Page 3 of Mr. Not Nice Guy

I flick my eyes back to his face just as he releases my neck and looks at the nightstand, where he pulls open the drawer and grabs a condom.

Oh. Right.

Safe sex is important. Especially since I can barely scrape together enough money to provide for both me and my Maw-Maw, whose dementia is worsening every day. I’m going to have to hire a nurse to help with her soon, which I really can’t afford, and I certainly can’t afford to bring a baby into this equation for fuck’s sake.

I have a lot of shit on my plate, which makes August that much more of a delicious distraction from everything as he tears the wrapper and rolls on the condom. While he’s doing that, I frantically jerk at his tie to loosen it and then snake it out of his collar. My fingers work rapidly to unfasten the buttons of his shirt, and he shrugs it off, then pulls the white undershirt over his head. The movement causes every muscle in his torso to flex and ripple, and I had no idea he looked like porn under his clothes. August is long, lean, and carved in all the right places, like he either doesn’t eat in any of the truly indulgent local New Orleans food, or just works out like a maniac. Whatever it is, I’ve never seen abs or a chest like this on a man, and I could devour him, but I settle for dipping my face to drag my tongue between the crests of his well-developed pec muscles.

Proving himself as Mr.-Get-to-the-Fucking-Point, August grabs my wrists and pins them to the pillow. “Never thought I’d get the chance to fuck a unicorn, Scarlett.”

I laugh loudly, but it catches in my throat as he drives his cock deep inside me, and that one swift motion nearly blinds me with pleasure. “I never thought I’d fuck anyone as grumpy as you, August.”

He growls against my neck as he thrusts quick and hard, his hips slamming into me, sending my breasts swaying between us. Releasing one of my wrists, August slides his hand between our bodies to fill his palm with one breast, thumb circling my pebbled nipple, and he drags his gaze down to take in the sight of it.

He gives me a devilish smirk, his dark blonde hair now tousled and falling over his green eyes. “Are you sure they’re real?”

I’d roll my eyes, but my lashes are starting to flutter from increasing, blinding pleasure, and I moan softly. “Yes.”

I can barely afford groceries. I sure as hell can’t afford a fucking boob job.

Releasing my breast, August cups his hand around the nape of my neck and angles my chin up toward him. His pistoning hips slow way, way down, and he meets my eyes with a lidded, penetrating gaze. I’ve never looked anyone directly in the eyes in the middle of sex, and it feels invasive. It starts to distract me from the inspiring pleasure that’s the whole point of this, and I press my eyelids shut. As though my closed eyes prompted him, August lowers his mouth to mine, plying meticulously, calculated, his tongue probing as deep as his cock is in my core.

And that is inspiring.

A whimper expels from me as the combination of the kiss and his torturously slow strokes pushes me beyond the edge of blindness. Internal tremors usher in the heady fog of total ecstasy, and I throw my hands forward to grip his hair, holding his supple lips to mine as I moan and mewl with abandon. Whatever restraint August briefly had is gone with the wind, and he picks up his pace again. He thrusts and slams into me, suddenly feral and raw, like Mr.-Get-to-the-Fucking-Point now has a point to prove. Like Mr.-Get-to-the-Fucking-Point needs to end this one-night-stand with one hell of an exclamation point.

Lips still fixed to mine, August pushes my thighs wider using only his knees while caging his forearms on either side of my head. Throaty grunts spill into my mouth until I can’t fucking take it anymore, and I rip our lips apart as I throw my head back.

“Fuck.” I suck in a sharp gasp and moan so long and loud that I should be embarrassed, but I’m too stripped raw to even care. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

With one last deep, hard thrust, August cranes his head backward, veins rising against the taut muscles of his neck, and his cock twitches deep inside me. He joins my climax without a single word, and as we ride out the aftershocks, my hands slip from his hair and fall to the mattress.

I am spent.

And that was truly inspirational.

I’m going to end up writing at least three sexy new songs before the night is over.

Which reminds me. I need to get the fuck out of here before all my flowing creative juices dry up like rain on a hot sidewalk.

August lingers above me for a few seconds, catching his breath, and then he slides out. Sitting back on his haunches, he removes the condom, tying it off and tossing it to the floor. He closes up shop, hoisting his slacks back up around his narrow hips, fastening them, but sliding off his belt and tossing that aside, too. I can’t help watching him as he performs this mundane, post-coital routine like it’s the most mesmerizing thing I’ve ever witnessed, because he is hot. With fancy black slacks hitting at the chiseled, tapered V at the base of his abs, no shirt, wild hair, and a sharp, stubbled jaw, he looks like a sexy ad for designer menswear.

I’m still stark naked, legs splayed and flanking his thighs, but I can’t help squinting at him and stating the obvious. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

His eyes do a lazy shift and briefly collide with mine, and I remember that he’s three sheets to the wind.

“Does it matter?” he mumbles, climbing out from between my legs before collapsing on his back next to me.

I turn my head to eye him. His eyelids blink closed, palms haphazardly splayed as they rest on his abs, and he’s this close to passing out for the night, which is good. Leaving a fling like this can be awkward, but not if the guy is sleeping. So yay.

I push myself up to start fishing through the sheets for my shorts, when his hand clasps my wrist.

“Scarlett,” he murmurs.

I look at him again. “Yeah.”

His hand leaves my wrist to snag a strand of my hair between his index finger and thumb. “Why purple if your name is red?”

I squint.

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