I lose count of orgasms after that. It isn’t until I’m pressing both hands flat against his chest, genuinely unable to take another second, that two things occur to me at once.
The years of tension between us—all that simmering, unresolved friction—is gone. And somewhere in the last couple of hours, without meaning to, I’ve forgiven him everything to do with Pearl.
We might actually have something real, and as terrifying as that is, this might be the best I’ve ever felt.
Chapter 15: Logan
Rose is panting and holding me off with one small palm flat on my chest.
“That all you got?” I tease. I have no idea where the confidence comes from. I’ve never had this much sex, this frequently, in this short a window of time, in my entire life. My recovery time alone deserves a write-up in a medical journal.
“Don’t act like you can get hard again.” She’s on her back, skin glistening with sweat, her tits falling away from her sternum in soft teardrop shapes. God, she’s beautiful. “Besides, I still need to shower before the rehearsal dinner. Rinse all this sex off me.” Rolling onto her side to face me, she adds, “You never answered me.”
“What was the question?”
She laughs a little. Then something darker moves across her face, and I reach out and lay my palm over her hip. “I just… Look, I don’t need to know what happens after this. I just need to know you’re not going to go cold on me again.”
Shit.
I managed three hours without thinking about how badly I fucked her over. And now, after what we just did, how quickly I’ve become attached to making Rose smile, laugh, come—I’m not sure how to compartmentalize it. If I even should.
She watches my face. I keep my expression impassive. “I don’t know what things look like when we get back to New York. But we have right now. The rest of this week. Can we just… is that enough? For now? I won’t go cold on you again.”
For just a second, something in her face falls. Then it clears. “Yeah. That works. Vacation sex.”
I wince at that, even though it’s more or less what I just said. Rose slides off the bed first and drifts into the bathroom. I lean back and watch her dab that balm onto her face. A small knot tightens in my chest. I was being an ass about that. I never actually thought she smelled bad. And I sure as hell never thought Pearl would show Rose that message.
Rose peeks out from the bathroom. “The rehearsal starts in half an hour, and I’m supposed to find Pearl first so I can be up there with her when she announces Jo and Dad.”
“Is this your way of telling me to get the fuck out? You’ve never had a problem with honesty before.”
She grins. “Logan. Get the fuck out.” Then ducks back into the bathroom.
I laugh. I still need to run back up to my suite to change, so I relent. I get up and follow her to the doorway, but she’s still naked, and I feel my dick rising, miraculously, to the occasion. Rose laughs and pushes at my shoulders. “No more sex. It’s bad enough I’m going to be walking bowlegged. I can’t also have cum dripping down my thighs.”
I drop my head into my hands. “You can’t say shit like that and expect me to leave this room.”
She laughs, and her smile is so bright and genuine, it lights up her whole face. She grabs a towel and tries to put some distance between us, but half-naked or not, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I keep getting blindsided by it.
“Okay. I’m going.” I steal one more kiss before I get dressed. “But you better be ready for more after dinner.”
I’ve been thinking about just telling her to pack a bag, that she’s coming to stay in my room. I will later. But she’s in a good mood right now, and I don’t want to be the one to kill it—don’t want to watch her face when she walks into my suite and realizes Pearl put her in a broom closet. I suspect this room is reserved for employees and used for overflow.
But I can’t get into it now. Later, after dinner, after a drink, I’ll bring Rose back to my room with me. It won’t surprise her, I realize, which just pisses me off even more.
Marco, at the front desk, gives me a look as I pass through the lobby that tells me he has a very good idea of how I’ve spent the last two hours.
I’m turning up the staircase when I hear my name. At the top of the stairs stands one of my oldest friends—Dash, Dashiell Vanderbilt—wearing a grin I almost don’t recognize on him, the kind that reaches his eyes. Beside him is a woman I’ve never met. She’s tall, tan, freckled, with sun-streaked blonde hair. Her dress is some loose floral thing, soft yellow, pink and white, billowing slightly in the draft. It’s an odd sight beside Dash, who always looks like he was iron-pressed into his suit. It’s not an unwelcome sight, though.
We clasp hands and pull each other in. They’re both dressed for the dinner. I am not.
“Heard you had a hell of a time getting here,” Dash says, eyes dropping to my rumpled shirt. “Running late?”
“Something like that.” I hook my thumb vaguely down the hall. “I’ll explain at dinner.”
“Alright, you can give me the sordid details of the plane crash and the harrowing tale of having to spend three days in a car with Pearl’s awful sister later.”
“Don’t call her that.”
