Page 108 of Tips and Trysts

“Good boy,” she murmurs. “Look how well you take my fingers, baby boy.”

“More,” I grit. “Deeper.”

My body is at the tipping point, and when she presses the entire length of her slender fingers into me, my climax surges amid the vulgar sounds of us lost to our most carnal sides. The moans, the grunts, the screams—they surround me as I release inside of her, coming with reckless abandon while her fingers are buried in my asshole. It’s the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had, but I’m not ready to dwell on it.

I need to see her lose her mind like I did.

I wrap my other hand around her, finding her clit and her piercing. It only takes a few swipes before Cora cries out, coming while she’s filled to the brim with cock and fingers. Her pussy tightens around me, and the lean muscles in her back flicker and flex as she undulates, swirling her hips in ecstasy.

And then it’s quiet.

She’s moving gently, grinding her hips while she rides the fading embers of her climax, hands fixed on my knees. Eventually, she rolls off me, boneless.

I look over at the breathless, beautiful girl next to me. An eternity wouldn’t be long enough to catalog everything that makes her ethereal, but most important of all: She just gets me.

“You’re the best sex of my life, Cora Flores,” I say.

She snorts. “Same.”

“We’re probably going to want to do this for a while, aren’t we?”

“Awhile? I want to fuck you forever, Ev,” she murmurs.

The world stops.

Ev. Those two letters make me want to die with happiness, and my reaction is unprecedented. Getting into Princeton andlater graduating from Harvard Law School. Getting my job at the EPA. Collecting enough signatures to get on the ballot for the primary. None of those major life events, the things I once intertwined with my very worth, have come remotely close to Cora saying two letters.

Ev, the name used exclusively by my two best friends—the only people I ever loved before I met her.

I’m not Everett. Not congressman. Not Governor Logan’s son. Ev.

I’ve never been more excited to tip her. It takes me a minute to work my jeans up my legs, and when I do, there’s a tinge of sensation in my asshole—a tinge I don’t hate.

My hands are unsteady when I take the velvet box out of my pocket, but I try to hide it. She notices anyway because she’s Cora. She doesn’t comment, but she does rest her cheek against my pectoral, curling around me.

I peel back the lid on the velvet box and for a moment, I worry she’s going to hate it.

On the contrary, her eyes light up. “You didn’t,” she murmurs, touching the left one with the tip of her finger.

Relieved, I nod. “Can I put them on you?”

Cora lays next to me on the ground with her hair fanned around her. Her breasts are exposed, and her nipples are perky and attentive like her body knows what I’m about to do.

My hands are steady as I unscrew the ball ends of the barbell piercings in her nipples and remove them one by one, sliding the metal out with the same care the most precise artisans apply to their crafts. Then I insert the new ones.

When I’m done, Cora’s breasts are topped in gold—my gold: diamond-inset barbells with a curved, semi-circular adornment on the bottom sporting a dangling gold charm engraved with the letter E.

She loves them, she tells me. She even lets me rest my head against her chest and fiddle with them as we lay in a sleeping bag by the fire hours later.

“I want you to win,” she whispers, speaking into the silence of the forest. She doesn’t look at me when she says it.

I focus on the expanse of sky over us—the uninterrupted sprawl of the constellations. “Me too,” I admit. “My father told me to make a statement saying I didn’t know about your lies and you’re not the company I keep.”

Cora is quiet. I hadn’t told her this part. “Is he right?” she finally asks. “Would that help?”

“Most likely.”

“Is he mad at you?”

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