“So sensitive, baby,” he murmurs.
“I can’t come again,” I whimper into his neck.
“Yes, you can.” He slows his bucking hips. “Ride me.”
I take over, bouncing up and down on him and finding my rhythm, tilting my body forward until he’s at just the right spot inside me.
“Right there. Perfect. Ride me. You look so pretty like this, taking your pleasure from me.”
His filthy words overwhelm me, sending another unexpected orgasm washing over my skin. I scream again, surprised that it’s happening so soon after the first one. My body is shaking as Dayton grunts, pulls me up off him, and spills his semen over his stomach. He’s holding on to his dick as it pumps out.
I watch him, licking my lips before collapsing to the side from exhaustion. I don’t know why I’m so worn out, considering he did almost everything, but I feel like I could go back to sleep for another seven hours.
Finally, I sit up and crawl off the bed to go relieve my bladder. I shut the door, staring at myself in the mirror over the sink.
I look … like I just got fucked into oblivion multiple times. My cheeks are rosy, my lips are red, and my skin is still flushed.
I finish my business and wrap up in my floral silk robe. I’m sure Dayton wants to wash off his sticky body, so I step out to give him a chance to shower. He’s standing at the kitchen sink, still naked, using a paper towel to clean off his abs.
I swallow over the lump in my throat. His defined butt muscles flex as he shifts his weight, and my mouth dries up. His Adonis body is truly something out of this world.
He turns to face me fully, smirking at my expression. “Like what you see, Cupcake?”
I blush deeper, as if I wasn’t riding his face twenty minutes ago. I shrug, attempting indifference.
“Shower is yours.”
“Want to join me?”
“Uh, it’s kind of small.”
He nods, striding toward the bathroom. “Maybe when we finish the master bathroom in the big house then.”
I gulp as the door shuts behind him.
So, he doesn’t want this to be a onetime thing.
chapter twenty-eight
Dayton
My typical Sunday routine when I’m not traveling to Coconut Beach involves waking up later than usual—around six—a workout in the gym with heavy weights, followed by a five-mile run and an ice-cold shower. I spend some time watching Summer on the security cameras while I make myself a protein rich meal of egg whites, vegetables, and steak. Then I check my emails and my top clients’ stock numbers and read the news. Before going to bed by eight p.m. so I can wake up at four, I check the security cameras again.
So, I know that she typically sleeps in until nine thirty before doing some beach yoga, going for a walk, and leaving to get matcha or an acai bowl or both.
She spends some time either fiddling with her camera or throwing pottery on the back porch. Sometimes, she talks to Savannah on the phone and eats garlic shrimp. Other times, she’s inside the studio, and I have to guess if she’s watching a TV show, reading a book, or texting a man.
I’m curious to see how she spends her full day.
After my shower, I saw that she was already outside, doing her beach yoga practice. After admiring her for a few minutes, I left to get ussome breakfast.
When I pull back up, she’s walking out of the studio. I set the to-go bags down on the patio table, along with the drink carrier, holding my Americano and her matcha latte.
She stares at the items before her eyes meet mine. She’s wearing her usual Sunday attire—tan biker shorts and an oversize Sea Life Conservation Society T-shirt. This is a new one that saysIguanas are better than people.
“Come eat,” I tell her, pulling out her chair before sitting down at the table.
She hesitates for a moment before finally giving in and joining me. She blinks at me as I hand her the green matcha latte. When I hand her the breakfast sandwich and she unwraps it, she blinks down at it with the same bewildered expression.
