The Trade(71)

“You liked that?” he asks, picking up his pace.

“The way you touched me last night? It made me more aroused than I ever have been, like I couldn’t handle the intense pleasure that was ripping through me.”

“But you did. Fuck, watching you come on my tongue”—he drives into me harder now, the pressure building—“it was . . . so . . . fucking . . . hot.” My knees are barely staying on the mattress now as he rubs against me. “Jesus Christ, Natalie, I can feel your wet pussy through my briefs.”

“You made me like this . . .” I take a deep breath. “Aroused, horny, needy. You make me wet.”

“Fuck . . .”

“I’ve masturbated while we were here,” I say, loving how out of control he feels behind me, loving how I can feel my orgasm looming, the build between my legs getting so heavy that getting there is going to happen in seconds. “I wished it was your hand, not mine.”

And that’s all it takes.

He growls so loud, I feel like it shakes the walls. The beastly sound vibrates up my spine only to float back down and straight to my core.

One thrust.

“Fuck . . . me,” he grunts louder.

Another thrust.

My legs shake, my breath escapes me, my hands grip the sheets.

One more . . .

“Oh Cory,” I yell, as pleasure rips through me, starting at the bundle of nerves in my core and then shooting out like a million rockets all through my veins. My voice cries out in the distance while Cory’s grunts overtake the sound in the room, his ruthless slaps of his body against mine filling the void until he moans out a long and tortured, “Fuck.” He stills his hips, releasing me, his body falling forward, his chest against my backside while his arms prop him up.

“Christ,” he mutters, placing a kiss against my lower back. “Fuck, Natalie, I’m sorry.”

Sorry? Why on earth is he sorry?

Even though my legs are shaky and I can barely orient myself, I twist under him so I’m facing him. His face is tortured, his hair sweaty at his brow, and he’s breathing so fast that I’m nervous he’s about to have a panic attack.

“Cory.” I lift my hand to his face and cup his cheek. “Don’t be sorry. I wanted that. I needed that.”

Sighing heavily, he glances up at me, and admits, “Me too.”

I lift up and press a small kiss at the corner of his mouth. “Then don’t be sorry.”

He gives me a small smile and then straightens. He clears his throat. “We should get moving; we don’t want to be late.”

And just like that, aloof man is back. The man I’ve seen many times during this trip, where he turns off a part of his personality and falls into robot mode. I don’t understand it, and I know it’s going to take a lot of talking to figure out if I’m going to want to pursue something with this man.

Hell . . . if he wants to pursue something with me.





“You’re home. Finally,” Monica says over the phone as the car Jason had set up drives me through the busy streets of Chicago. “Tell me everything.”

I try to smile from hearing the sound of my friend’s voice, but it feels impossible given the disheartened and broken mental state I’m trying to fight off.

After Cory lifted away from me, he quickly went to the bathroom where he took what seemed like a two-minute shower and then offered me the bathroom. We packed and got ready in silence, the tension between us eventually incredibility uncomfortable. When we were ready to leave, like the gentleman that he is, Cory rolled my suitcase for me along with his down to the lobby where we met up with everyone. I tried to act normal, as if Cory’s silence wasn’t dislodging my confidence one second at a time, and hung out with Dottie and Jason, reliving our “magical” vacation. On the flight home, Cory’s eyes never left the window, even when I “accidentally” knocked his foot.

Avoidance was his number-one priority and he accomplished it very well, especially when we landed. He gave everyone a quick wave and then took off, mumbling about needing to get back home to some pressing matters.

I think I was the only one who saw right through him, because I knew the kind of morning we shared. Blissfully amazing and then awkward and heartbreakingly uncomfortable.

“It wasn’t great,” I say, holding back the tears.

“What? Are you serious?” Monica’s voice falls. “Nothing happened?”

“Oh no, something happened. Three orgasms happened.”

She squeals in the phone and then remembers what I said. “Wait, so why wasn’t it great?”

“Because . . .” My lip trembles, and I take a deep breath. “It was like he wanted to connect with me but never allowed himself to.” I explain everything that happened last night, the way he made me feel and then his quick retreat, and then I went into this morning’s activities, his need to move on, push me away, but then pull me back in. “I have no idea what’s going on with him. All I know is that he left me with a giant Cory hangover and I—” Tears stream down my face. “He left me an emotional mess.”

“Where are you right now?”

“Headed to my apartment, but I really don’t feel like company.”

“Hell, neither do I. I look like a zombie bride right now. I’m asking because you need to go to his place.”