Page 22 of The Tryst

When his sweet murmurs cease, he says softly, “Let me get rid of this condom.”

That’s…it?

Of course that’s it. You said no strings.

And really, what was he going to say? “You’re amazing, Lola, and, please, do surprise me at my flat sometime.”

Please.

I don’t want to wear out my welcome, especially since I’ve been so adamant about my own boundaries. I ease off him, but I don’t watch as he heads to the bathroom.

I shut down, turning off whatever temporary wishes I had to stay a little longer. Quickly, I gather my clothes, hooking on my bra then tugging on my dress.

A minute later, his footsteps sound, and he pads across the floor, then stops. “Lola.”

It’s so stern.

I turn around.

His eyes are narrowed. Then he shakes his head, tsking me as he closes the distance between us and cups my cheeks. “Take off your dress. Get in bed. I’m not at all done with you.”

I throw a parade as I strip, then race to the bed.

8

SEXY MAD LIBS

Layla

Before the sun rises, I’m on the cusp of my fourth orgasm. Nick’s lying on his side, fucking me with his fingers. I’m a panting, gasping, writhing woman, my leg flung over him. I’m spread wide open while he works me into a frenzy.

I arch my hips and explode into bliss.

I can’t stop crying out, can’t stop moaning.

It’s like I’m on vacation and every meal is more sinful than the one before.

Four.

Four.

When I finally shake off the orgasm fairy dust, I gaze dopily at the handsome man. “Can I do something for you?”

“I like making you feel good,” he says, then shifts me so we can spoon.

Dear god, his warm body. His big arms. His obsession with my pleasure. He’s like a fairy-tale prince who can fuck like a porn star.

But then, do porn stars fuck like this? I don’t watch much porn. I mostly just watch gifs of men and women getting themselves off. Solo. That always does it for me—a personal pursuit of pleasure, no matter the seeker.

So all this sex stuff is new. Sex talk is new.

And so isthis—cuddling.

He sighs contentedly against me as a sliver of light peeks through the hotel blinds. “Your flight’s in three hours,” he says.

“I know,” I say, pouting, wishing this stolen night wasn’t ending. But the rising sun says otherwise.

“Mine’s in three hours and thirty minutes.” He sounds wistful and that surprises me, so I wait to see where he’s going. “If I didn’t live in London, I’d ask you to dinner tonight,” he says.

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