Page 41 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

What follows is the hottest, wildest, most feral sex I’ve ever experienced. Audrey pulls my hair and drags my mouth up to hers. She grinds against me while I meet her thrust for thrust. She pants against my mouth and moans my name. She gasps when I slide my hand down the cleft of her ass to circle her rim.

My girl is so dirty it drives me insane. When she shudders atop me, I feel like I’ve just won a gold medal in the Olympics of Filth. I smile, watching pleasure overtake her features. I’ve never accomplished anything this satisfying in my whole miserable life.

When her gaze meets mine again, her eyes are hazy. Pleasure-drunk. Her hands are clinging to my shoulders, her breasts on full display. Her dress is a mess of blue fabric crumpled between us. She looks so dirty and so, so beautiful. A voice in my mind whispers, Mine.

“Wow,” she says.

A self-satisfied smile curls my lips. “That good, huh,” but I’m using bravado to mask whatever earthquake is currently happening in my soul.

She rolls her eyes, then gasps when I thrust into her again. When I reach between us to touch her where she needs it, I watch every twitch on her face. I drink in every gasp and whimper. I savor her next orgasm and finally, finally, give her one of my own.

Time ceases to exist. We float back down to earth together. Her fingers make small circles on the back of my neck, and I stroke her thighs with my thumbs. Finally, we begin to shift and separate. I dispose of the condom and buckle myself back up, and by the time I turn around to look at her, she’s got her dress back on and a scrap of white lace in her hands.

“You owe me new underwear,” she says, letting the ruined fabric dangle from her fingers.

I grin. “I’ll get you as much underwear as you want, as long as I get to rip it off you afterward.”

“Barbarian,” she says, but there’s a flush on her cheeks and a gleam in her eyes. She lets out a deep breath. “I need some water.”

“Come inside,” I tell her, and I lead her to the greenhouse door. My steps are shaky, and I carefully, so carefully, decide not to acknowledge what just happened in the hidden corners of my heart.

FOURTEEN

AUDREY

Cool night air rushes over me as soon as the greenhouse door opens. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the sea, cut grass, and the freshness of Remy’s garden.

My legs are wobbly. My head is full of cotton. I follow Remy with the grace of a newborn giraffe as he crosses the yard and heads for the back door of his house.

I should really just go home and get a glass of water from my own house, but I need a minute. My brain isn’t working properly.

We head for the kitchen, where Remy pours me a glass of ice water. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I gulp down half the glass and set it down on the counter, then exhale. “Well,” I say.

Remy leans against the opposite counter and watches me, brow arched. “How are you doing?”

I scan myself. “I’m good, I think.”

“You think? I thought I did a decent job back there.”

Heat flushes across my chest and up my neck. “You were passable,” I lie. In reality, he was incredible. He made me melt like ice cream on a hundred-degree day. I’ve never had sex like that before, and I think I might need a lifetime to recover.

But I also want to do it again.

Remy pushes himself off the counter and approaches me like a big cat stalking its prey. He places his hands on either side of me, so I’m caged against the kitchen counter. He smells like sweat and sex and Remy. Embers of desire flare to life in my veins.

“I think you’re lying, Audrey.”

“Oh?”

“I think I rocked your world. I think you’re already wanting more.”

YES. I reel in the word and force myself to slow down. I know myself, and I know that in my mind, sex and emotional intimacy are intricately linked. I also know that Remy doesn’t want a relationship. In the heat of the moment, we agreed on a fling, but we were both out of our minds. I need to pump the brakes—and hope the fluid line isn’t leaking—before I get my heart in trouble.

“Maybe we should talk about rules of engagement,” I say.

Remy leans back, giving me a few inches of space. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you told me you don’t date. I told you I was willing to have a fling. I think we should define what that means so neither of us gets hurt.”

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