Page 49 of Champagne Fizz

Only, he’d never get the chance. I’d come before he even got close to removing my panties. I’d be exhausted and overwrought and tapping out before we got anywhere near to the main event.

But my mind still wants to play out the fantasy, flooding me with the image of my naked body under his on this couch, my knees cupping his sides, and his—I moan, imagining his thickness straining against my pink and waxed lower lips.

“Oh sweet—!” I gasp, as I imagine him pushing his hips forward and nudging—

His hardness opening—

“Oh good-gosh!”

Lady Lada clenches against my emptiness, and I come just imagining him pushing himself deeper, at the promise of such a raw and self-indulgent connection between us.

Then, I come again imagining myself crawling into his lap and straddling him, sliding myself down his—

It’s a fantasy, of course.

I could never ride him as long as I imagine doing so in my mind. I probably couldn’t even look at him naked without coming at the sight of seeing him hard. We’d never get to the part where I actually feel him pushing into my depths.

“Fuzz!” I curse, as the heat of my empty orgasm echoes through me.

I’m lust-drunk on imagining.

And despite how my body fills with waves of pleasure—it isn’t enough. It isn’t a real connection. Heck, I don’t even need the romance or the love making part. I just need to be fuzzed! To feel something real inside me.

No, not fuzzed.

I need to be fucked.

Really fucked.

I want to feel Simon splitting me apart.

13

SIMON

“You’ve got an hour,” Arie says hotly, giving the wedding planner a steely glare.

Kendall stands in the middle of Flambé surrounded by boxes and flower arrangements, wearing a wrap-style jumpsuit that shows off all her assets: colorful and curvy and completely Kendall.

“We’re going to go for a walk,” Arie says, shooting that same withering frown in my direction as she squeezes Connor’s shoulders. “Don’t burn the place down.”

“We’ll try not to,” I say, tossing Arie an irked smile. “But no guarantees.”

Arie rolls her eyes, sneering at Kendall like she might tear her head off if I leave the two of them alone in Flambé unsupervised. That would absolutely be a Kong vs. Godzilla scene only with pots and pans and pairing knives.

“Thank you, Arie.” I say, nodding toward the exit and dismissing them. Arie grabs Connor by the chest with a harumph as she walks out. At least the two of them are going off property rather than adding an X-rated audio track in the background.

“Have fun!” Kendall says in a way too chipper tone that I should have warned her against. “Enjoy the beach.”

For a second, I expect the reality TV show of Arie to punctuate this moment with the sound of a record scratching, before she comes swooping back into the dining room—full-dragon—to skewer Kendall with the demon’s tail she’s been hiding under her clothes all these years. Especially, considering Arie’s hate for doing anything dirty or romantic in the sand, which makes Kendall’s comment sound like she’s mocking them.

I release a breath when they actually leave through the side exit. No doubt with some serious coaxing from Connor, I’m sure.

“Do you need any help?” I ask Kendall, turning back to her as she unloads the contents of her boxes.

“I’d prefer it if I do this alone if you don’t mind,” she says. “Creative flow. Not too many cooks in the kitchen. That kind of thing.”

“I can take orders well,” I offer, to which she smiles as kindly as she can.

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