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I can feel my orgasm approaching, the edge teasing me, just beyond reach, and he pulls away from my lips, his teeth digging into my shoulder as he bites down, the pain giving to pleasure, his hand squeezing my wrists. He’s still fucking me, hard, his hips moving faster, deeper, his cock thrusting into me, hitting me deep.
“Oh my god, James,” I moan helplessly, bucking against him, my body rocking beneath his. I am so close, so close, and it’s building, building, building, and I moan again, and he slams into me, so hard I gasp.
I’m coming. The orgasm is so strong it’s almost painful, my body arching and bucking against him as if it’s the only thing that will keep me from floating off into the atmosphere, never to be found again.
He keeps going, and I don’t know how he’s keeping up the pace, my orgasm taking me away, and he’s pounding into me, harder and harder and faster, and then he’s coming hard, his cock swelling and pulsing inside me as he comes, groaning, his breath hot and raspy.
“Fucking hell,” he whispers, his thumb tracing my lips as he pulls out of me, his eyes burning into mine.
Fucking hell is right.
I can’t believe that happened.
I lie there as he relaxes beside me, the sound of our breath competing with the drumming of my heart, and I wait for the shame to hit, for the guilt and regret, that I just had sex with James. He’s barely a friend and definitely a colleague, and I know that if anyone found out, I’d probably be fired. Hell, maybe James would be fired too—who knows—especially after Monica warned me.
I should have stayed in my room, I should have tried to fall asleep, but instead I just had the best sex of my life.
And you know what? I don’t regret a thing.
As long as it doesn’t happen again.
But then James reaches out and gently pushes a strand of hair off my sweaty face, and I know in the deepest part of me…
It’s going to happen again.
Ten
JAMES
It’s nearly six when Laila finally responds to my text. For a moment I thought she had left me in Oslo and gone back to the house. I wouldn’t have been surprised.
Then again, I was surprised when she invited me to have dinner with her. I can’t seem to figure this woman out. But I never really could.
The text just has an address and says to meet her there in twenty minutes.
Luckily I’m back in the city center, after having explored the Viking museum and strolled around the harbor, and the wine bar isn’t far.
I hate to admit it, but I’m a bit nervous. I shouldn’t be. Thus far I’ve enjoyed being in Laila’s company, even when she’s reminding me of how things imploded between us or rolling her eyes when I try to pay her a compliment. But when she’s nice, fuck, it’s like the sun peeking out of the clouds on those dreary days. You know the sun won’t last, but it doesn’t stop you from basking in it for a while.
The thing is, I want something from Laila, and I’m not even sure what it is. It’s nothing serious—I’ve learned my lesson there and almost repeated that very same mistake with her. And while a lot of what I feel for her is sexual—my dick has a mind of its own while in her vicinity—there’s something else. Friendship, maybe. I just don’t know if it’s possible to be friends with someone after you’ve slept with them and want to sleep with them again, let alone after they’ve decided to hate your guts.
The wine bar is narrow and easy to miss. She’s managed to snag the sole window seat looking onto the street, though when I pass by her and give a wave, she can barely muster a smile. It’s not that she’s mad at me either; there’s sadness in her eyes, a look that makes my heart pinch.
I go inside the bar, the warmth and smell of mulled wine and fried fish overtaking me, and hang my coat up on the rack by the small table. It’s definitely an intimate spot, two seats beside each other looking out onto the street, and I have to fight the urge to lean down and kiss her on the cheek, like we’re out on a date.
I sit down next to her, smelling the jasmine scent of her perfume. “You got the best seat in the house. You charm them with your feminine wiles?”
She lets out a mirthless laugh. “I have no wiles today.”
That certainly isn’t true. She’s wearing a sweater that makes her breasts look stupendous, and I have muscle memory of running my hands and lips and tongue over them, knowing how heavy they feel in my palm, knowing what to do to her nipples so that she’s breathing out my name.
God, we had it good, didn’t we?
I avert my eyes before she can catch me staring at her chest again. I got away with it in the car, but now things feel different, like we’re on rocky ground.
“It was the only seat available,” she goes on, flipping over the thin menu. “Got it just in time.”
I see what she’s saying. She wouldn’t have asked to be seated so close to me. Laila is tall for a girl, maybe five ten, and she’s all hips and curves. I’m six foot three and have swimmer’s shoulders, so a seat like this is a tight fit. Far more intimate than she’d like, but it’s perfect for me.
