Page 54 of Pucking One Night Stand
What the fuck…
He plants his feet on the asphalt. Somehow stays upright. His thighs strain against his pants as he skids along with the car, gripping the edge of the door like it’s nothing, slowing us down until we stop inches,inches, from slamming into the truck in front.
I blink. Once. Twice.
He turns to me with that same unreadable look on his face.
And then—
Dawn.
A soft grey light starts leaking in from the corner of the room, slipping under the blinds. The office window.
My brain lurches. The Strip dissolves. The rain disappears, and I’m on the sofa.
Still half in it, but not really. The kind of half-awake where nothing makes sense and everything feels like maybe it still could.
Blake’s face is suddenly in front of me, close, and blurred. He doesn’t speak. Just lowers his head and presses a kiss on my forehead. Warm. Soft. Real.
I breathe in.
He’s dressed. His shirt is buttoned, his hair flopping over his eyes as he runs his hand through it.
He moves around the office without saying a word, picking up my clothes from the floor. My blouse, my bra, my heels. He gathers them like he's not still half feral from last night. Like he didn't fuck the living daylights out of me on this couch for hours.
He places my clothes in a neat pile on the corner of my desk, then shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over me.
My mouth parts to say something. Anything. But I don't.
I just watch him walk across the dark office, open the door, and leave.
The second it clicks shut, my eyes are already slipping shut again.
Everything aches. My hips, my thighs, the spot at the base of my spine where the armrest dug in. But it's not pain. It's the good kind. The kind you feel in your bones and deep in your belly.
I shift slightly, and the leather of the sofa sticks to my bare skin. I sigh, curling tighter under his jacket.
The smell of him is still on it. Clean sweat and warm skin.
I open my eyes again. I’m wide awake now. And yeah. The office looks... wrecked.
No. Not wrecked. Violated.
My desk’s crooked. One leg is bent like it tried to give up halfway through. The computer monitor’s practically hanging off the edge, twisted at a weird angle. A pen lies near my shoe. There’s a stapler, my planner, and a couple of very private HR forms on the carpet.
“Jesus, Cassy,” I mutter into the quiet, sitting up and pulling his jacket tighter around me.
I remember what he asked me. “So, Cassy. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
And I’d just stared at him, all smug and satisfied and lazy as hell, and whispered, “I’ll tell you another time.”
Idiot.
I swing my legs off the couch and wince at the feel of the cold air on my skin. My body’s still humming from everything we did.
And underneath it all, between my thighs and deep down to the core of me, is that same hot, swollen, pulsing beat. Like my body refuses to forget him.
I flop back onto the couch, groaning.
