Two hours later, I close the door to the suite and walk down the hall, my jacket over my arm, my shirt rumpled from her nails, a button near the top cleanly ripped off. I examine the loose thread and grin, shaking my head at the thought of her. God, I forgot what a hellion she is, how she can pounce on your body and ride you like a fucking bull. I step on the elevator and press the button for my floor, catching my reflection in the metal doors. I look like a mess. I step closer to it, tilting my head to the side to examine the hickey that runs along my collarbone. I pull up my collar and frown, the mark not entirely hidden. Damn woman. I’ll have to button up and wear a tie tomorrow. I am smiling as I step onto my floor, my mind in a better place than it had been two hours earlier. That’s the value of Mira and Edward, even more than the orgasms. They are a reminder that there is nothing wrong with me, that we are all consenting adults who enjoy pleasure, in whatever form brings the most of it. If Mira likes getting two, or four, or ten cocks at once, that’s her business and nobody else’s. If I like a husband to watch me fuck his wife, or I enjoy competing for orgasms, why should society judge me for it?
I get it, though. I understand the stigma, the flinch of the mind when confronted with the idea. Hell, the first time Mira set it up, had I not been horny as hell, and twice as drunk, I’d have probably run the other way. But it had only turned me on more, thinking of fucking her in front of an audience, in front of another man, one who wanted her just as badly, or more, than I did. The competitiveness of it is an aphrodisiac, one so intense that normal sex can pale in comparison. Normal sex has, for a while, paled in comparison.
I stop in front of my room, and dig in my pocket for the key card, sliding it through the lock and pushing open the door, reaching for the light switch and stopping. On my bed, curled into a ball, her dark hair spread out on my pillow, is Kate. A remote hangs limply from her hand, her face illuminated by the screen, a black and white show running. I quietly pull the door closed and step into the bathroom, brushing my teeth and changing out of my clothes. I consider the shower and decide to wait, needing to get Kate back to her room before my cock comes back to life. I pull on workout pants and look for my T-shirt, getting frustrated as I dig through the suitcase. I am turning back to the closet when I see my shirt on her, the bright blue fabric loud against the white sheets. I smile despite myself, walking over and carefully taking the remote before turning off the television, the room falling dark. I pull back the covers, and slide my hands underneath her, gathering her into my arms, her body falling limply against my bare chest. I steal a moment and lean in, inhaling her scent, one of fresh soap and flowers, a combination I’ve gotten whiffs of but never fully sampled. I step slowly through the open door, into her dimly lit room, and make my way to her bed, the covers already pulled back and waiting for her. I stop, looking down at the bed, not yet ready to let her go, not yet ready to part. Maybe I should have left her on my bed. Maybe I should have laid down beside her and curled against her body. I could be there, my body pressed against hers, right now. I could spend all night with my mouth against her shoulder, and her legs against mine. I almost step back, but don’t. It doesn’t feel right, doing that tonight, not when I’ve spent hours with Mira and left her here alone.
I feel her stir and I glance down, watching her eyes open, the slow movement of them as they search the dark and find my face. She smiles, and my arms tighten around her. “I’m heavy,” she whispers.
“Nah.”
“How long have you been just standing here, staring at me?”
I can’t stop the grin that stretches over my face. “It’s creepy, right?”
“Totally creepy.” She shifts, curling tighter against me, her hand fisting against my chest. Her eyes drop to the bare skin, then dart back to my face. “You’re naked.” She says the word with evil pride, as if she is a small child who has just caught an adult misbehaving and can’t wait to tell someone.
I shake my head. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m wearing pants. I just couldn’t find my shirt.” I narrow my eyes at her, then pointedly drop the glare down to the shirt.
Her eyes roam over my shoulders, and she smiles. “I would apologize, but I’m enjoying the repercussions of my crime.” She pats my chest. “How long are you planning on holding me up?”