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Then I remember that he’s gone. After the sex marathon, I spent half the night working while he slept. He woke around six, crept up behind me where I worked and kissed me goodbye. Such a gallant, old-fashioned gesture, I practically swooned...
As I look at the debauched but empty bed, my sense of achievement dwindles a fraction. It shouldn’t matter—I don’t need to share my success in order to feel its validation, but a celebratory orgasm might have been nice...
I stretch out my back muscles, frowning when I realise how long I’ve been sitting in one place. I’ve hustled this deal for the past three months, a deal snatched from under the nose of my main competitors—the firm now run, rather sloppily, in my opinion, by my younger brother under the critical tutelage of my father. A firm that should have been mine to run by rights after my years of hard work and the long hours that cost me my marriage. Another casualty of my father’s expectations...
Thinking of my ex, and how he bailed after seven short months because he couldn’t handle a wife who worked h
arder than him, sours my mood further.
I ignore the well-worn path of anger and rejection that courses through my body every time I think about how I was overlooked, passed over on the basis of my sex, as if my years of commitment and my qualifications counted for nothing in the eyes of my old-school father. What century does he even inhabit? I’m the eldest. I put in the most work. I’m the best qualified—the company was mine by rights.
When the sting in my lip tells me I’m taking out my frustration with my own teeth, I relax my jaw and sigh. Even this success with Jensen’s feels somehow tainted by the past. No matter how hard I work, I can never quite reach the finishing line.
Casting a look of longing at the empty bed, I head for the shower, recalling the pleasure I shared with a stranger to sweeten this morning’s professional victory.
Cam—my reward.
Yearning builds in the pit of my stomach. He claimed my body, used it and his to drive us both mindless with desire. His obscene stamina. His wicked, inventive challenges and almost impossible positions... I’ve never experienced anything like it. He effortlessly brought out the sexy side I wanted to embrace the minute we stepped into the lift.
Who even was I with him?
I ache, aware of every step I take, every muscular twinge—all Cam’s fault...
But he was gentle too. Thorough and attentive and considerate. My breath catches as a feeling of invincibility courses through me. After a night like that, I can accomplish anything. Alone and without validation.
The hot water spray buffets my skin, reminding me of Cam’s rough, calloused hands gripping and possessing. The water on my breasts and between my legs mimics the glide of his demanding tongue, the caress of his dirty mouth, and when I press my fingers to my clit, trying to banish the renewed flutter of hunger, I relive every single orgasm of our decadent night together.
This is what well-fucked truly feels like.
I sigh a happy, sated sigh, the emotional impulse as unexpected as the man himself. Perhaps he’s a good-luck charm, if I believed in luck. Perhaps letting loose, embracing my wild side, is good for me, allowing me to achieve some much-needed work-life perspective. Either way, I can’t deny I feel more alive, more enthused for the months ahead than I have in years.
I shampoo my hair, hair that Cam wrapped around his fist as he pounded us both to oblivion that last time, sometime in the dark early hours. He fell asleep soon after, splayed on his stomach, his muscular back and tight buttocks a visual feast I struggled to tear my eyes from. I was so energised, my mind so focused, I worked through the rest of the night. Even now I’m in no way tired, although pulling all-nighters isn’t that unusual for me. When you run an international firm, sleep is an expensive luxury.
But could I afford another luxury, one in the form of a sexy Australian with grey eyes who reminds me I have needs? I slide my soapy hands over my skin, an idea forming. He said he was free and easy. No work commitments, money clearly no issue. The way he threw it around last night, almost as if trying to offload as much as possible, perhaps he’d be up for a whirlwind tour of the globe with stopovers at all the international M Club establishments? We could continue this arrangement for a few weeks... A way to explore the sexy side he’s unleashed in me. A way for me to keep this feeling, this newfound perspective, alive.
My proposition takes form in my mind as I towel dry and comb through my hair. A month, six weeks ought to be enough time to work my man toy, as he put it, from my system. I’d have to make the sex-only proviso crystal-clear. My one trip down the aisle confirmed that relationships and I definitely don’t mix. I have no desire to repeat that mistake. I don’t need a relationship, which in my experience is just another way to fall short of someone’s expectations.
If Cam agrees, if he too wanted more than just one fantastic night, he could accompany me while I toured my international offices to ensure everything is as I like it—ticking along like clockwork and expanding on our year-by-year profits.
A sex-only arrangement.
‘Amazing sex,’ I say aloud, catching my laughing reflection in the fogged-up mirror—eyes bright with excitement, hair tousled and damp the way it was last night after our first shower, when Cam fucked me from behind in this very spot, ordering me to tweak my nipples hard until I saw stars right before I came.
The man was some sort of sex god, a G-spot genius, and I his willing, eager-to-excel pupil. But I didn’t simply want to excel. I wanted to be top of the class.
I smile at my reflection—a feline smile.
I’d show him I could let go.
I’d ruin him.
Dressed in my favourite floaty Capri pants and a silk spaghetti-strap top in deference to another stunning Monaco day, I make discreet enquiries at Reception for Cam’s whereabouts. There was no answer when I knocked on the door to his suite, just down the hall from mine. Even if he hadn’t made a splash in the gaming room last night, he’s pretty unforgettable—his height, his commanding presence, not to mention his fuck you air of flouting convention and living the good life.
I find him in the club’s gym, the sole occupant. He’s ignoring the Shirts must be worn at all times sign, performing chin-ups on a bar facing a wall of mirrors. And I don’t blame him. If I had his body, every inch cut slabs of muscle draped in golden skin, a gorgeous, intricate tattoo covering one shoulder, I’d watch myself move too. I’m instantly damp between my legs just from one glance at his sweaty torso.
In fact, there’s no reason I can’t enjoy the show for a few hedonistic seconds. My pulse throbs through my sex while I watch, hypnotised. His back muscles flex in unison to drag his long, built frame up the foot or so required to place his chin above the bar. Sweat runs in rivulets down the bumps of those muscles. My tongue darts out to wet my lips, keen for another taste of the skin I sampled last night.
That happy sigh is back, thankfully silent and in my head, but again it strikes me I haven’t felt this rejuvenated in years. Cam’s the kind of man who makes a woman feel feminine. It’s effortless for him—his sheer size, those calloused hands, the formidable sexual prowess I’ve now experienced, plus his nurturing, caring side and impeccable manners.
