Page 34 of Room Serviced
Sloane laughed, her hands on his face, then in his hair. He was pretty sure she heaved again, on purpose, and then the front of her dress was gone and he was working his way up her neck again, one thigh between her legs.
“Amazing,” he said. “I think I know how I want to die now.”
Sloane bit his lower lip, then licked it. “Just wait, like, thirty minutes.” She had her hands on his belt, tugging at it. Max pulled back, hands on the wall on either side of her shoulders, and looked down.
“Why? You need something first?” Her dress was still on her shoulders, somehow, hanging behind her like a cape, black bra and panties still on. Max knew exactly what it meant that they matched. Not that he’d doubted, but still.
“I need your stupid belt off,” she said, and finally pulled it through the clasp, yanking it open. Half a second later, his shorts were undone, the heel of her hand was pressing against his dick through the cotton of his boxers, and he was groaning into her neck.
“Where’s your suitcase?” he asked. He didn’t think he could fuck her against the wall the whole time, but it was a good place to start.
“Next to the balcony door with the open curtains looking out on the courtyard,” she said. They both looked over.
“Right,” Max said, gave her one more deep kiss, and went to close the curtains.
When he turned around, Sloane was a few feet away, rifling through her suitcase on her knees. She’d ditched the dress but was still wearing her bra and panties, and Max didn’t even stop to think, just got his clothes off and dropped onto his knees behind her.
“Hi,” she said when he dropped a kiss onto her lower back and gripped her hips. “They’re here somewhere.”
Max kissed his way up her spine, messy and open-mouthed, and felt the way she arched beneath him. “How much stuff did you bring for two nights?”
“I drove down. It’s not like I needed to pack light,” she said, and he reached her bra clasp. “So I brought my own shampoo and…stuff.” Her bra fell off, conveniently into the suitcase—that was a good trick, and Max leaned forward onto one hand, cupping her breast in the other, her nipple lightly squeezed between two fingers as his dick slid along the back of one thigh. “You’re not trying to help, are you?” she asked, sounding shakier already.
“I’m providing inspiration,” he said, and Sloane sighed so he bit her shoulder blade, gently.
“Where the fuck did I—wait,” she said. Max slid her panties off, down to her knees and over one foot, and there was enough light in the room for him to see she was glistening. He had to take a deep breath and squeeze the base of his dick for a moment before he could?—
“Here,” she said, and held a condom over her shoulder between two fingers. “I forgot I put them in that side?—”
It wasn’t Max’s fault he cut her off; Sloane was totally welcome to keep talking about where she’d hidden the condoms from herself while Max stroked the pad of his thumb down her slit, gathering wetness, and then slid it over her clit a couple of times. Her head dropped and she rocked backward, against his hand, and it wasn’t quite ideal because he was using his right hand to roll the condom onto himself and he was a little clumsier with his left, but Sloane didn’t complain.
“Are you waiting for an invitation?” she asked, looking over her shoulder. “Come on.”
Jesus Christ, Max was going to die and he was going to die happy. “I didn’t get a good look last night,” he said, using his right hand this time.
“Why not? Your face was in it enough.”
“Disagree,” Max said, and slid two fingers into her, his thumb landing on her clit. Sloane clenched around him, all slick hot muscle, and Max’s brain briefly whited out.
“I know that’s not your dick,” she said, and she sounded ragged and pleading and like she was halfway in a suitcase, still. “You were bruising my tonsils last night.”
Max stopped moving. “Fuck, I’m?—”
“Not literally. I’m fine,” she said. “I’m just saying.”
He pulled his fingers out with a slick, pornographic noise he was pretty sure he’d hear in his wet dreams, then rubbed his knuckles against her clit one more time.
“I’m still face down in my suitcase. If you’re not going to get on with it, we could—” Sloane broke off into a noise as Max lined himself up and pushed in with one stroke. He had to rest his forehead against her back when he bottomed out, collecting himself for a moment. Mostly making sure he didn’t come immediately, since he’d already been close and the way Sloane had arched her back and groaned had not exactly helped matters.
“You good?” he asked after a moment, when he could trust his voice again.
“Yeah, I’m good,” Sloane said, breathy and faint as she clenched around him, then pushed back. Max grabbed her hip and dug his fingers in. “C’mon, you can?—”
Fuck me right, she was going to say, presumably, because she stopped talking as he started fucking. He started gently, pulling out and sliding back in, thinking about speed and angles and force and virtually anything but how good it felt or how Sloane was fucking back and moaning while she ground against his pelvis. Watching wasn’t helping, either, but he couldn’t stop himself from looking at the way the muscles in her back knotted and pulled or the way she stretched around him.
“You can go harder,” she gasped. They were in a rhythm now, hard and steady, Sloane making a noise every time he bottomed out as Max kept whispering everything that came to mind, mostly You like that and So fucking good. “I’m not gonna br—ow, fuck.”
Sloane suddenly tumbled away from him, practically onto her face, as the suitcase slid away across the floor. She caught herself on one elbow, and Max slid out, landing with a hand on either side of her.
