Page 127 of Road Trip to Forever
“Perfect,” I repeat, my eyes squeezing closed.
“No,” she says. She pinches my hip and I glance down to find her wearing a smirk and throwing my words back at me. “I want you to watch when you come inside me. I want to watch you fall apart. Eyes on me, Patrick.”
My orgasm claws at my back from her demand. It starts at the base of my spine, working its way up to my shoulders then back down my chest until I’m filling the condom, a few words from her enough to catapult me off the edge offuckandyes. I grunt and bury my face in her hair as I jerk forward, my hips lining up with hers until we’re flush together.
My movements slow and I release a breath, lowering myself onto my elbows above her and thrusting one more time, emptied and utterly spent.
“Incredible,” I mumble. “I think you’re a sex goddess.”
Lola blushes, her chest and cheeks turning red. She smiles and kisses me again, softer this time. “We work well together. I think that’s why it’s so good between us.”
“Did you come?” I ask, noticing her steady breathing. “You didn’t, did you?”
“No, but it’s—”
I pull out of her and peel the condom off, tying it in a knot and dropping it on the floor.
“Don’t finish that sentence,” I say. “Of course it’s okay that you didn’t come, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to keep trying. This isn’t a one-sided physical relationship, Lo. I understand sometimes we might not be able to get you there, but it doesn’t mean we just give up after five minutes. Do you want to keep going?”
“Yes,” she says softly, like she’s afraid to admit it. “It’s easier for me when you use your fingers. You can touch more places.”
“When we get home,” I say, kissing her neck and running my hand up her leg, teasing her until she’s raising her hips and grinding into the heel of my palm, “I’d like to watch you with your toys. I want to learn.”
“I want to show you,” she says, and I spend the next hour helping her tip over the edge.
Twice.
THIRTY-SIX
LOLA
I pacefrom one end of the hotel living room to the other. The carpet is going to be nonexistent when we check out later this afternoon, a section rubbed off from the path I’m walking.
It’s our last day in Florida and I’ve been up since dawn, crawling out of bed and moving to the couch so I didn’t interrupt Patrick’s sleep. The nervousness I’ve managed to avoid over this past week has slowly creeped up this morning, gnawing at me with every minute that passes on the clock. In a few short hours, the winner of the fashion show will be announced. In a few short hours, my life could change.
There’s also a good possibility itdoesn’tchange, staying entirely the same. I’m prepared for that, expecting the realistic outcome while clinging to a lofty dream with cautious optimism. Last night I watched a playback of yesterday’s signature style while hiding in the bathroom after I tossed and turned for an hour, unable to turn off my mind or think of anything else.
I’m blown away by the sheer talent of the designers here. It’s been four days of nothing but creative artistic flair, perfectly cut fabric with not a single thread out of place and enthusiastic crowd support. It’s impossible to distinguish a real fan favorite or any insight into what the judges might be thinking.
I knew the show would be competitive, a selective process that whittled thousands of applicants down to a select few hundred deemed good enough to chase the grand prize. Seeing that talent up close, though, passing by it in the hall and watching models contort their bodies to highlight the sharp cuts and fine lines of impeccably sewn clothing, only amplifies howincrediblethe people are.
Each day on the runway was full of surprises. There were outfits that pushed gender stereotypes and defied gravity. Some outfits that looked like there wasn’t an outfit at all, the material translucent until the model hit the exact spot on the stage where the spotlights shone on their shimmering gowns.
I heard gasps of surprise and rounds of applause. I saw standing ovations and the audience shocked into silence. They seemed to like my final signature style piece, fond of the dress with a cape that turns into a jumpsuit. Brielle modeled it, detaching the black adornment from her neck and letting it billow behind her like it was caught in a gust of wind.
The crowd went wild, but it’s hard to be sure.
They’ve gone wild over a design from almost everyone, their untrained eyes appreciating the jaw-dropping outfits with plunging necklines and short shorts. They aren’t critiquing on finesse or skillsets. They care about thewowfactor, something I think I might have.
Everyone else might have it too though, and that’s where things go up in the air.
“Lo?”
I look up, pausing my forty-fifth lap around the room to find Patrick leaning against the door frame. He crosses his arms over his bare chest and his lips bow into a thin line. His hair is sticking up on the sides and there’s a pillow crease on his cheek.
“Hey,” I say. “Did I wake you up?”
“By walking around the living room? No. Reaching over in the bed and finding it empty woke me up. Are you okay?”
