Page 59 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

I glance over at him. He’s sprawled out on the pillows. His hair is damp and waving. His chest is on full display. One arm is slung over his head like he’s modeling for GQ: Reclaimed Husband Edition.

Biting my lip, I lean over him. He watches me. I straddle his lap, hovering over his groin. The towel moves as his erection grows and his eyes go dark. “Item number five,” I whisper, grinding, just once.

He groans and raspily says, “Yeah?”

“I ride you on this squeaky-ass motel bed until it collapses and my phone records it in the mirrors.”

He yanks the towel. It parts and he throws it before grabbing my hips so hard I gasp.

“You sure?” He growls.

I grind before reaching between us and ripping his towel off, too. Swiping my phone, I open the camera and hit video. I point it down at Chase and capture his face before setting it on the side of the bed pointing up. Looking at the screen, I see us both in the frame. I sink down onto him. He groans and I say, “We’re making a home movie, lover.”

The bed squeaks. Loudly. As advertised.

I ride him while his fingers dig into my hips, holding me in place. Rolling, he flips me under him. I gasp.

His mouth is on mine. His hands are on my boobs. His voice is in my ear, dirty and reverent. “You want soft, or do you want loud?”

Smiling, I plant my feet into the bed. “I want both.”

Oh, Chase.

Oh baby, does he deliver.

He fucks me, then, he makes love to me. He stops to eat me like I’m his last meal, before flipping me over and driving into me over and over and over, like the world might end if he stops. He licks, bites, sucks on, and kisses me like I’m the answer to every question he’s ever asked.

I come on his tongue, on his cock, and then, again on his face when he says, “You’re mine, baby. You always have been.” While I’m still shuddering, he comes deep inside of me, the bed frame cracking on his final thrust.

We both collapse as the bed frame folds in. We’re breathless.

Sweaty. Happy. Home.

When we can breathe semi-normally, we both laugh. He mutters, “You wanted to break the fuckin’ bed, Rox.”

I laugh harder. “I did.” Something cold presses into my thigh. Reaching down, I pick it up and lift it. It’s still recording. I grin, “It’s all on video.”

Chase’s face flushes but he fake pounds his fists on his chest. “Me Tarzan, you Jane, baby cakes. We’ll watch it later before deleting it.” We laugh so hard, we wheeze.

Later, he calls the front desk, and says, “We broke the bed. But we’re emotionally better now. Charge it to my card.”

CHASE

* * *

The coffee is terrible. Like, burnt tire with a splash of regret terrible.

But Roxy looks like a dark-haired Shakira as she sits on the edge of the motel bed with her hair wild, her mascara smudged, and she’s only wearing panties. Her eyes are sleepy.

Everything’s perfect.

“I can’t believe you broke the bed,” she says between grimacing sips.

I raise a brow. “I broke the bed? Don’t you mean we broke the bed?”

She looks at me through hooded eyes. “You’re like eighty percent responsible.”

I snort, “You begged for thrust variation and wanted it hard.”

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