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“That was incredible,” I managed to mumble, still catching my breath.
“You’re incredible,” Oliver replied, his voice filled with admiration.
“I want to go home,” I stated, feeling a sudden desire for the comfort of our own space.
“You have guests,” he reminded me, a hint of reluctance in his tone.
“Can’t Trevor take them home? Speaking of guests, where are Ivan and Wilmer?” I inquired, curious about their whereabouts.
“I left them at Zapata with a complimentary bottle of Patron. They won’t miss me,” Oliver explained casually, his focus clearly on me.
“I want you again,” I confessed, unable to resist the pull of desire.
“That can be arranged,” he replied, his voice husky with anticipation.
Oliver latched onto my neck, leaving a trail of kisses and sucking gently.
“Stop it, I’m gross. I danced for almost an hour,” I protested weakly, feeling self-conscious about my sweaty state.
“You’re sexy and beautiful. I can’t resist you,” he whispered, his breath hot against my skin.
“Seeing how your penis is still inside me, I believe that to be true,” I teased, a hint of amusement in my voice.
He held me close for a few more minutes, his touch gentle as he caressed the sweaty skin of my back. Eventually, he shrank and slipped out of me, and I climbed off him, feeling the warmth of his semen coating my inner thighs. With a flick of a small lamp attached to the wall above the couch, Oliver illuminated the dimly lit room, casting a soft glow over us.
“Now I’m really a mess,” I sighed, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and exhaustion.
“I warned you. I have some wet wipes in the desk,” Oliver offered casually.
Turning towards the corner of the room, I spotted a large wooden desk with a computer sitting on it. I padded over and pulled open the middle drawer, finding a full package of wet wipes.
Popping open the top, I removed several wipes and began cleaning my thighs and between my legs. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it would have to do for now. Depositing the used wipes in a small black plastic garbage can by his desk, I turned to see Oliver lounging on the couch, watching me with a relaxed expression.
“Aren’t you getting dressed?” I asked, feeling self-conscious under his gaze.
“I love the view,” he replied, his eyes lingering on me appreciatively.
“I’m a sweaty mess. I bet my mascara makes me look like a raccoon,” I grumbled, feeling insecure about my appearance.
“A sexy raccoon. I don’t care, sweetheart. I love you no matter what,” he assured me, his words melting away my insecurities.
Retrieving my panties and bra from the floor, I quickly slipped them on while Oliver lazily pulled on his boxers. We dressed in comfortable silence, and I wished there was a mirror in the room so I could check my hair.
“Ready?” Oliver asked once we were both dressed.
“I look like crap,” I admitted, feeling less than confident about my appearance.
“Nonsense. It doesn’t matter how you look; it matters how you feel,” he countered, his voice filled with warmth and affection.
“Fantastic with all the endorphins and alcohol running through my system,” I replied with a weak smile.
Oliver took my hand and led me out through the hidden door, reaching back to flick the lock and pushing the panel closed behind us. As we walked up the stairs to the VIP lounge, I noticed a few people staring at us curiously. My friends and Brenda and Trevor were waiting for us.
“Ryleigh doesn’t feel well,” Oliver lied smoothly.
“What’s wrong?” Lisa asked, concern evident in her voice.
“My stomach. I should’ve gone easy on the rum,” I improvised, hoping my friends would buy the excuse.
