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; He chuckled. ‘I’m not,’ he’d mumbled against her hair, his hand cupping her breast as the traitorous nipple swelled into his palm. ‘Problem is my cock doesn’t seem to know when it’s beat.’
She’d tried to laugh, but it came out on a dry husk of breath, the thickness in her throat back with a vengeance. Why on earth had the crude admission sounded like an endearment? It had to be the darkness, their exhaustion, the physical closeness. Nothing more. She wasn’t any more special to him than he was to her.
But then his hand had slid down to cup her mound. Delving fingers touched her wet folds, stopping shy of her oversensitive clitoris. ‘Seems like my cock’s not the only thing here with delusions of invincibility.’
She’d stretched into his caress. ‘I know, but it would kill me if I had another orgasm. I’m not joking.’
He’d laughed against her nape. ‘But you’re too wired to sleep? Right?’
‘Um-hum,’ she’d confirmed, trying not to feel more unsettled by how perceptive he was. Did she have no physical secrets from this man at all?
‘How about we try this?’ He’d drawn back a fraction, holding her hip, but then his cock nudged at her sex from behind.
She’d flinched as the wide head entered her. Her channel was tender, but too slick to deny him entry as he slid the tip into her.
‘How’s that feel?’ he’d asked, his voice rough.
She’d nodded. ‘Good, it feels good.’
Placing his hand over her belly, he’d held her against him, not moving, not thrusting the rest of the way into her, just holding them together, physically joined. Even though her sex felt stretched, distended around the thick girth, the connection felt right somehow.
His palm had swept down her hair, the gesture both casual and possessive. ‘Go to sleep,’ he’d murmured.
The teary vulnerability, the panic had seemed to fade into exhaustion as her body relaxed into sleep. His penis had stayed hard and immobile inside her, feeling so good, so right.
Tally shook her head, trying to dispel the memory as the teary vulnerability threatened to return in a rush.
He’s gone, you’re tired. And you’ve had the night of your fucking life. End of.
However epic the night before, mornings after always sucked the big one. No point getting silly. The good thing was she hadn’t thought about Henry once, but that was no excuse to think too much about Brent. Last night had been the final confirmation that she was no longer the sad, stupid, gutless fool who had once confused sex with love. Absolutely no way was she going to screw that up now that he’d gone.
Her gaze landed on the clock on the wall opposite. Crap, ten to eleven. She threw back the covers. Time to get a move on. She’d taken a half day today—in hopes of getting a result last night. But she had to be at the magazine by one. Springing out of bed, she rushed into the suite’s living room naked—with a gunslinger’s swagger caused by the tenderness between her thighs—to find her clothes neatly stacked on the sofa. And her handbag lying on the floor.
Her heartbeat jumped at the thought of Brent folding her clothes before he left and putting all her belongings back into her bag.
Nope. Not going there. Last night was a strictly shagadelic experience. No sentiment allowed just because Brent’s a neat freak.
She took her smartphone out of her bag, ready to tweet her success. She’d posted a couple of times yesterday before getting to the bar, apprising her followers of the set-up. The possibilities. But she had gotten so lost in the experience once she’d clapped eyes on Brent, she hadn’t tweeted anything since. As she clicked on the app, she saw several hundred retweets of her last post and another hundred or so addressed to her—all basically demanding the same thing. To know what the hell had happened with #EpicHotLover, as she’d nicknamed Brent before she’d met him.
She scrolled through the list, clicked on the ‘write a message’ box. Only to have her brain—and her fingers—stall.
How was she going to describe last night? How did she explain how wonderful Brent had been in 140 characters or less? And did she really want to?
She’d never worried about invading the privacy of her dates before, partly because her online persona was completely anonymous. She’d had some jokey business cards made that she would hide at the London nightspots she went to with dates, so people could track her whereabouts the next day. Something she was glad she’d forgotten to do last night. But only a handful of people knew her real identity and she never identified her dates, simply giving them handy hashtags, such as #DangerMan for the guy who had nearly shoved her under a bus when escorting her across Oxford Street, or #TheRiddler for the idiot who had wanted to play twenty questions on a first date. Or #GaydarAdonis for Sam.
But for the first time, she didn’t know what to tweet about an experience. For starters, she couldn’t think of anything to say that was particularly witty. Or wasn’t X-rated. Her followers wanted the full snark after one of her blind-date disasters, she doubted waxing lyrical about her perfect hot date would go over half as well. In the end she settled on a quick diversionary message about morning-after etiquette and stuffed the phone back in her bag.
She rationalised her reluctance to go into any detail as she took a long, leisurely shower in the suite’s enormous glass-tiled bathroom. It wasn’t sentimentality, or oversensitivity, or because she had any foolish expectations about her and Brent. It just felt tacky and inappropriate and disrespectful to share and discuss Brent and his skills with half a million people he didn’t know. And whom she didn’t really know either.
Cocooned in the hotel’s fluffy bathrobe, she returned to the living area to hear her phone pinging uncontrollably.
Good god, didn’t people have anything better to do on a Friday morning? Like paid employment? Another ton of tweets had come through in the last twenty minutes, all of them insisting she give an account of the night before the morning after. She strolled back into the bedroom with the towel over her head and tossed the phone on the bed before drying her hair.
Maybe it was time to get over her habit and let @BlindDateBitch die. It had been fun while it lasted, but now she had hit the jackpot, her posts were set to get a lot less entertaining. She let the towel drop to her shoulders and spotted the envelope with her name on it propped against the bedside lamp.
Her heart crashed into her throat. Anticipation and joy blossomed in her chest, propelling her across the room. He’d left a note. Did he want to do this again? Why not? Hadn’t it been good, better than good? Why did they have to finish it so abruptly? Surely they were in danger of getting orgasm withdrawal if they went cold turkey too quickly?
