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"Whose cock are you going to fall apart around?"
Her features flush, and her lips part. "Yours, Hunter, only yours." I lower my face to the curve of where her neck meets her shoulder, then bite down.
She moans, "Hunter, oh god, I’m going to—"
"Come with me, baby."
32
Zara
I drift on a cloud of warmth. My muscles are so relaxed. I try to move, but my arms and legs feel weighed down. My thigh muscles ache, and my shoulders hurt. There’s a pleasant thrum under my skin, like I’ve spent the night plugged into a low-key electricity generator. Or had a rather large, monster cock plugged into me, shooting me up with cum.Ugh, I didn’t just think that. Did I think that? Of course, I did. It’s not as if there's someone else controlling my thoughts.
I turn on my back, and my entire body protests. My core clenches down on the emptiness, then protests at the movement. I’m alone in bed and already, I miss him. And I’m sure there’s no way I can bear to come again. Not after how he fucked me in every position I can imagine—as much as the bed, and the table, and the shower would allow, that is.
Of course, he’s not going to allow my feet to touch the floor of the bedroom. Another of his rules—-which he could change at will. The man makes them up at the drop of a hat, and leaves me breathless and unable to keep up which is… Another first.
Every time I think I have him pinned down, Hunter Whittington surprises me. It’s what makes my interactions with him so interesting. For a cynical media whore who spends so much of her time interacting with people for whom appearance is everything, and who assumed that Hunter was one of them… Well, he’s definitely proved me wrong. For one, he’s more caring than he comes across. More humane. And he can cook. God, the man can cook. And he knows how to use his cock, and his fingers, and his tongue, and he’s focused on my pleasure. Indeed, he didn’t stop until he made me come over and over again.
I’d have lost count, except after each one, he asks me how many orgasms I’ve had, and I have to recount the tally to him. And each orgasm has been delivered creatively. On my back, on my front, on my hands and knees, me on my side and him standing behind me, him kneeling and me balanced on his thighs, pretzel style, flatiron style, me with my legs thrown over his shoulders G-whiz style, me riding him, me riding him reverse-cowgirl style, and then the wheelbarrow style, where he made me balance on my arms as he planted his feet on the floor, positioned himself between my thighs and took me from behind… And…then there was the magic mountain pose. Oh, my god. I’ve read about it, but never tried that one before. He positioned me leaning back on my arms, with my legs bent, then mirrored my pose and inched toward me, then slid his dick into me.
And then, the most memorable one. The eighteenth one was just as the dawn light filtered through the windows. That time, he held my gaze and spooned me, but from the front, so we could maintain eye contact. And that made it so much hotter, so much more intense. He caressed my butt, then squeezed the back of my thigh, and encouraged me to slide my leg between his. He took his time as he buried himself, inch by inch, inside of me and penetrated me while maintaining the connection of our gazes. The position allowed him to thrust into me so that he hit that spot inside of me every single time. Then he pulled me close enough for my clit to grind against his pelvis, and it set off a long, slow, deep orgasm. A shiver snakes down my spine at the recollection. Oh, god, that had been incredible. I came and came and then I must have blacked out for when I awoke I was in bed alone.
My stomach grumbles. The activities of last night, clearly, gave me an appetite. The only thing that would make things even better is having pancakes for breakfast.
I should move, should swing my legs over the bed and get dressed and leave. This one night stand is well and truly over. I try to force my body to respond, but it seems to have developed a mind of its own.
Everything you hear about body memory is true. I can still feel the touch of his fingertips on my skin, of his breath on my cheek, the sound of his breathing speeding up as he buries himself in me, the vibrations of his heart thundering against his ribcage, and into my chest as he thrusts into me, the echo of his groan as he empties himself inside me…
I rub my cheek against the soft cotton of the pillow. The remnants of sleep tug at my eyelids, and I try to sink back into my dream. If I do, I won’t have to face the future…
A day when I won’t be with him. When I have to go back to my world, my career—the one I spent so long building. A world I love, but where there’s no space for love. No room for someone like him. He only makes me weak. He makes me want to lean on him. He makes me want to abandon the rules I created so long ago for success. He makes me want to redefine the idea of success and—
Whoa, I can’t do that. I can’t let a man change my mindset, my reason for living. I can’t let the future Prime Ministerial candidate of this country transform me into exactly the kind of woman I swore not to become. A woman like my mother, who allowed her life to be defined by her husband. That isn’t me.
I owe it to myself to rise above the events of the past few days. To keep it where it belongs—in my thoughts, in my deepest memories. To never be looked at again. A hot sensation knifes my ribcage. My guts churn. A tell-tale pressure stings the backs of my eyes. Nope, I’m not crying, not now. Not when I didn’t allow myself to become weak when Olly was diagnosed as having autism spectrum disorder. I didn’t shed a tear then, and I certainly won’t now.
I’m a strong, independent woman. I know what I want. I know what makes me happy, and Hunter makes me…feel at odds with myself. He brings out the hidden, vulnerable parts of me that I never even knew existed. And that will only prevent me from doing my job well. So no, there’s no space for him in my life. I had my fun with him, and now it’s time to move on. I push back the sheets and sit up. That’s when the door opens and the object of my thoughts strides in.
33
Hunter
One look at the furrow between her eyebrows, at the downward tilt of her lips, at those eyelids still weighed down by the weight of the pleasure I wrought from her body, even as those golden eyes flicker with awareness of what passed between us the last two nights—and I know she’s come to a decision about us.
"Don’t do this." I stalk over to her.
She begins to swing her legs over, but I push her back into the bed and cover her body with mine.
"Hunter," she half-laughs, half-tries to push me off of her. "What are you doing?"
"What do you think I’m doing?"
"Do you always have to answer every question with a question?’
"Do you?" I lean enough of my weight into her, and she stops struggling.
She glances between my eyes, then tips up her chin. "It’s over."
