Page 55 of Sinful Beauty

My eyes close, lost in the exquisite sensations. Silk. Heat. Pressure. He slaps down over my sated bundle of nerves in time with his thrusts, re-igniting me. My body joins in, squeezing him, rocking against him.

“We.” Thrust. “Are.” Thrust. “Most definitely.” Thrust. “Waking.” Thrust. “Together.” Thrust. “Again.”

I can feel him thickening inside me. My body is on edge. Tight. Waiting to feel the pulsing sensation. So close to joining him.

And then he’s no longer in me and I’m flipped on my back. Perspiration coats his brow and chest. His jaw and neck are flushed. He reaches for the bedside, rips a condom open, rolls it on, and finds his place over me. Only this time, instead of my legs slung over his shoulders like last night, he spreads my thighs and covers my body with his. With each thrust, the pressure from gliding inside me massages my clit. If he weren’t trapping my thighs with his weight, I would wrap my legs around him and hold him as close as possible.

My fingers brush through his hair and eyes the color of the sea drown me. We move together as closely as two people can, in a dance with perfected choreography. I’m falling for him. I shouldn’t, but I am.

My fingers trace the lines of his back, the curve of his buttocks. My release takes me by surprise, brought over the edge by our movement, by the intimacy, by him. His back arches and he groans and his eyelashes flutter. He’s lost in the moment, out of control, and it’s breathtaking to see.

He collapses over me and I hold his sweaty form tight.

But as he regains his breath, he pushes up, smashes his lips noisily against mine, and says, “Stay here.”

He heads to the loo. I roll to my side and watch the snow as I listen to the sounds he makes. The flush. The sink. Bare feet thumping the tile and then the wood. The mattress sinks with his weight and I’m pulled against him.

“I’ll check the weather forecast. If another system is coming through, would you like to come back?”

Obviously, I want to come back. I want to live here.

If we make this regular thing, we’ll become careless. That’s what happens to criminals. To those breaking laws. You become lax. Believe you’re invulnerable. But there’s no such thing. To be human is to live in a constant state of vulnerability. The individual awareness of our precariousness varies amongst us, but the reality does not.

“We have to be careful. No one from work can know.”

“As often as you bring that up, you make me think you truly love working for Peltz the Putz.”

I snort. He’s not the first to apply that phrasing, but it’s funny hearing it from Tristan Wagner’s lips.

“He’s not that bad. He gives me room to grow. Responsibility.”

“You mean he offloads his work onto you?” His teeth sink into my shoulder playfully.

“He’s a good one to work for.” I might sound a tad defensive, but I’m being real. I’ve had a lot of bosses, and he’s a good one. Fair. Reasonable.

“Aren’t you looking to leave?”

“Only because I question if upward mobility is a realistic option.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

My fingers scrape the rough growth along his jaw. “I’m not Swiss. EU citizenship works, but if you watch who they promote, the promotions in the Geneva office are usually Swiss.”

“If you were to leave, where would you go?”

“I’ve applied to countless places. Mostly in France or Portugal. Some in Great Britain, but again, citizenship makes me a more challenging hire.”

“Have you considered applying for Swiss citizenship?”

“It’s expensive.”

“Graeme should have taken care of that for you years ago. You’ve been working there for how long?”

“Eight years.”

“When we get back, I can have a lawyer take care of it.”

“I’m not sure that’s what I want.” How wonderful it must be to live in his bubble where everything is solved with a phone call.

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