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My finger slips inside me with ease, a testament of how wet I am. One thing I know for sure is, if I don’t go through with this, I’ll be strolling out of here looking like I’d lost a fight with a garden hose.
My eyes half closed, I let out a strangled gurgle as I massage through the wetness. A whimper escapes through my tightly pressed lips as my toes curl under themselves. There are no words to describe how good this feels.
Holy mother of God…
My speed picks up as I use my other hand to grasp my already stiff nipples, groaning as I roll them between my fingers. I’m so sensitive that the nipple stimulation alone almost has me climaxing.
I wiggle farther down the middle of the bed and spread my legs wider, to give me a deeper reach, then I throw my head back and strum my fingers in fast, furious circles around my clit, before reaching for my rabbit. I switch it on and slide it inside me.
Oh God. Oh…
Fuck, yes…
I bite down on my arm to try and smother my screams.
It feels incredible.
Indescribable.
Every slide of my finger back and forth pushes me closer to the edge until I’m so close to climaxing. I groan, biting hard down on my lip, as I arch my back clean off the bed.
Oh yes, I’m gonna…
And then I freeze.
Was that—
Shit.
A cough. Someone is in my room.Chapter 3HannahPanicked, I sit up, gaping in disbelief at the person standing in the doorway. I grasp at the sheet, I frantically try to cover the most crucial bits of me, while feeling completely mortified. He, on the other hand, can’t wipe that damn smirk off his face.
What the fuck?
His head cocks sideways and his lips twitch into an even bigger grin that I’d probably find sexy—if I wasn’t two knuckles deep and showing him more of me than any guy has seen of me in a long time.
“Well, I have to say,” he drawls in a low, husky voice, “women do a lot of shit to try to get my attention, but this is definitely up there as the most original.”
I can’t even comprehend what he’s saying, because I’m frozen on the spot and trying to work out what the hell he’s doing in my room. Is this some kind of sick joke? Is he planning on attacking me? My eyes dart to the phone on the wall, but they switch back to him when he walks closer.
Fuck.
He steps out of the shadows, giving me a better look at his face and—
Double fuck.
Oh God, no. It’s Brix Wilson.
What the heck is the lead singer of The Vision doing in my hotel room?
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, so my body decides to do both. I can’t think straight, but I’m doing my best to stop freaking the fuck out so I can try to figure a way out of this mess. I’m so unbelievably embarrassed. And naked, apart from this flimsy sheet. I should probably get dressed. The problem is, doing anything at this point feels impossible.
“So, do you speak?” he asks, jolting me out of my thoughts. “I mean, we’ve established that you can moan quite well.”
Oh God.
“I had a friend once, who was mute,” he muses, “we drifted apart because our conversations were always very one-sided.”
“I am not mute,” I snap, glaring at him.
“Great, then you can start by telling me what you’re doing.” He laughs and rubs his jaw. “I mean, it’s pretty obvious what you were doing, I’m just not sure why. Not that I didn’t appreciate the show,” he quickly adds. “Trust me, I did.” His dark eyes flash with amusement. “It’s refreshing to meet a girl who doesn’t mind opening herself up.”
What the ever loving fuck…?
How can he casually crack jokes like he isn’t the slightest bit embarrassed about walking in on me? I don’t trust myself to speak, so I just glare at him.
“Can I get you anything, like a drink?” he offers. “Or maybe offer you a hand…?”
“You could offer me some privacy?” I suggest, my body shaking with rage.
“Privacy, huh?” He grins at me. “Sure. I’ll turn around.”
He’ll turn around?
“Or you could leave, the same way you came in?” I retort.
“You seem pretty agitated over there. I’m guessing I interrupted the finale? Have you thought about trying some relaxation breathing?” he suggests, “it’s supposed to be great for relieving tension.”
“Are you done?” I growl.
“Are you?” he asks. “Maybe you should be the one leaving?”
A surge of anger hits me. Why the hell should I be the one to leave when he’s the one in my room? I wrestle myself up so I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, my knuckles white from clinging onto the sheet so tightly. While I’m at it, why am I the one who’s embarrassed?
