Page 71 of The Boyfriend Experience

Smiling, he backs up to the marble-field wall, leans into it, one leg bent, the other straight so his body is slanted just a little. Just enough so that when he says, “Come here,” and I do, and I reach him—he can lift one of my legs up, slide his full-erect cock inside me, and then grip the firm muscles of my ass and lift me up.

He holds me like that for so long—his gaze trained on mine—I start counting out loud for some reason. “One,” I say. “Two. Three—”

And when I get to three he drops me, just a little. Just enough so that his cock sinks so deep inside me, I can feel it—not just in my pussy, but in my gut. In my heart. In my soul.

“How?” I say.

He shrugs, like this question makes perfect sense, he just doesn’t have the answer.

“Does it matter?” he finally asks back.

And I decide… “No.”

It doesn’t.

CHAPTER TWENTY - LAWTON

I know what she wants to know. I just don’t feel like thinking too hard about it.

It’s insane. It’s stupid teenage love. It defies logic and therefore, it isn’t real. It’s the situation we’ve been thrown into. It’s the game. It’s Jordan Wells and Hanna Harlow. It’s Bronco Brews, and Rocky Mountain Millionaires, and Home TV, and Shrike Bikes, and that stupid Opera House tavern up in Golden.

It’s the leather jacket, and the Assassin Saison, and the water tower on the roof decorated in white lights.

It’s the lack of elevator security, it’s the view of her penthouse from my terrace, it’s the alley down below, and the tattoo on my arm covered in antibacterial plastic, and a lingering feeling inside me that…

We did something wrong.

We fucked this up.

Somehow, some way, we missed the most obvious clue.

And yet… it’s still the closest thing to perfection I’ve ever felt with a woman.

So does it matter? Does it matter that when I leave here and tomorrow comes—when I go back to work and take phone calls, and meetings, and show houses, and do paperwork—the fantasy will end?

Will the sting of tomorrow take away the sweetness of today?

That’s the question she’s asking.

And that’s the question I answer when I reaffirm and say, “No. It won’t.”

“Fuck me hard this time,” she says.

I smile.

“Just do it.”

I smile bigger.

“Fuck me like the world ends tonight. Fuck me like we’ll never fuck again. Fuck me like—”

I whirl around, pressing her back into the hard tiled wall of the shower, back my hips up so only the tip of my cock is inside her. And thrust forward.

Her fingernails dig into my bare shoulders, gripping them like she never wants to let go, and I pound her again. She leans her head down, mouth open, and bites me on the fleshy part of my arm. Just a quick nip. Like she needs to get my full attention even though she already has it. It needs to be complete. It needs to be all-consuming. It needs to belong to her and only her.

I thrust again. Then again, and again, and again. Giving her what she wants. Her bite becomes a kiss. Her fingernails find their way to my back. Dragging up and down, up and down, and I fuck her back and forth. Back and forth.

And then I change my tactics. Stopping completely.