Page 3 of Parting Shot

“Please.” The word was barely audible, more a shaky huff of air than a sound. His passion-glazed eyes lifted to me. “Use me.”

I couldn’t pull out a couple of inches and then plunge back inside him like they did in all the best pornos. I was too swollen with arousal, and he was too tight. All I could do was make the strokes as smooth as possible.

“Duncan!” he yelled, and his muscles squeezed tight, wringing a response from me, the sizzling heat simmering in the base of my spine.

I wanted to feel my body fit into his, wanted the give and take, the slow build and the blind rush of nothing but adrenaline and the euphoric high before the crash. I wanted to fuck him so hard that only I would ever do. Once would never be enough.

“I need you,” he ground out.

I knew he did.

“Don’t leave me.”

“No,” I promised and pushed into him.

He was loud, and I loved it because there was no need to guess what he wanted. His tears were of no consequence because they were about walls breaking and nothing bad.

I curled over him, my face pressed into the back of his neck, kissing gently before I took hold of his hips and began the rhythm of thrust and retreat.

“Harder,” he moaned.

“Come!” I demanded, because I was too close, too engorged inside him, but I needed him sated first.

“I … Duncan …”

I shifted my angle and didn’t have to guess if I got the spot I was after. He lost his language; there was only a guttural cry before he splattered over the wall in front of him. My climax was seconds behind his, and as we stood together, aftershocks racking through us, I realized I was probably holding him too tight.

“Oh,” I said softly and tried to ease free.

“No.” He stopped me, content within the cocoon of my arms. “Stay.”

And I had, all night, but I tried to leave with my pride intact the next morning. Telling the man I wanted to carry the smell of his sweat on me all day, that washing his dried cum off my stomach from his second orgasm of the night was not something I wanted to do, was probably too much for the morning after our first date. I would scare him to death.

When he sat up and stared at me, I charged toward the door. I didn’t want to hear I was being stupid, and I was sorry I’d said it, even as it had come out. I had a tendency to get attached way too fast.

“Duncan.”

I stopped and glanced over my shoulder.

“Will you call me when you return to Chicago?”

It took everything in me not to turn and bolt to the bed and kiss him until he begged me to stay. He looked so good, so tempting, so much like home, that I had to swallow down my heart to not move.

“Yeah,” I said huskily, “if you want.”

He nodded. “Please.”

I tried to smile, but it didn’t come off—more of a grimace of pain than anything else, I was sure. “Okay. I’ll see ya.”

“You don’t need my driver to⁠—”

“Nah. I got a cab waiting outside.”

“Oh,” he exhaled.

I didn’t want to say okay again, so I opened the door and left.

It felt wrong to go. Staying seemed right, but I was too scared to tell him. And even though I had only known him for twelve hours, since dinner the night before, the thought of leaving him was physically painful.