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My own orgasm rips through me, robbing me of my sight, my hearing, my everything. The pleasure is all-consuming as I roar and shoot my cum into her. I don't stop moving. I can't. My body has a mind of its own, driven by a primal need to fill her with every last drop.

I don't know how long it lasts. Seconds, minutes, hours. Time loses all meaning. There's only the pleasure, the release, the woman under me.

Finally, finally, my body stills. I slump over her, my chest heaving, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I'm spent. Drained.

And just like that, I pass out.

Chapter Sixteen

Blair

I wake slowly, warm and heavy beneath a blanket, with sunlight pressing against my closed eyelids and the vague sense that something is off.

For several seconds, I do not open my eyes. I am too comfortable. The mattress beneath me is softer than mine, the pillow smells faintly of expensive detergent and something warmer that I cannot immediately place, and there is a solid weight draped across my waist that feels surprisingly pleasant.

My body aches in several places, a deep, lingering soreness that makes me shift carefully beneath the blanket before deciding movement is probably a terrible idea.

Then I open my eyes.

A wall of glass fills the room in front of me.

I stare at it.

Chicago stretches beyond the windows, washed in early morning light, the buildings far below catching the sun. It is a spectacular view. The kind of view that belongs in a luxury listing accompanied by professionally staged photographs and a price tag with far too many zeroes.

It is also not the view from my apartment.

My brain takes several long seconds to process that information.

I blink once, slowly.

Then again.

The bedroom around me comes into focus piece by piece. The low headboard. The white duvet tangled around my legs. The fireplace across the room. The dark wood. The enormous windows I spent part of yesterday explaining to a prospective buyer while doing my very best impression of a real estate professional.

Oh.

Oh, no.

I know this bedroom.

My stomach drops.

This is the primary suite in a certain penthouse.

A certain off-market penthouse.

I close my eyes again as if perhaps I can make it not true.

No.

Absolutely not.

There has been some sort of mistake. I fell asleep during a showing, maybe. People do that. Probably. Long day, comfortable bed, fire emergency, excellent wine. Completely reasonable sequence of events. Embarrassing, certainly, but recoverable.

Then the arm around my waist tightens.