3. Sloane
THREE
Sloane
The door clicks shut, and before I can even take in the room, he’s got me pinned against it.
His body presses agains mine, hard chest, solid thighs, heat everywhere. My bag drops to the floor with a thud.
“You taste as good as you look?” His voice is low, rough, and right in my ear.
“Only one way to find out.” My hands fist in his shirt and pull him down.
The kiss is deep, filthy, and exactly what I want. There are tongues, teeth, and no hesitation. I can’t remember the last time I was kissed like someone was starving.
My day’s been shit. My week’s been worse. I don’t do this, but right now, I don’t care. He’s hot, I’m wet, and we’re not wasting time pretending this is anything more than what it is.
One hot night.
His hands are on my hips, dragging me against him. The press of his cock is impossible to miss, even through my jeans. I grind against him, and he groans into my mouth.
“Fuck, you feel unreal.”
“Then shut up and use me.”
His grin flashes, quick and sharp, like he’s already accepted the challenge. “I like a girl who doesn’t waste time.”
Clothes come off in frantic tugs, the sound of fabric hitting the floor drowned out by the rasp of our breathing. All that’s left on me are my underwear and bra. He’s down to an unbuttoned shirt and boxers.
His mouth is all over me—neck, collarbone, the swell of my breast.
He nips hard enough to sting, then soothes with a slick drag of his tongue. My nipple hardens instantly when his mouth seals around it, sucking like he owns me.
I’m already throbbing when his hand pushes into my thong. My body jerks like it has been waiting for this exact touch.
“Christ, you’re dripping.” His voice is rough against my skin.
“Condom,” I manage, my voice breaking.
He grinds harder against me, free hand sliding to his pocket. “Wallet. Stay still.”
The scrape of foil fills the air, sharp and practiced, while I rock against his thigh, desperate for him to hurry. My nipples brush his chest with every shallow breath, my thighs trembling with the pause that feels like torture.
This is insane. I don’t know this man, but my whole body is screaming for him.
He shoves his boxers down, rolls the condom on without ever looking away from me. That stare makes my stomach drop. Wordless, feral, like he’s already inside my head.
His fingers slip back between my thighs, pushing my thong aside and sliding into me. His fingers curl just right, while his thumb grinds my clit.
My skull knocks against the door as a cry rips out of me.
“You’re going to come before I even get in you.”
“Then fuck me already.”
He pulls out his fingers slowly, dragging a needy whimper from my throat as my hips chase him. He drags my thong down, then the blunt head of his cock presses at my soaked entrance, heavy and hot, making my knees buckle.
“You feel that?” His voice scrapes low, rough enough to sand me raw.
I bite my lip and nod, rocking forward just enough to hear him groan.
“Good girl.”
He teases me first, dragging through my slick folds, up over my clit. I jolt at the contact, my hips pumping, needing for more, desperate for friction and pressure.
“You want it,” he growls, circling me with his cockhead. “Say it.”
“I want it. Please.”
He pushes his cock in slowly, stretching me inch by inch until the burn turns into a gasp. Then he buries himself in one brutal thrust that knocks the air out of me.
“Oh, fuck?—”
His hand locks on the back of my neck, pinning me to the door as he pounds into me. Every thrust slams me harder against the wood, the sound of skin meeting skin sharp in the quiet. My nails dig deep into his shoulders.
“I can feel you clenching, begging for more.”
“Yes, more. You feel so good.”
Seven months without this, and my body doesn’t care that he’s a stranger. He slams in deep, and it’s everything. It’s too much and not enough at the same time. The sound that rips out of me doesn’t even sound like mine.
He gives what I’m demanding, driving fast, relentlessly. My breath stutters with every stroke.
The rhythm builds until my whole body coils tight. His hand moves lower, and a jolt shoots through me when his fingers slide farther than I expect.
“Wait—” The word falls out on a gasp as he slicks back and brushes a place no one’s ever touched. Heat bolts through me, shocking, confusing, almost too much.
He pauses just long enough for me to know he’s gauging. His mouth is at my ear, voice rough. “You’re pulsing around my cock even harder. I know you like it. Do you want it?”
I should say no. I should tell him to stop. That’s not sex. That’s not what I do. But the spark of sensation ricochets everywhere, sharper than anything I’ve ever felt, and a broken whimper tears out of me. My body clenches tighter around him, greedy.
“Yes,” I whisper, almost disbelieving.
“That’s it.” His voice is rough at my ear. He stills, breath hot against my skin. “I won’t push further unless you tell me to.”
The words detonate inside me, shame and hunger colliding. I don’t want more. Not there. Not now.
But I want this . The way it sharpens everything, the way it makes me quake. “That’s good. Just like that. Touch me like that.”
He stills, his mouth hot against my neck. “I’ll stop if you want me to. You say the word.”
The slick circle of his finger over that tight ring of muscle sends a shockwave through me. It feels wrong and filthy and impossibly good all at once, like he’s wired me to detonate from somewhere I didn’t even know existed.
“Don’t stop,” I choke out, shame and hunger twisting together in my chest.
His cock pounds deeper as his finger keeps circling, never breaching, just pressing light and deliberate. The friction shreds what’s left of my control.
Heat rips through me, my orgasm tearing out of me sharp and violent. I convulse against him, my hands pulling him closer, crying out as the most intense release of my life slams through me.
He follows with a curse, hips snapping once, twice, before he buries himself to the hilt and stills. His forehead drops to mine, both of us gasping like we’ve just gone ten rounds.
The silence after is brutal, broken only by our ragged breathing. My legs are trembling, his chest slick against mine, and I can barely stand.
I don’t care. I don’t want to think. I don’t care that I don’t even know his last name. Right now, all I want is the way my body still pulses from him wrecking me.
He eases back, eyes dark and intent, and I know it’s not over. “You want that gin and tonic now? Or should we skip straight to round two?”
His mouth curves slowly, and he pulls a piece of hair from my face.
I laugh, breathless, still pinned between him and the door. “Are you always this confident?”
He leans in, mouth brushing my ear. “Only when I know the answer.”
I’m not done. I need more.
“Then what are you waiting for?”
His low chuckle vibrates against my throat before his mouth claims mine. It’s hungry and rougher now, tasting like everything we just did and everything we’re about to do again.
He spins me around, pressing me to the door, my bare skin meeting the cool metal. My palms flatten against it for balance.
Behind me, I hear him tie off the condom and drop it, then the sharp tear of another wrapper. A second later, the faint slide of latex over his length makes my knees go weak.
Then he’s there, one big hand spreading me open. The thick head of his cock drags through my soaking wet and hungry folds. He nudges my clit before sliding back, higher, until it brushes that tight, sensitive area again. When he brushes over the tight, sensitive ring of muscle, my breath catches.
“You’re so perfect.” His voice is low and rough, his hips moving just enough to make me feel every slow pass, my body begging for more.
He brushes there again, but never pushes. Just teasing. Just circling. My body shudders, caught between relief and wanting more. And God help me, it only makes me want him more.
I groan, needing an escape from the storm happening in my body. My forehead rests against the door, eyes closed, pulse pounding in my ears.
“That’s right.” He slides lower again, back through the wetness, slowly enough to keep my legs trembling. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
“Jesus. You feel so good. Don’t stop.”
“Are you begging for more?”
My pulse hammers. “Yes.”
And then his hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back just as he finally lines up and pushes into me. He’s slow and steady and rough at the same time, every inch making me gasp.
Cold air prickles across my skin, dragging me out of sleep.
I blink at the dark room, disoriented, the hum of the hotel’s AC louder than it should be.
Sheets slide against my bare skin, and that’s when I feel the solid warmth on my skin. It's heavy against my thigh. A man’s leg.
Oh God.
Last night slams into me in flashes. The door closing, his mouth, his hands. The way he made me forget my own name. The way my body still aches in the best possible way.
I shift, and there it is, that sweet, tender soreness at my entrance that has me clenching and immediately remembering the way he felt inside me. My nipples tighten in the chilled air.
And not just that.
God, the way he teased me. The way his finger circled where no one’s ever touched. The shock of it, the rush, the wicked promise in every slow pass. Heat flickers low, and I have to bite back a moan, pressing my thighs together like I can chase the ghost of it.
I never thought I’d want that. Never thought I’d even wonder. Now I can’t stop thinking about how good it felt. How dirty. How much more I suddenly crave.
Curiosity drags my gaze sideways.
Even asleep, he’s ridiculously delicious. His dark hair is mussed from my fingers. That thick shadow along his jaw that isn’t quite a beard but makes him look even more dangerous.
His broad chest rises and falls under the sheets, his skin warm and golden against the white. He’s all lean muscle, flat abs, and shoulders built to block out the rest of the world.
And here I am, naked, in his bed.
My pulse spikes. I want to memorize him because I know I’ll never see him again. I can’t be here when he wakes.
His breathing is deep and even, but it doesn’t stop me from holding mine as I inch toward the edge of the mattress. The sheets whisper over my skin, every sound deafening in the quiet.
My jeans are in a heap by the door, one leg twisted inside out. My black top’s not far from them. My bra’s MIA. My panties, God help me, might still be where he peeled them off and tossed them aside. I can’t think about that.
The carpet’s cold under my bare feet as I edge away, one slow step at a time. I don’t look at him. If I do, I might remember the way he pressed me against that door, the way his mouth felt on my skin, his fingers daring me, testing my boundaries.
I crouch by the door, pulling on my jeans, wincing at the tenderness between my thighs.
My top comes next, no bra. I scoop up my panties like they’re evidence, stuff them in my pocket, and snag my heels.
One last glance over my shoulder as I grab my bag on the chair by the door. He’s still asleep, sprawled carelessly in the sheets, all lean muscle and dark hair. He’s the kind of sin I can’t afford to indulge in again.
I slip out before the temptation to stay gets the better of me
The hallway is dim and silent, just the faint hum of the ice machine down the corridor. My bare feet make no sound on the carpet until I duck into the alcove by the elevators and shove my heels on.
My bag’s slung over my shoulder, heavier than I remember, and when I dig inside for my phone, the screen glares back at me: 4:32 a.m., one red sliver of battery. Perfect.
I thumb open the Uber app and pray it loads before the phone dies. A driver pings back. He's six minutes away.
While I wait, I scroll to Maris’s name. My fingers are trembling, but it's not from the cold. I’m bursting to tell someone before it feels like a dream I made up.
She’s the only one I’d even consider telling, and even then, I’d keep the dirtiest parts to myself. She’s been on the early rotation this week, so I know she’s up. Speech pathologists don’t usually pull dawn hospital shifts, but she’s covering assessments in post-op recovery.
I tap call.
She answers on the third ring, voice rough. “Sloane? Everything okay?”
I lean against the cool wall near the elevator, still a little breathless from my stealth exit. “Depends on your definition of okay.”
Her laugh is instant, a low, knowing sound. “Are you doing the walk of shame? Please tell me your sex drought has officially ended.”
“Tall. Dark and in town for business. I don’t even?—”
The elevator doors open, and a couple in matching tennis whites steps out. Their curious eyes sweep over me and my half-zipped jeans, hair a mess, and last night still written all over my skin.
Predawn tennis? Okay, I guess anything goes in Palm Beach.
My pulse kicks, but I smile and offer a pathetic wave.
“Wait,” Maris says, her tone sharpening, “you sound?—”
The line crackles. My phone flashes the low battery warning again, then goes black.
“Dammit.”
The Uber app is gone with it. My heels click on the marble as I step into the lobby, the first gray light of morning spilling through the glass doors.
God, please let my car still be en route. If he cancels, I’m screwed.
I keep walking, hugging my bag closer. The air in here is too crisp, too clean, after the heat of his hands and his mouth.
Outside, the sky is paling over palm fronds and empty streets. The magic didn’t follow me out the door, so it appears.
I have no job, no friends here, and a lease I can’t afford.
To add to that, now I have a phone that’s as dead as the plan I thought I had for my life.