Cav’s big hand comes around my hip, and he centers the heel against the spot that’s dying for pressure. I bite my lip to keep from screaming. It’s a lost cause.
The orgasm hits me hard, and I squeeze the counter until my fingers go numb and my body vibrates. Cav doesn’t slow, his thrusts continuing to pound into me.
“Fuuuuck.” His bellowing roar echoes in my apartment as his cock jerks inside me.
Our heaving breaths and thundering heartbeats fill the ensuing silence.
He reaches up and sweeps his thumb across my knuckles. “You can let go now, baby girl.”
His lips press against my hair as I uncurl my fingers. I stretch them a few times until Cav takes over—rubbing each joint until the ache fades. When he’s done, he reaches for the box of tissues tucked into the corner of my counter and pulls away. I snag a couple, use them to clean up, and turn to face him.
What do I do now? What do I say? Are we together? Do I want us to be together? Do I trust him? My brain has kicked into logical mode and the questions are bombarding me.
He told me I was his, but for how long? Until he loses interest in whatever we’re doing? He’s not staying in New York forever. His life is in LA.
Dammit, why can’t the postcoital bliss stage last longer for me? Why can’t I be the girl who rolls with the casual sex and doesn’t ask questions?
Wait. Why can’t I do that? Nothing’s stopping me. I can be that girl. I don’t have to let my emotions get involved. I can take whatever this is for what it’s worth, enjoy it, and still keep my heart intact.
Decision made, I give myself an internal nod of approval. No emotions. No heart. Just casual sex while I see where this goes. And if that casual sex happens to be the best I’ve ever had . . . then all the better for me.
Winning, Greer. You are winning.
“Well, um. Thanks. That was . . . a perfect nightcap. I better crash. I’ve got a lot to get done tomorrow. Have a good night.”
I keep my tone light and casual, and Cav stares at me like I’ve grown another head. I want to fidget under the intensity of his gaze, especially because I’m standing here naked except for my bra and heels, but I keep my hands locked together in front of me. Casual. Cool. Calm. Collected. I may be none of those things right now, but I’m sure as hell going to fake it until I make it.
“Then I’ll . . . see you tomorrow,” he says slowly, as though he’s trying to form a sentence in a foreign language.
“If I can carve out some time, I’ll, um, shoot you a text?” I don’t even have his number.
He shakes his head, his eyes narrowed. “I’ll find you, Greer.” His expression is calling me out on my bullshit blowoff. Like he knows what game I’m playing, and he’s better at it.
That just hardens my resolve. This is my life. Not a game.
“Good night, Cav. Thanks again.”
He leans in, and I expect another kiss on my forehead or my cheek, but Cav is having none of it. He buries his hand in my hair, gripping the back of my head, and covers my lips with his. His tongue slides inside, no permission requested or needed.
I’m still catching up with the devouring kiss when he releases me and steps away.
“Good night, Greer. My pleasure.”
“The kitchen counter? Nice. You’re going to have to point out that space so I don’t accidentally sit where you almost lost your anal cherry.”
I consider hanging up on Banner because the last thing I want to talk about is my anal cherry, but . . . I’ve been dishing with her for years about her hot sexcapades and my lukewarm ones. Now that I’ve finally got something to share, I’m sharing.
“Right side, between the last two bar stools.”
“Damn . . . So, was it as good as the first time? Even though you weren’t banging against any walls?”
I don’t hesitate. “Better. He’s good. Like, maybe best ever.”
She sighs. “I don’t know if that means he’s off-the-charts incredible, or whether I should send a sympathy bouquet to you for all the years of shitty sex you’ve had.”
“I like flowers,” I say offhandedly. “I don’t get them often enough. Or ever. Unless I buy them myself.” Now that I think about it, that’s pretty tragic. I make a mental note to buy myself flowers more often because, dammit, I deserve them and spectacular sex.
“Well, shit, this guy better get on the ball if he wants to impress you, then. Too bad he hasn’t been in any romcoms. That flower-giving shit would be ingrained.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“What do you mean? That your life isn’t a funny/sexy movie? Because it could be. Although right now you’re heading into porn territory. I mean, how much of a story line was there before you banged against the door?”
“Seriously, shut up. You know what I mean. This thing with Cav, it’s not real. It’s not going to last. I don’t know what game he’s playing, but considering his track record for following through with me, I’m not going to expect anything but hot sex. That’s fair, right?”