Page 4 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
Finally, I feel him lose the rhythm as well; here comes my favorite part.
I feel his head move, dipping down, and then his teeth sink sudden and hard into my shoulder, and he growls past a mouthful of my flesh, his hands gripping my boobs with an almost painful force, his hips driving madly, wildly, his shaft singing through my spasming channel, my scream shivering the room as I come in unison with him—something I’ve only had happen one other time in my life.
His yell is wordless, a strained, primal roar as he slams into me once—twice—three times—harder for one last drive, and then he goes limp, his grip on my tits releasing to wrap his arms around me, face buried in my neck, my hands knotted in his hair so tightly I’m not sure I’ll be able to loosen them.
We’re both gasping brokenly, the only sound in the room.
Something wiggles and niggles and nips inside me—not a physical sensation, but an emotional one. Something odd and frightening centered on the way his arms feel wrapped around me like this—suspiciously hug-like. An embrace.
He lets go abruptly, and I’m so limp I fall bonelessly forward, moaning as I flop onto the mattress. Franco hits the bed beside me, and we lie there, breathing into the silence.
After a long while, he speaks. “You want the bathroom first?”
I moan again, and then find my voice. “Yeah—yes. I’ll take the bathroom first. Gotta pee.”
He rolls to his back, tossing an arm over his eyes. “Okay, cool. Go for it.” He reaches out with his other hand and squeezes my ass cheek once, and then pats it.
I snicker as I roll away. “What was that?”
“What?” he asks, not removing his arm from his eyes.
“The thing with my butt?”
He just chuckles. “Eh…I don’t know. I just appreciate your ass.” His voice drops an octave deeper and takes on a tone that indicates he’s quoting something. “‘I don’t normally do this, but I feel compelled to tell you something. You have…the most breathtaking…hiney. I mean it is good. I wanna be friends with it.’”
I cackle as I traipse to the bathroom. “First time anyone’s quoted Anchorman to me post-coitus.” I pause in the doorway. “But thank you. And…I think you already are friends with it.”
He lifts his arm up slightly to smirk sidelong at me. “Better friends, then. Much, much better.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see. Maybe I’ll let you make better friends with my ass after I take a quick shower.”
He lays his arm back down. “Take your time. I need to recover anyway.”
“Don’t tell me I’ve worn you out, already, old man.”
He just flips me off. “I won’t dignify that with a response.”
I laugh again and close the door. I turn the shower on and pee as the water heats, and then spend several wonderful minutes luxuriating in the hot water, stretching under the spray and enjoying the deep, delicious ache of a well-sated hoo-ha.
Once I’m clean, I step out, dry off, twist a towel around my hair and wrap another around my body, and then yank the door open as I wipe steam off the mirror.
“Hey, Franco—have you ordered breakfast yet?” I call. “Because I’ll need at least six cups of coffee to make it through the rest of today, so order two pots.”
Silence.
My stomach drops as I peek out, and find an empty bedroom. His clothes are gone, his wallet, his phone. Not even a note.
“You ass,” I mutter. “Could’ve at least ordered me room service before you ghosted on me.”
Chapter 2
I dress and do my hair as best I can with the complimentary hotel toiletry products and no brush—the nice thing about having a pixie cut is that in a pinch I can blow-dry it and finger comb it and get by. I feel yucky putting on my clothes from yesterday, but I didn’t exactly preplan this little rendezvous with Franco.
I think about ordering room service for myself, but decide against it—I have a client for a personal training session in less than an hour, followed by my own scheduled workout, and I’d rather stay fasted until after my workout. Plus, eating room service by myself just feels lame.
I try not to think too much about anything as I snag my purse and stuff my feet into my shoes. Don’t think about Franco. Don’t think about last night—or this morning…or any of the time in between. Don’t think about his dick; don’t think about his hands, or his fingers, or his mouth, or his ass. Certainly don’t think about those rippling, eight-pack abs that turn me on like a damn light switch.
Really, really, really don’t think about the way he bolted without even saying goodbye.
I refuse to think about any of it as I head to the elevator and the front desk to check out. The desk clerk is a decently attractive man several years older than me—nearing fifty, maybe—with a polite smile that tightens as he takes in my push-up sports bra and tiny white Lycra booty shorts.
