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I brace myself on one arm, the muscles burning. My jaw aches, and saliva coats my lips, chin, and hand making for a helluva mess.
I love it.
As the tension coils tighter inside me, I experience a taste of salty precum on my tongue, and that’s all the catalyst I need.
My orgasm tears through me like a hurricane, and I moan around the pulsating cock that’s swelling between my lips, telling me that Will is following right behind me.
Our collective groans of pleasure fill the room as we succumb to the almost violent throws of passion. Will laps up my honey while I swallow down his seed, spurring on another—wholly unexpected—orgasm of my own.
When it’s finally over, when the ripples of pleasure begin to subside and Will’s cock flops uselessly in my hand, I succumb to exhaustion, allowing my weak limbs to collapse as I fall onto my side and bury my face in the tangle of sheets.
My skin is dewy, sticky from sweat and bodily fluids, my hair is matted to my face, and I’m slowly suffocating. Do I care? Not a bit. I’m basking in my afterglow.
I feel Will’s light touch skate down my ribcage, teasing forth a fury of goose bumps. I shiver, but even that feels amazing. I moan a false complaint and roll onto my side, giggling, “Bradley, stop.”
Immediately, every muscle in my body freezes. My gaze slowly finds Will’s and I stare into his tropical eyes, feeling fifty shades of shitty. I expect him to get angry, to roll out of bed and walk out the door, but he does none of those things. Instead, Will traces my bottom lip with his finger, then leans in and kisses me lightly on the mouth.
“Let’s take a shower.”
I blink, dumbfounded, as he climbs out of bed and strides to the bathroom. Isn’t he offended? I try to think what I would feel if our roles were reversed, and I know I would be. So why isn’t he?
Then I remind myself that this is a one-night stand. It’s not a commitment, and Will must know that. He saw my wedding band, and he knows I gave him a false name. I shrug it off, telling myself it’s a man thing. Men don’t get caught up in emotions like women do. Sex is sex, an exchange of pleasure. I don’t have to put a label on it nor should I be worried about what he thinks of anything. I’ll be gone soon, and he will become a distant but fond memory. Nothing more.
I hear the rush of the shower running. The slide of metal shower curtain rings. Gathering myself, I follow after him. I have a limited amount of time left before I’m expected back in the real world. I intend to make every second count.
