Page 19 of About That One Night
I double my efforts, curling two of my fingers, and thrusting them into her pussy. My tongue working her relentlessly. Then, I pull slightly a little and say, “Come for me, Zoe.” My voice commanding, rough with need. “Come for me now.”
With a final, desperate cry, she shatters, her body convulsing as waves of pleasure crash over her. I hold her tight, my mouth never leaving her, riding out her orgasm until she’s a trembling, boneless mess in my arms.
I pull back, looking up at her, my face slick with her arousal. “You’re incredible,” I whisper, my voice raw with emotion. “Absolutely fucking incredible.”
Chapter Ten
Zoe
We’re wrapped in towels,making our way silently to Max’s penthouse after he rescued my undergarments from the pool. My mind is racing, not only because he literally blew my mind, but also because I’m trying to figure out what this means for our friendship. The cool air and the lingering heat of what he did in the pool create a heady mix, leaving me both exhilarated and anxious.
We step into the elevator, and Maxswipes his key card. The doors close, and the elevator glides smoothly upward. When a bell dings, the doors open, we’re right in the foyer of his penthouse—fancy.
I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how exposed I feel. “Is there somewhere I can take a shower?” I ask, wanting a minute to myself.
“Of course, this way,” he says. He gives a quick command to a smart speaker and the lights come on at a comfortable, warm luminosity. We head through the primary bedroom, which is as luxurious as I expected, with sleek furniture and a view of the city lights that takes my breath away.
I follow him, still lost in my thoughts. What if this ruins things between us? What if it doesn’t? My stomach flutters with a mix of excitement and fear. He leads me to the bathroom, which is massive, with a rain showerhead and multiple jets around the walls. It’s luxurious, just like everything else in his life.
“And here we are,” he says, his voice soft but confident. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll grab a t-shirt and some sweats for you to change into.”
I take a moment to look around, my fingers trailing over the cool marble countertops. The bathroom is beautiful, with a large mirror that reflects my flushed cheeks and tousled hair. The rain showerhead looms directly above, promising a cascade of warmth and relaxation.
Max returns quickly, a soft t-shirt and a pair of sweats bundled in his arms. “Here you go,” he says, his voice low as he hands them to me. His eyes meet mine, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a small,hesitant smile. “I’ll take care of your wet clothes. Just leave them outside the door when you’re done.”
“Thanks, Max,” I say, my voice sounding steadier than I feel. My fingers brush against his as I take the clothes, sending a jolt through my body.
As I step into the shower, I let the hot water wash over me, hoping it’ll clear my head as easily as it rinses away the chlorine. But my thoughts are a whirlpool, circling back to the same questions over and over. What does this mean for our friendship? Can we go back to the way things were, or is this the start of something new?
I finish showering and dry off, slipping into the comfortable clothes Max provided. The shirt hangs loose on my frame, the neckline slipping off one shoulder, and the sweats pool around my feet. But they’re warm and soft, carrying a faint scent that’s unmistakably Max.
Emerging from the bathroom, I notice the enormous bed that looks even bigger than a king size. It dominates the room. The lack of personal photos strikes me, the walls devoid of any family pictures or snapshots of friends, adding to the sterile, impersonal feel of the place.
Following the faint clinking of utensils, I make my way toward the kitchen. The penthouse is spacious with a sleek, modern décor and an open floor plan that exudes sophistication. I pass by the living area, noting the immaculate arrangement of furniture and the stunning view of the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I wonder what he has on theupper floor, but that’s a question for later—if there’s ever a later.
When I reach the kitchen, I stop in my tracks. Max stands at the counter, wearing only a pair of sweats. His hair is still damp, and his back muscles ripple as he moves, catching the light in a way that makes my breath hitch. He’s focused on his task, and I watch as he expertly handles a knife, chopping vegetables with practiced ease.
The sight of him like this—relaxed, natural, and undeniably attractive—sends a warm shiver down my spine. It’s a contrast to the polished, controlled image he usually presents.
He turns slightly, catching sight of me. A slow smile spreads across his face. “Hey,” he says, his voice soft. “I thought you might be hungry, so I’m putting something together.”
I step into the kitchen, the scent of fresh ingredients mingling with the lingering aroma of his cologne. “Thanks,” I reply, my voice sounding steadier than I feel. “I really appreciate it.”
He gestures to a stool at the island. “Sit. Make yourself at home.”
I slide onto the stool, watching him work. “So, you actually know how to cook, huh?” I remark, trying to keep the conversation light despite the swirling thoughts in my head.
“Yeah, at some point eating takeout gets boring,” hestates.
I nod, my eyes drifting over his form, appreciating the way the sweats hang low on his hips, the way hismuscles flex with each movement. It’s a simple, domestic scene, but it feels incredibly intimate.
As he finishes up the salad, he places a plate in front of me and one across the island for himself. He sits down, and for a moment, we just look at each other, the air thick with tension or . . .
“Max . . .” I start, but I’m not sure how to continue.
“Yeah?” He looks at me expectantly. “Do we need to talk about what happened? Because I really didn’t like that you broke the rules. I mean, what happened to skinny dipping?”
He says it with such an exaggeratedly serious expression that I can’t help but laugh. The tension breaks, and I feel a weight lift off my shoulders.
