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Her wicked grin becomes devilish as Brooklyn reaches down and strokes my dick, once, twice. “Do or do not,” she says in a Yoda impersonation. “There is no try.”
My cock twitches in her hand, and if I were to suddenly develop a fetish for Yoda cosplay after this, I wouldn’t be surprised.
“Oh, I don’t plan to try,” I murmur, staring down at her. “I’ll do you so hard you’ll be screaming my name.”
Her reply is to stroke me again, squeezing lightly as she does.
My balls tighten—and no doubt turn a bluer hue. “Get on the bed,” I order gruffly. “And spread your legs for me.”
Fucking fuck. I owe our “merely” huge bed a debt of gratitude because in order to do as I say, Brooklyn has to crawl on all fours for a few feet—and it’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.
With hands unsteady from all the pent-up sexual energy, I ready a condom and leap after Brooklyn, or more specifically, after her delectable pink pussy.
Greedily, I flip her so she’s face up, then lick her clit and suck on her folds until she comes all over my mouth with a loud moan that reverberates through my cock and balls.
All right. If I don’t fuck her soon, I might actually turn sex-crazed. And yet, as if to torture myself, I penetrate her with a finger and coax another orgasm—a screaming one this time.
This is it. Inspired by her recent bed crawl, I arrange her in the doggy position and slide into her slick pussy from behind—and it’s transcendent, like catching that perfect wave on a beautiful spring day. In fact, this feels too good—in that I’m on the verge of blowing my load already. Nope. I can’t wipe out so quickly, not when the wave is this perfect. I grab Brooklyn’s curvy little butt and thrust into her slower but deeper.
“Yes,” she screams. “Yes!”
“Fuck…” Keeping the pace going, I lubricate my index finger with some spit, then gently insert it into her butt.
She moans in pleasure.
I crook my finger just a smidge—which makes it so I can feel my cock going in and out of her.
“Evan!” she shouts as she comes, squeezing both my cock and my finger in the process, which pushes me over the edge. I grunt in pleasure as the most powerful orgasm of my life ignites my every nerve ending.
Afterward, I’m barely conscious, which is weird because I’m not usually the stereotypical guy who needs sleep right after sex.
Maybe the drowsiness is proportional to how much fun you’ve had? No idea, but all I have the energy for is to kiss Brooklyn and whisper, “That was amazing,” before I’m out like a candle in a thunderstorm.
I wake up to the hungry grumbling of my stomach.
When I open my eyes, I see Brooklyn looking at me with an amused expression.
“That sounds like an emergency,” she says. “If we don’t feed you soon, you might go postal—or whatever the surfer equivalent is.”
“Mental.” I reach for the fancy phone on the nightstand and order us room service: a Japanese breakfast for me and a Croque Madame as well as a Raspberry Pain au Chocolat for Brooklyn, who seems to be in the mood for French cuisine.
As we do our morning toilette, I sneak glances at Brooklyn, who is still only half dressed.
A sunken feeling lodges somewhere in my stomach. After today, there will be two days left of her vacation, or really only one because the day after tomorrow she’ll be flying to?—
“Room service!” someone shouts at the top of their lungs.
Ah. Right. I toss on a robe and let the server in, then watch as he sets it all up by the pool on the balcony overlooking the ocean.
Another romantic meal will only worsen my malaise, but Brooklyn looks ecstatic when she joins me, and that makes me forget everything else.
During the scrumptious breakfast, we compare notes about our favorite classes back in middle school for some unknown reason, but the conversation only occupies a part of my attention as I keep marveling at one simple thing:
We’ve known each other for less than a week, yet I feel like I’ve known Brooklyn my whole life.
Chapter Twenty-One
Brooklyn
