Page 94 of The Unfluencer

Heat sears inside me, the overachiever in me taking over. She’s so damn beautiful as she trembles in my mouth, her hands twisted in the comforter, stomach muscles coiled tight, gasping for air.

I stroke myself, aching to be inside her.

I’ve never wanted anything so bad in my life, but I want her to finish first. I’m barely hanging on.

And then she lets go, whimpering and breathlessly beautiful, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she looks at me.

“A-plus-plus.” She giggles.

It’s all I need to hear.

In a blur of desperate need, I climb up, hovering over her and centering myself between her quivering thighs. Whitney opens for me, arching, slowly taking me whole. The swells of her breasts press, nipples hard, against my chest. I’m careful not to hurt her as she meets every urgent, addictive stroke. But it’s never enough. I crave every soft breath on her neck and tiny gasp in my ear. Every twisted fist in my hair. Like her puzzles, we’re a million pieces fitting together, creating a bigger picture that’s perfectly ours. Playful, delicious friction, happiness, the meaningful thrill of choosing each other.

“I’m in too,” she says.

I come apart in a rush of shivers and uneven breaths, turning us so she’s stretched out over me, and I’m grinning like a fool. Maybe I do hold on tight to people. But shouldn’t that be okay if they’re holding on just as tight?

It’s okay to be happy.

“When we get home…” I’m still catching my breath, searching her bright eyes, realizing how much I miss being a couple, having my person, loving how good those words sounds. When we get home.

It strikes me right between the ribs how much I want it again. A chance to do it right this time. With Whitney. Love. Marriage. A family to come home to. To hold tightly.

She tucks herself into my side, snuggling into me. “Yeah?”

“Next weekend is the Founders & Benefactors Legacy Ball,” I say. “I’d love if you came with me…”

“Of course.”

I take a deep breath then add, “As my girlfriend.”

She peeks up at me, her dark curls a mess all over her head, lower lip trapped between her teeth. “Are you calling me your girlfriend?”

“Yes, if you want to be.”

Breath lodges in my throat as I wait for her answer.

Whitney nods, wordlessly, tears streaking her eyes, letting me coax out her yes with my lips.

It’s the first of many more on this trip.

I earn another one the following morning in the storage building after she inventories the art, verifying the authenticity and condition while I shamelessly try to distract her every five minutes with food runs and chaste kisses during her market-value research to complete her valuations. Two more that afternoon. First on my yacht, with her smooth, rich brown skin cast in Caribbean sunlight, her legs stretched along the foredeck, linking with mine in our birthday suits, writhing beneath me and a seafoam-blue sky that she swore looked like it was airbrushed by God. Then in the theater later that night, before we packed and she fell asleep with her soft breaths lulling me.

Monday morning, by the time we land at home in Ellswood, and my car pulls along the curb in front of her house, I can’t handle her nos.

“It’s not too late to come home with me.”

Please stay.

Sweetly, Whitney kisses me, already one foot out the door, and it’s killing me to let her go.

“I’m going to call you as soon as I get inside. And then we’ll see each other tonight for dinner after you run into the office, right?”

Pressing a soft kiss to her lips, I hum my agreement. “You’re right.”

Not even trying to hide that I’m prolonging our goodbye, I’m about to exit the car when my foot hits a rigid surface in my bag on the floor.

“One sec,” I say, bending to pull it onto the seat beside me. “I saw this in a bookstore the Sunday before the trip. Just a little something. Thought you might enjoy.” Finally, I hand her the coffee table book.