Page 19 of The Boyfriend Goal

But he doesn’t give it to me. He takes his sweet time, fucking into me slowly, inch by inch, then easing out. After he’s done that four or five times, I’m panting and begging.

“Wesley,” I moan, needy.

“Yes, baby?”

“Harder,” I demand.

“Ah, that’s right. You wanted a good, hard fucking tonight,” he says, then he slams into me.

I cry out from the intensity. “Oh fuck.”

He stills. “Okay?”

“That was a good oh fuck,” I say, my breath already shallow.

He grips my ass tighter and drives into me, his hips flush against mine, then eases out again. Making me ache for more. Making me beg.

“Please,” I gasp.

He sinks into me again, filling me till there’s no room left. Then he covers me with his body, his chest to my back, his arm banding around my tits. His mouth against my neck. His teeth nipping at my flesh.

It’s intimate the way he’s holding me, and aggressive the way he’s using me. I feel held and used all at once, and it’s so damn good. This is a kind of hard, rough sex I didn’t know I was into.

But it turns out, I am.

I’m clawing at the sheets as he pounds into me. I’m moaning and gasping. He’s grunting and cursing. My cells light up with each thrust. When I’m close, obviously close, he lets go of my tits, moves that hand up the back of my neck and into my hair.

He tugs on some strands, and that’s it. It sends me over the cliff. My brain blanks out. It goes offline as my body shakes.

The orgasm hurtles through me, a burst of pleasure and light and fire. I’m calling his name as he drives into me, then stills, jerks and groans for days.

Another slow pump. Another moan. Then he slumps over me, brushes my hair from my neck, and presses a tender kiss there.

He’s somehow filthy and sweet. And the way he fucks me is the best welcome to San Francisco ever.

A little later, we’re cleaned up and in bed, flicking through the channels, but finding nothing exciting to watch. Since, well, it’s regular TV.

I’m not sure how this works—hotel sex. Do we stay the night? It’s not even midnight. It’s eleven. And the day feels like it’s been ninety-six hours long and I’m tired, but I haven’t had dinner, even though the ice cream was real good. My stomach speaks up, growling.

Rude bitch.

He laughs. “You hungry, Josie?”

“That’s a yes.”

“Let’s get some food.”

I frown. “Do I have to get dressed?”

He scoffs. “No way.”

Soon, we’re dining on sushi in bed from a nearby restaurant, and he’s telling me about his favorite cafés in the city and the best place to get a latte, and I tell him about the places I want to see. But we don’t trade numbers. Or last names. We don’t say I’d love to see you again. And we don’t make plans.

Still, there’s one very important thing I want to say. My aunt gave me a list of the top things she’s never regretted, and since I’ve finally started tackling the items on the list, and making them my own, it seems right to let number one know how I feel. I draw a soldiering breath then say, “That thing I wanted to do?”

He adopts a perplexed look. “What would that be?”

I swat his biceps. “Have a one-night stand with a sexy stranger.”