CHAPTER FIVE
Sutton
Four Hours Ago
“I need one more taste of you before I go.”
I half chuckle, half sigh as I feel the silkiness of Johnnie’s hair against my inner thighs and the warmth of his tongue licking its way between my now swollen slit.
My legs are slightly sore but the tightness is quickly forgotten as the mastery of his tongue makes everything else fade away.
Does the man ever tire?
Considering my orgasm slowly simmering beneath the surface, for my sake, I’m glad he doesn’t.
I close my eyes and sink into the pleasure he provides—
Ring.
I bolt up in bed, slightly disoriented in the dim light of the unfamiliar room and try to catch my startled breath.
The phone.
Get the phone.
I look at the nightstand beside me where the phone is lit up as it rings and scramble over to grab it.
“Hello?” I say in my sleep garbled voice.
“Good morning, ma’am,” a very efficient-sounding woman says. “I just wanted to let you know that your order is on the way up. The concierge will leave it at the door for you.”
“I didn’t order anything . . .” I take a quick look around the hotel room and realize there is absolutely zero trace of the man I was with last night. My purse and phone are still on the table across the way.
“Someone did and he had very exact instructions on delivery time and process,” she says. “Please let us know if you need anything else.”
“Thank you.”
I slide out of bed and pull the comforter around me as I walk toward the bathroom. A part of me deflates when there isn’t a trace of him in there, nor is he in the sitting room of the suite.
He’s gone.
I walk around the room. The wrappers from the minibar we raided at three in the morning aren’t strewn across the table. My clothes are folded neatly on the couch. I move about and then breathe a sigh of relief to see the trash can full of empty water bottles and trash.
Last night did happen. I don’t need to be pinched to confirm it wasn’t a dream. The evidence is all right there.
And I’m not sure why I so desperately needed to see it to believe it.
A little more settled, I notice my handprints on the glass windows. They’re a visual reminder of last night, with the early morning sky just beginning to light up outside, and I feel a mixture of validation, sadness, relief, and something else that I can’t quite put my finger on.
Sadness because it’s over.
Sure, I knew it was a one-night stand going in, but I can’t deny that I enjoyed every damn minute of it. Him. What he brought out in me. The things he showed me were possible during sex. The things he made me realize I had done without and now never would settle for again.
Relief because it’s over.
Him not being here means there is no morning-after awkwardness, no demonstration of the weird and sudden clinginess I feel toward him, no need to make excuses and explain how so very out of the ordinary it was for me to do that last night.
That it’s not my MO.
And then there is the something else.
The emptiness? The acknowledgment that I don’t know how to do a one-night stand and so . . . I feel a little lost.
There has to be some validity in that, right?
Or maybe it’s just coming to terms with everything that has happened in the last twenty or so hours.
Maybe I look at last night and Johnnie Walker and think of it and him as a well-needed jolt to my system.
As proof or validation or something to show me that I was right to find the courage to finally leave Clint. And I feel so damn free.
All I know is his scent is still on my skin and every time I notice it, I’m reminded of how little sleep we got and how many orgasms I achieved.
Of the laughter and the moans and the groans that filled this room.
Of how I let myself be someone else for a few hours and don’t regret it one bit.
Oh. My. God.
Last night really happened.
It did.
And practical, dependable, colors-insides-the-lines Sutton Pierce literally just had her brains fucked out by a man—perfection in the male form—without a single regret.
I squeal and cover my face with my hands like a silly teenager.
The knock on the door startles me even though I should have expected it.
I wait until I hear the footsteps fade down the hall and the elevator ding before I open the door to the suite. When I look down, there is the unmistakable Starbucks logo on a brown bag and a cup of coffee beside it.
I pick up the coffee and belt out a laugh. “Collins” is printed in black Sharpie on the side of it.
He didn’t forget.
With a goofy smile on my face, I grab the bag of bakery goods and head toward the table, because I’m famished. It’s only when I go to open the bag that I notice the handwritten note on the outside of it.
Thanks for last night. Hope the rebound was worth it.
—Johnnie