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Sighing heavily, I grab my phone from the nightstand and open my texts with Gus. Nothing.
Should I text him? Absolutely not. The last thing I need is written evidence of me crawling out of my skin while waiting for Gus Winter to come upstairs and take me.
I drop my phone face down on the nightstand and let out another exhale. The man must be a specter because I haven’t even heard him moving around the cabin.
Suddenly, mortification passes through me. Did he go to sleep? Did he seriously get into bed and go to sleep when there’s a hot, horny woman on the other side of the wall?
Did I completely misread all his cues?
I fling the sheets off and scoot out of bed. As quietly as I can, I tiptoe across the room and press my ear against our shared wall, straining to pick up sounds coming from his bedroom. There’s nothing but the buzz of the lightbulb in the sconce by my head. Not a footstep or a snore or even a deep breath.
Reality strikes me—I’m completely naked, eavesdropping through walls, frustrated because a man who made me fly to Montana isn’t beating down the door to get to me. Humbling doesn’t even cover it. With a deep inhale, like I can swallow my dignity in the air, I straighten my spine and push away from the wall.
I return to the bedroom area of the guest suite and crouch on the floor to dig through my suitcase. Tucked away in the bottom, in a discrete black satin pouch, is the answer to all my problems: battery powered, pink, silicone, and incapable of speech—my motherfucking vibrator.
Over the years, I’ve picked up some indispensable travel hacks. Global Entry, sleep masks, melatonin, ginger tea—I know all the tricks. My most groundbreaking discovery: Always travel with a sex toy.
Vacationing in another country in the winter when the clubs are closed? Break out the vibrator.
Stuck in Greece during the off season while horny and desperate, and thinking about hooking up with a skeevy shipping heir who will probably film you and show his friends? No, girl—use the vibrator.
And now: trapped in a cabin in a blizzard with an arrogant billionaire who literally haggled for your pussy instead of going through the trouble of, you know, winning you over, and then you made the grave mistake of inviting him to play more dumb games instead of just asking him to screw your brains out, and now your stupid pride is still keeping you from asking him to rearrange your organs? Vibrator.
The answer is always, always vibrator.
Triumphant, I practically flit back to the bed, dig into the kinkiest vault in my orgasm archive, and turn on the toy. The hum of the vibration fills the room. As usual, I lower the head to rest against the spot right above my clit. At once, relief spreads through me.
Normally, I would draw this out, but tonight my limbs are tight with tension. Luckily, the friction melts the tension away, casting a soft wave of pleasure over me. I replay the time I had sex with an Italian race car driver in a hammock in Sardinia—a time when I came so hard my voice was hoarse the next day. I mean, yes, perhaps my voice was hoarse because I had been partying nonstop for four straight days…but the guy had been pretty and at least had the decency to take off his watch while we were in the act.
Two minutes in, I’m trying to recall the way he licked a straight line from my collarbone to my bellybutton, but frustration creeps over me. This isn’t working.
Annoyed, I increase the setting on the vibrator. The toy is loud now—obnoxiously loud—to the point where it’s distracting. But even with the turbo settings on full blast, I still can’t get there.
It’s the race car driver’s fault. He was too damn selfish—and not even a particularly good driver.
Vibrator off.
I grip the sheets in exasperation. Undeterred, I try to recall the best hookup I’ve had in recent times, but nothing sticks. My memories are a blur of boring rich guys who I’ve never spoken to again—who now follow me on social media and occasionally slide into my direct messages because I didn’t bother to give them my number.
I blink and the low light of my room comes back into view. I’m about to resort to porn on my phone when my eyes lock on the nightstand next to the bed. It’s identical to the one in Gus’s bedroom and I wonder if he made it himself. I wonder if he went out and picked out the wood. Cut it. Sanded it. Screwed it all together or whatever the hell you do when you build a nightstand.
Then I wonder if he varnished it himself and carefully slid the little drawer in front into place. And when he did, I wonder if he knew he would one day store the panties he ripped off of my body in that drawer.
My heart skips when the memory of last night comes flooding back.
My pulse pounding. Gus chasing me.
His big hands yanking me away from the door.
His hand on my throat.
My bound wrists.
His lips on my ass.
His cum in my mouth.
My stomach leaps with an echo of excitement and suddenly we’re back in business. I place the vibrator onto my clit and oh yes this is exactly what I needed.
