Page 102 of Gold Rush

“I …”

I can’t finish that sentence. Can’t even remember what I was going to say. Something about the strip part of the game being his idea. But he’s pulled my underwear to the side, and the skin-on-skin contact is too delicious to form words around.

I’m coming in seconds, Flynn’s filthy commentary—I’m so wet, so tight, his cock is so jealous of his hand right now—serving as the soundtrack to euphoria. I wonder if he’d let me record him. I bet my solo sessions would be a lot quicker if I could listen to him. He’d be amazing at phone sex. And maybe I’d be better at phone sex. Bolder.

Flynn withdraws his hand and sits up once the spasms stop.

I don’t move. I’ve learned this is another pleasant part of orgasms that don’t fade after a few seconds. I’m boneless, sprawled and splayed like a starfish with absolutely no desire to shift anywhere.

Until his erection bobs free from his pants, and I recall what feels even better than his fingers. I reach down, hooking the waistband of my sweats and my underwear and shimmying them down my thighs together. Kick them away to the floor, then relax back against the soft cushions.

Flynn is gripping the head of his cock, rotating his wrist, eyes hungry and heated as they skim across my exposed skin.

I lift my left knee, hooking my calf over the back of the couch. He had a good view before; now he can see everything.

“You fit better here.”

I still can’t take all of him in my mouth. And his broad palm isn’t wide enough to surround all the inches either.

A smile slowly spreads across Flynn’s face. “I fit perfectly in there.”

I don’t disagree. I’ve grown used to—come to crave, really—the sensation of being stuffed too full. Of spreading and stretching to take him.

He grips my left leg, pulling it off the back of the couch and using it to roll me onto my right side. Then settles under my raised thigh, straddling my right leg so my left leg lands on his thigh. His cock is right there, rubbing enticingly where I’m overly sensitive. Still. Again.

“This okay?”

I nod rapidly. Flynn isn’t just skilled at sex; he’s creative. He makes it fun, same as he does everything else.

I lift my head so I can watch as he thrusts into me, my entire body vibrating with anticipation as he slides deeper. It’s so good. Still. Again. Why is it so good? So different from anyone else?

“Look at me, or I’ll stop.”

My eyes meet his, kindling a different sort of intimacy.

“You’re taking me so well.”

His praise sparks more pleasure. Lights the firework that will inevitably detonate. I have full confidence it will be a when, not an if, I come again.

It’s perfect.

Of course it’s perfect, a voice whispers.

It’s all pretend.

32

I’ve attended Kensington Consolidated’s annual gala several times before as a guest of a Kensington. This is my first time attending as the date of a Kensington, and that appears to be a crucial difference. Rory and I are ushered inside immediately, bypassing the line of attendees waiting to be marked off a list.

The gala’s venue varies year to year. So does the date. I haven’t been to one of these since I started law school, so I don’t recall where the last few were held. This year, it’s at Manhattan’s largest waterfront venue, overlooking the Hudson’s calm waters. The weather is cooperative, the sunshine streaming through the river-facing windows making it feel closer to late summer than early fall. The view is only interrupted by massive floral displays and tables that have been set up for the silent auction items.

“Maid of honor!” Lili barrels toward us, her stilettos not appearing to slow her down at all before she throws her arms around my date.

“Bride,” Rory returns, hugging her cousin back.

“Soon-to-be Your Honor, I’d bet,” Lili teases.

“I have no plans to become a judge, Lili,” Rory states.