Page 95 of Cross Check

“I should head back,” I say, reluctant.

“Do you want me to walk with you? We could split a cab.”

Hopefulness tinges his tone, and it’s the sign that lets me know it’s time. I don’t want to—can’t—give him the wrong idea, and asking him to walk me back to my room will only lead to trouble.

How fun would it be to stay longer? To go somewhere quieter?

I’ll never know.

“No.” I smile and put my hand over his. One more lingering touch before the night ends and this spell breaks. “But I’ll let you know when I’m back in my room.”

“Okay.” Grant nods, not pushing back on my decision. Respectful, even in the face of rejection. What a man. “Be safe, please.”

“I will. Thanks for a fun night.”

“Thanks for coming. I’ll see you soon.”

“Can’t wait.” I turn toward the stairs that will lead me to the exit. “I’m counting down the minutes.”

Back in my hotel room, I rinse off and wash my face. I change into my favorite pair of pajamas and climb into bed. Grant is still in the forefront of my thoughts even after my shower, and I relax against the pillows. My hand rests on my stomach, toying with the drawstring of my shorts.

I’m worked up. Practically buzzing, and I slip my hand lower, past the waistband of my underwear.

Fuck.

When was the last time I touched myself?

It has to be weeks, and I wiggle my shorts and underwear down my thighs. I pull my shirt over my head, stretching out on the mattress. I close my eyes, my imagination wandering. I never have anyone specific in mind when I get off, relying on hazy fantasies to guide me toward an orgasm.

Tonight, the image is clear: sharp jaw. Dark hair. Please.

What else would he beg for?

I give in to temptation, parting my thighs and closing my eyes as I circle my clit with my finger. I tease myself, my other hand dancing across my chest and pinching my nipple tight, just the way I like.

Bigger hands would be better.

His hands would be better, thicker fingers that would get deeper inside me. I bend my knees and draw my feet closer. I take a breath, easing a finger inside myself while a moan rattles out of me.

I squirm at the stretch and the deliciously pleasant sensation that builds in my stomach. I think about Grant’s palm on my neck, his mouth leaving a mark on my thigh. I drop my hand from my chest, circling my clit. I bite my bottom lip when I add a second finger, not wanting my groan to wake up the whole floor. My back arches. I open my knees wider, so close to the high I so desperately want.

I imagine him sitting in the chair across from me. Watching me, telling me what he wants.

Would you try three fingers for me? he’d ask. Please?

Are you wet? Can I taste?

The thought of Grant seeing me like this—vulnerable, intimate and forbidden—sends a shockwave through my body. Pleasure grips me. Ecstasy rings in my ears when I gasp as the orgasm hits.

I cry out, unable to hold back the elation of my release, and a smaller, second wave sweeps me away. I drift higher and higher before crashing down.

It’s the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had, a full-body experience that takes me minutes to come down from. When I do, my limbs are heavy. Exhaustion hits me like a freight train, and I smile, thoroughly pleased.

Sex is better, but this’ll take the edge off for a little while.

On the bedside table, my phone lights up. I grab it, squinting at the screen.

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