Page 73 of Tips and Trysts

“Where are we going?”

“My place.”

“You didn’t have to pick me up.”

I glance at her. “You’re right. Tonight, you can scope out places to park your broomstick, and next time you visit, you can fly over.”

Her subsequent scoff is so sexy that I want to make it my ringtone. “You can suck my asshole,” she retorts.

Please. “That’s very much on the list of things I want to do to you tonight.”

Cora scoffs again, breaking the world record for hotness (her own record), and says, “You haven’t even asked if your performance tonight was compelling enough for me to fuck you, Everett.”

“You’re still wearing my cum,” I point out.

She doesn’t confirm, but she doesn’t deny it either. She rests her hand on my thigh, and her ring-covered fingers are a perfect contrast to my tailored suit pants. We look so fucking good together, I know. We don’t look like we should be together, and that’s what makes it delicious. Forbidden.

It’s going to be so good tonight. I know it. I can feel it.

“Shit,” I blurt out once I turn onto my street.

There are two news vans parked across from my house.

The Logan House has been in the family for generations. My great grandfather got it when he was in Congress under the guiseof having a place to spend the night, but he actually hosted his mistresses there. The house is in my name now, but anyone can find it.

I put the car in reverse and gun it back, racking my brain for what to do next. In the passenger seat, Cora watches the blur of cars and homes through the window as I peel to the main road. Her expression is solemn, maybe even disappointed.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, sighing past the tight frustration in my chest.

“It’s fine,” she replies.

“It’s not fine.”

“We can go back to the Halcyon.”

“Too risky. I can’t spend the night there.”

“You can drop me off and we could wait a few days.”

But waiting could rend me in two. I promised her excitement. Worship. I promised her everything, but I’m surreptitiously transporting her from one bedroom to the next.

Fuck it.

“Clothes off,” I order, briefly taking my eyes off the road to find her studying me. “Now.”

A familiar challenge rises in Cora’s expression. When she smiles, I know it’s on.

In typical Cora Flores fashion, she strips off her sweater without fanfare, but it’s still the most captivating series of motions I’ve seen all evening. Her eyes linger on me while she tosses the sweater onto my backseat. She stops there though, leaving her skirt around her waist below the band of her fishnets.

We reach a red light, and the faint glow casts over her body. She’s otherworldly, coated in red, nipples erect and topped with silver. Watching me, she tugs her skirt up and reveals theabsolutely nothingshe’s wearing under her fishnets.

Her pussy is puffy and presses against the webbing. The strings of netting dig into her lips, surrounding those piercingswith thin lines of black, and the sight is beyond tempting. I reach out and touch her, feeling the familiar velvet of her pussy. She’s wet. Ready.

When I grab at the crotch of her fishnets and rip them open, she’s not surprised. She just spreads her legs—game for it.

I plunge my fingers in and groan at how wet she is. “You’re a slut for this shit. Is your cunt wet from sucking my cock earlier?”

Cora nods, agreeable for once.

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