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Who even am I?
We fall into a rhythm. His eyes flick between me and the length of the hallway.
He’s fucking my mouth with a hurried urgency, a desire so deep that he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.
And I take it all like a pro. His soft moans and ragged breathing turn me inside out as I watch him come undone.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he growls as he pumps me hard. His crazy eyes shoot up the corridor, and he tips his head back and comes in a rush with a deep moan.
I gag. Ugh . . .
He’s a lot of man to take.
But then I see the look in his eye and I know it’s all worth it, because it’s Henley and I adore him and I want his birthday to be memorable.
I need to be burned into his brain like he is in mine.
Triumphantly I lick him clean, and the elevator dings, and he pulls me to my feet, and we both turn to face his door guiltily.
All flustered, he fumbles with the key and drops it. “Fuck it,” he mutters under his breath.
I get the giggles. His dick is still hanging out the front of his jeans.
Two old ladies walk out of the elevator. They are chatting away. “Get the fucking key,” he whispers.
“No.”
He widens his eyes at me, and I laugh harder. “Show them your dick,” I whisper.
He elbows me. “Get the key off the floor.”
“No.”
He gets the giggles too. What must we look like, facing the door, guilty as all hell, with the key on the ground in front of us? I’m laughing so hard, I couldn’t bend down to get it even if I tried.
The grannies get closer.
Henley nods, looking as cool as a cucumber. “Evening, ladies.”
“Hello.” One lady smiles without looking at us closely. “We’ve just had the best night at the opera. If you get a chance, you simply have to go.”
Henley’s eyes flick to mine, and my mouth falls open in surprise.
We forgot to go to the opera.
We lie in the dark facing each other. It’s late, and we have quenched our every desire. The night has been long and sweaty, our bodies well used. He’s a god in bed. There’s no other way to describe him.
We are freshly out of the shower and naked under the blankets.
I feel so close to him. There is no other way to explain our connection. It’s magical.
A force to be reckoned with.
Henley’s finger traces up my arm aimlessly, as if he still has to touch me, and we are both lost in our own thoughts.
I’m tired, but I don’t want to go to sleep because I know that when I wake up, my beautiful and vulnerable Hen won’t be here; Henley James the hard-ass will be in his place.
It’s as if Henley knows it, too, and is fighting sleep as hard as I am.
