Page 26 of Changed Plan

And he’s massaging an incredibly right spot with every measured thrust.

The telltale pressure builds, but then my release just suddenly floods out of me. It isn’t a ground-shaking orgasm, but the relief is complete. Holy shit. He just made me squirt for the second time. I’ve definitely never done that more than once with anyone.

“That’s my girl,” he says in a self-assured tone.

“I’d be mad at you for being so proud of yourself if not for the fact that I’m proud of you, too.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“If I had some gold star stickers, I’d put five on your forehead.”

“You’d be rewarding the wrong head.” His voice tickles my ear again, making me writhe beneath him. “Spread your legs wider, and let me treat this five-star pussy like I own it.”

Sir! As if you don’t own it for real right now.

My abductors are overworked to the point of feeling gelatinous, but I manage to open my legs a little more for him. The compliance is as symbolic as the request, but I feel it in my hips nonetheless.

His rough treatment doesn’t last long before his orgasm locks his muscles and spawns a sheen of sweat over his body, leaving his breath ragged and his hair damp. Sweet goddess, he’s gorgeous.

“You’re going to need new sheets.”

“I’ll call for housekeeping. And then we’ll get out of here and go find something to eat so we don’t have to face them.”

“Just have the sheets dropped off. We can remake the bed.”

“Deal. How about room service so we don’t have to get dressed for food?”

“Perfect. I don’t even care what you order as long as it comes with dessert, too. And wine.”

“Damn. Give a woman six orgasms, and she’ll take a mile.”

“It was not six. And there was way more than one inch involved.”

He smiles at me in a way that makes me want to avert my eyes. “Like I said, I don’t care what you order, but the cake needs to be chocolate. And the wine needs to be red and not sweet. I’m taking another shower.”

“Should the pasta have red sauce or white?”

“Red. And it should be chicken parm.”

“Salad?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I have to save room for cake.”

Standing in this shower for the second time today, my nerves are as rattled as they were the first time. How can the man in that bed be the same person as the one who followed me through the airport with that goofy optimistic grin on his face until I agreed to let him buy me coffee?

More importantly, how have I gone from trying to lose him to squirting on his face and his dick in less than twenty-four hours? I don’t think I’ve ever misjudged someone so badly in my life.

And to be clear, I’m talking about me. I thought I knew myself . . . but he’s not my type at all.

I mean, the man in that bed is absolutely my type, but a man who fucks like that isn’t the kind of guy who laughs it off when you spill coffee on his shoes and buys you dinner and breakfast and gifts, and vacates his hotel room to give you space.

Only assholes are that good in bed, right?

I need that to be true because otherwise, I may have shot down way too many decent guys and cheated myself out of way too many orgasms. And laughs and great conversations. All that time I spent telling myself I had to focus on my career. No time for a relationship. Love ’em and leave ’em guys were the right fit. The more emotionally unavailable, the better.

I’m not saying I regret all those guys. Some of them were funny, and we had a good time together. But I’m curious now about a few of the guys I refused to spend any time with.

What about that copier repair guy who used to find a reason to stop by my office every time we had to call him out? He was cute. And sweet.

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