Page 48 of Mayfly

I feel weightless as I fill Jude’s ass, and I continue pumping until I'm forcing my cum back out again.

I pull out, and drip on the floorboards as I get Jude's phone.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

With a smirk, I ignore him and swipe open the camera. Then I film my cum slowly trickling out of him to pool on the desk.

My eyes blink open, and a deep, throbbing pain has them contentedly closing again.

I’m on my stomach, on top of the quilt, with my head turned towards the door. In the dark, I reach my hands out to both sides, searching for Curren. But he’s not there.

I open my eyes again and try searching the room, but the slithers of light creeping in from around the door frame are no help.

Certain that I hear the shower running, I look behind me but give up immediately because it hurts. Everything hurts. My neck, my thighs, my back.

Pulling myself to the other side of the bed, I reach down to my suitcase, and feel around in the inside pocket until I find my laptop.

Still lying on my stomach, I rest my chin on my forearm and start it up. The initial brightness makes me squint, but it doesn't last long. And sure enough, just like I knew it would be, there’s a cryptic email from Issak waiting for me.

Six am tomorrow. Royal Victoria docks. Further information to come.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mumble under my breath because that’s literally where I flew into this morning before spending an hour in London’s temperamental peak-hour traffic. Traipsing back to the other side of the city is the last thing I want to do, and my battered body has nothing to do with it.

I’ve taken down men with cracked ribs, and helped secure control of our embassy during a siege in Sudan with a broken jaw. Hell, I went to school with a collapsed lung from one of dad’s more severe beatings when I was eleven. It's been well established by now that pain is not the issue. I just don’t want to move.

From the bed.

From the suite.

From wherever Curren is.

The bathroom door opens and the room floods with light. Closing my laptop, I shuffle back towards the other side of the bed while looking at Curren.

The pure white hotel towel is wrapped low on his hips. His dark brown waves are wet. And standing there—lit from behind by fluorescent lights with shadows down his front—he looks like a demon.

“Do you ever take that off?” I ask of the necklace still hanging around his neck. He shakes his head and sits beside me. Light as a feather, he runs his fingers from behind my knee to my thigh, and all the way to my shaved head. “You didn’t put your gloves back on.”

Ignoring me, he leans down and kisses the side of my face. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore, but good… Did you clean up the room while I was asleep?”

“Na, I got the room service chick to come back and do it. She wanted to call an ambulance, but I paid her to keep quiet.”

“Why do I feel like that’s something you would do?”

“Because it’s something I would do,” he says matter-of-factly. “I want a copy of that video."

"I deleted it."

"No you didn't."

"What's your number?"

"I'll give you an email."

"Anemail? Oryouremail?"

"Does it matter?"

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