Page 54 of Tips and Trysts

Beaming from the anticipation of fucking Cora raw, I tug my undershirt over my head and fling it across the room.

“Jesus Christ,” Cora blurts out, taking a step back and pressing her hand against her bare chest. “Why—seriously, for what fucking purpose—do you need a body that looks likethat?”

I glance down at my shirtless torso and back at her. “I just look like this.”

Her expression is incredulous. “Nobody justlookslike that.”

“My diet is clean, I bike every day, and I hike.” I drum my fingers on my abdomen and grin. “You like it?”

“You’re definitely gatekeeping something. Blood sacrifices, I bet,” she replies before she’s back on me, skin against skin. “I need you inside me.”

Her hand slips into my boxer briefs and wraps around my cock, giving me a warm palm and a firm grip. She begins at the base and gives me an upward stroke.

I’ve waited so long for this.

Cora handles a cock like a woman confident in her prowess. I love it, really. Confidence. Eagerness. She touches me like she’s about to use my dick as one of her toys—and I’m more than willing to let her.

She moans before she gives me another stroke, bringing her hand from the base to the tip of my cock—and she freezes.

And I do too.

…Shit.

Typically, I don’t make mistakes.

I’m renowned for preparation. Measure. That renown doesn’t come from thin air; it comes from a near-sterling track record of coordination and organization. I have contingencies for contingencies. Strategies. It’s the way I was trained—the way I was bred.

…but I admit, I didn’t think this part through.

Horrified, Cora releases my cock. She takes a step back from me, looks down, and her jaw plummets.

“Princess,” I begin, watching her carefully and willing her to listen—to give me a shot to fix this. “I can explain—”

But Cora shakes her head and her eyes travel upwards. When they lock onto mine, her glare is nothing short of rage—and betrayal.

“When the fuck did you pierce your dick?” she shouts.

Eighteen

CORA

“I’m going to bestraight with you,” Everett says while he shoves his cock—hispiercedcock—back into his boxer briefs. “This isn’t remotely close to how I saw this going.”

While I tug my robe back on, I catch a glimpse of the gold ball end on the underside of his cock head. The prickly feeling of a three am nightmare scatters down the stretches of my arms, and my legs have gone airy as if the floors have lost their firmness.What the fuck.

“Please say something,” he urges, taking a step closer.

My hand flies up, the first action I’ve managed in an entire minute. “How did you expect this to go?”

Everett swallows and lets his shoulders slump. “I don’t want to say.”

I know the answers. I do. I know the answer to everything I’m about to ask because it’s my thing: I understand why people behave the way they do. Every word—every movement—is a cue I read like a second language. For most of my life, it was survival. Manipulation, obfuscation—I needed them to convincemy parents I was the model daughter they wanted. But all that time, I was a liar. I swore I would never be a liar again.

Lo and behold, I went and fell for one. I fell so hard for him.

“Don’t I deserve the truth?” I reply, hating the quiver at the end of my sentence.

“I didn’t—”

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