, my voice still wrecked.
She laughed, the sound light and breathless. “I should hope not.”
I eased out of her slowly, and she made a soft sound that almost made me hard again. I found my boxer briefs on the floor, pulled them on, and went to the mini fridge in the corner for two waters.
When I came back, she was sitting up on the felt, legs dangling, wearing nothing but my black T-shirt. It hit her mid-thigh, and she’d pushed the sleeves up past her elbows.
Something locked into place. A dead bolt turning. The kind of sound you couldn’t undo.
“I have a pool table at my place,” I said.
She took the water from my hand. “You’re not serious.”
“I’m always serious.” I leaned against the table next to her, close enough that her bare knee pressed against my hip. “I also have takeout menus and a bed. In case the pool table loses its novelty.”
Her head tipped against my shoulder. A small, deliberate weight.
“The pool table will never lose its novelty.”
“Good.” I pressed my mouth to the top of her head. Her hair smelled like vanilla. “Come home with me, and we’ll try it out.”
She laughed—quiet, real, nothing performed about it—and I felt it vibrate through my ribs.
I’d spent fifteen years refusing to say things I didn’t mean.
Come home with mewas the truest thing I’d ever said.
5
SAYLOR
Iwoke up in Maddox Vale’s bed with the Pleasure Valley skyline filling the floor-to-ceiling windows and my phone vibrating against his nightstand.
Three texts from Dennis. One from Tasha. A calendar reminder for a ten a.m. client call I was going to have to take from somewhere that wasn’t the twenty-fifth floor of Reboot Condominiums.
Maddox was still asleep. Face half-buried in the pillow, one arm stretched across the space where I’d been lying. The sheet had slipped to his waist and the morning light was catching every line of ink across his chest and shoulders. His breathing was slow, steady, unguarded. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept well in weeks and had finally stopped fighting it.
My chest tightened looking at him.
I picked up my phone. Tasha’s text was two lines.
Checking in on Juniper intake. Let’s debrief when you’re in today.
The ache turned to ice.
I slid out of bed, found my clothes folded on the chair where he’d set them last night—my skirt, my blouse, my underwear—and dressed in his bathroom with the door closed. The mirror gave me back a woman with swollen lips and mascara smudged under one eye.
What did you do?
I knew exactly what I’d done. I’d slept with my client. The first real account I’d ever been trusted with—not because I’d earned it, but because everyone else was busy.
