Page 5 of Worth the Scandal
And then we move—no words, just synchronicity. My body guiding him into the throbbing centre between my thighs, his slow thrusts matching my rhythm until we’re completely intertwined.
I’m frantic.
I’m full.
I’m taken by him.
Every rock of his hips, every moan and sigh and whispered curse—it’s like he’s rewriting my memory of what connection is supposed to feel like.
Jason should be here taking notes.
We combust together, trembling under the weight of it all.
And then we do it again.
And again.
We talk in between love matches, wrapped in tangled sheets and shared secrets. We speak of all our dreams and the kind of futures you only say aloud when you think you’ll never see someone again—and when you vowed not even to share names. It’s strange—how easy it is to be real when you know the moment won’t last.
He opens up, really opens up. I find out his brother died not too long ago, and our exchange might be an AA meeting but for grief. He tells me about his family and the pressure his parents now put on him to take over the family business but all he knows is football and it’s all he’s ever been good at. Clearly, he’s never had sex with himself because I can attest that he’s good at, at least one other thing than throwing around a football and tackling other men.
But eventually, even the best nights end.
Even thebeststrangers leave.
And after tonight I now know even the most fleeting of romances can be cosmic.
My eyelids become heavy, and I drift off wrapped up in a perfect stranger, smiling out at the view and listening to a mix tape of the ocean waves and the deep breaths of Mr Mysterious.
* * *
I roll over and groan.
My body aches in the best way, and my brain… well, my brain feels like tequila took a sledgehammer to it. Thanks, Jen.
Never again.
Okay, probably again. But not anytime soon.
The light bleeds in through my balcony windows—wait. The thin linen curtains are wide open…
Weird.
I never open the curtains anymore.
Oh.
My.
God.
The realisation hits and the events of last night snap back into the forefront of my mind like a rubber band.
Mr. “Hates Football” is gone. The orgasms—or maybe the hangover—have me totally disoriented. Did I dream him?
I glance around and freeze.
The apartment is… clean.
