Thorne Princess(82)

“Ransom, have you ever been—”

“No.”

“Okay, I won’t ask.”

This was painful. This was why I kept my sexual liaison on the kinky side. It was so much easier to explain why there wouldn’t be kissing and cuddling.

She kissed me again, slowly now. Touching her lips to the side of my mouth. Her tongue traced my lips. Her arms wrapped around my neck. I opened my mouth. She tasted of toothpaste and something sweet and Hallie. Of her jokes and quirks and idealistic, environmental agenda.

We did that for a while. I didn’t dare touch her clothes, remove anything. But I was relieved when she scooted back a little, grabbed the hem of her sweatshirt, and flung it to the floor. I kicked the blanket off of us, allowing myself to admire her tits. Her tattoos. All of her.

Take a good look and have your fill, because you’re about to fuck the client and with it, your entire business plan.

My thumb traced her ink. The lotus along her midriff, the mermaid tail on her hipbone…

“Do you want to kiss me somewhere else?” Her voice sounded timid—almost childish—in my ears again. And if I wasn’t too far gone, this might cause me to pull away and get my shit together.

I looked up at her, nodding. “I want to kiss you everywhere.”

“Please do.”

I started with her neck. I licked the outline of her breasts, biting softly the part where the curve met her ribcage. It was a lovely torture. My skin felt different. More sensitive. Perhaps I was allergic to making out. Unlikely, but not out of character.

Clasping one of her nipples between my teeth, I angled my cock between her legs, finding her sleek and ready for me. I knew, as my tip nestled between her hot, wet folds, that I was making a mistake.

I knew, and still, I pressed home.

She gasped, pushing her hot mouth into my neck.

“This feels so…” she stuttered.

Please say good and not horrible, because my dick will fall off if I have to stop now.

“Yes?” I urged, moving inside her slowly, so slow it hurt. Not only because I wanted to make it good for her, but because I was pretty sure I was about to come.

“Insane!” She dropped her head to the pillow, nails digging into my waist, drawing me closer.

I swallowed her moans with demanding, deep kisses, driving into her, spiraling with each thrust, feeling her clenching around me. I wanted her to come so badly I disgusted myself. This new version of me, the one that gave a shit, was a danger to my identity.

“Right there.” Her mouth dropped into an O-shape, her eyes finding mine in the dark. I was making eye contact now while fucking. This was just great. What came next? Spooning.

You already spooned her, idiot. Pre-sex.

Her hips rolled, meeting each of my thrusts. She was good at this, I realized. A natural. One day, she was going to find someone else, hopefully someone good, who’d get to enjoy that on a daily basis.

That someone wasn’t gonna be me.

Grabbing her ass, I tugged her down to the edge of the bed, sinking my feet to the floor. I couldn’t stand the tenderness. The romance of it all.

Spreading her wide, I started pushing into her jerkily, the way I would if she were another faceless, highly curated Tinder hookup.

Tell me to stop. Tell me it’s not good for you. Tell me I’m a bastard.

“Shit! Oh! This is so good,” she cried out instead, her tits bouncing to the rhythm of my thrusts.

This was when it hit me. I wasn’t wearing a condom, for the first time since I’d started having sex.

“I gotta pull out,” I groaned. “We’re bareback. Are you coming?”

“Gimme a few.”

I drove into her harshly. “Hurry up.”

As if on cue, she fell apart beneath me, her muscles squeezing my cock greedily. Her breathing became shaky. A drop of sweat rolled from my forehead, exploding inside her navel.

I pulled out, strings of my white cum ribboning over her tatted body.

This never happened. I never went off-script. Never screwed a client. Only it did happen. Was happening. Right now.

Shoving my legs into my pants, I staggered out of her room.

Now wasn’t the time to start catching feelings.





“Hallie! Come here, please. They need another family photo!” My mother’s overtly cheerful lilt grated from under the arched, white columns of the Art Museum of Dallas. It had been converted into a wedding venue for the day. A school trip had to be canceled to accommodate the event.

I tugged the green sage bridesmaid dress from the pebbled floor, stomping in Mom’s direction. Craig had been MIA so far—an hour into the pre-wedding photos—and Hera, in her Cowen Original ivory silk asymmetric ball gown, was in advanced stages of losing her mind.

As I made my way to my parents and sister, my inner thighs still sore, my center throbbing from my encounter with Ransom last night, I heard Hera billowing into her phone: “I don’t care if he’s dead, Braxton! If he’s not here, looking like a million bucks, in exactly twenty minutes I’m calling the whole thing off. See who’s going to pay off his student debt now. The useless bastard has been freeloading for years. He’s not going to make me look like an idiot.”

“Ship’s sailed,” Ransom murmured, in his black Armani suit as I passed by him on my way to my family, his eyes stuck to his phone. My heart skipped a beat, and I whipped my head around to see if he’d make eye contact. He did.