Page 92 of The Best Worst Mistake
“I need you,” I tell him, sliding his cock between my fist. “Now.”
He flips around on the bed and pushes himself into me, easily sliding in despite his size.
“Silas,” I groan into his ear as we start moving together, so slowly at first, while his breath hitches in his throat as he watches me come closer, not letting me come yet.
I push my hips into him, lifting and reaching for more of him to fill me with every push, as if I can’t get enough of him buried between my legs.
“Jules,” he groans.
“Si,” I moan back, my voice higher. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever fucking stop.”
“I’ve wanted you so long,” he tells me.
“Don’t. Stop,” I repeat in a jilted whisper, clasping his back and burying my face into his shoulder.
I can’t hang on another second and come first, moaning out his name, biting into his shoulder to stop myself.
“Fuck,” he moans into the crook of my neck, then kisses me hard as he comes too, letting everything go, shuddering back onto the mattress beside me, holding me tightly like he won’t let me go again. I kiss him, lighter this time, while we both spiral back down to earth from the high we’ve just ridden together.
He bites my neck gently, all fire dying down into a hazy smolder, nipping softly beneath my ear, sending another shiver of pleasure rocketing down my body, still pulsing with an orgasm so memorable that it’s going to be hard not to want this again in the next five minutes.
He kisses my shoulder, and finally my lips, like he can’t pull himself away, even though the climax has already taken place.
“Oh my God,” I tell him, closing my eyes. “We just—”
“Unless I’m dreaming,” he says weakly, as if all his energy has dissolved.
“This is what I dreamed about,” I tell him, in my hazy, post-sex glow, throwing one arm over my eyes and laughing. “When we were leaving Spain.”
He laughs, then turns to me. “Was it better than what we just did?”
“I don’t know if anything could be better than what we just did,” I tell him.
“I want to hear every detail of what your dream entailed,” he fires back, as he grabs a pillow to prop our heads up on. “Don’t leave anything out.”
“Tomorrow,” I murmur, suddenly feeling drowsy. “First thing in the morning.” I roll onto my side so Silas can wrap around me from behind. I don’t even want to open my eyes yet, but I’m not ready to exist outside this moment. I fight the sleep that threatens to come, threatens to finish everything that’s transpired here tonight into a new day. At some point, I fall asleep like that, with me feeling more safe, secure, and cherished than I have in a very long time.
* * *
At three a.m. I wake up needing a glass of water. I make my way into the attached suite, happy to have found that the crew must have unpacked our belongings when they checked us into this enormous suite together, or at least set out Silas’ toiletry kit on the counter, with a robe and his pajamas hung up neatly in the corner of the sizable bathroom.
While washing my hands, I notice the white envelope that the attendant from the front desk had given me, tucked underneath the corner of Silas’ toiletry kit on the counter. Just the sight of it wakes me up out of my half-asleep stupor with a jolt, reminding me that I never read it last night when we got back to the room. A smaller wave of guilt rises up in me, but I squash it back down, reminding myself that Grant curated this trip for me to move on. Silas must have woken up and brought it inside the bathroom for me to see and read it whenever I got up. He’s incredibly thoughtful. Always thinking of my needs, even before I can sometimes.
Grabbing the letter, I smile to myself, thankful to have him looking out for me.
I’m still unsure of whether I should read it now or wait until morning, but deep down I know that I won’t be able to sleep after being reminded of its existence just a few yards away. Better to get through it now in the dead of night and then sleep off the residual emotional hangover instead of tossing and turning the rest of the night — only to start with fresh heartache first thing in the morning if I wait.
I pull the letter out from inside the envelope.
It’s filled with the same handwriting as all my letters before, but it’s not my name I see at the top.
It’s addressed to Silas.
I flip the envelope over. Although I thought it was, this isn’t the one I’d retrieved from the front desk last night. It has Silas’ name written across it, not mine.
Startled, I begin folding the letter back up but catch my name written throughout it over and over again. The exaggerated J of Jules — almost as recognizable as Grant’s laugh or his signature — repeated time and time again throughout the whole thing.
I drop the letter from view, forcing myself to look away.
