Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
But I don’t.
Because I can’t.
Tight, slick, pulsing—the idea of pulling out of Poppy would physically pain me.
“I can’t stop,” I growl, voice low and desperate. “You’ll get on your knees later. R-right now I need to f-finish inside you,” I stammer, each word forced out between clenched teeth, because goddamn, she feels good—like heaven and sin and every fantasy I’ve ever had, wrapped around my cock.
Poppy gasps, her head dropping back, hips bucking. “Then ruin me.”
And I do.
I drive into her like I’m trying to brand myself into her body—mine, mine, mine—every thrust rougher, messier, more frantic. Skin slapping against skin.
“You hear that?” I pant, eyes locked on the mirror. “That’s the sound of you getting fucked like you need it. Like you’re mine.”
“Yes,” she chokes. “God, Turner, yes. I’m yours…”
I groan again, burying my face in her neck, tasting sweat, perfume, the faint sweetness of her skin—and then—
RIIIIING.
The elevator phone starts blaring.
We ignore it, like we don’t even hear it—like nothing in the world exists outside this tiny, overheated elevator and the way her body squeezes around me.
She’s so goddamn tight. So wet. So perfect.
“Come on my cock,” I demand, drilling her tight little pussy, lifting her by the ass and pulling her into my pelvis.
The elevator phone rings and rings, but it’s background noise now. Just static against the only thing that matters: her falling apart on me.
“Right there,” I pant. “Right there, like that. You’re perfect, baby. So fucking good—”
She gasps, legs locking tight, body convulsing in my arms.
Her orgasm rips through her with a force that takes me with it—her nails digging into my shoulders, her body clenching.
She jerks against me, nails biting into my back, mouth falling open on a gasp that punches straight through my chest. Her entire body trembles in my arms, tight and soaked and clenching around me like she never wants to let go—and I can’t hold back anymore.
I drive up into her once. Twice.
And then I’m gone.
Lights-out, white-hot.
I come hard, emptying into her with a growl against her throat, gripping her so tightly she squeaks—a broken, blissed-out sound that would’ve made me laugh if I had any oxygen left in my lungs.
“Holy shit,” she whispers breathlessly.
“Yeah,” I mutter, forehead still pressed to hers. “Holy shit.”
She giggles, then winces. “My thighs are going to be sore for a week.”
“I’m not sorry.”
“Didn’t ask you to be.”
We finally untangle, fumbling to straighten our clothes and ignore the fact that we just had very real, very intense sex in an elevator between floors.
And then it jolts.
We both freeze, holding onto each other as the metal box lurches downward, slowly grumbling back into service, waking up from the nap it shouldn’t have taken.
“Shit,” she mutters, grabbing for my arm. “Do I look like I just got railed?”
“Yes.”
poppy
. . .
One week after that…
The date wasn’t supposed to end that way.
It wasn’t supposed to end with him pounding into me, both of us coming in an elevator car, twenty something floors above the city, and now I’m more confused than ever.
My thighs have stopped aching. My heart? Not so much.
I stare at my phone, lying face-up on my duvet at the notification box that’s popped up on my screen and the tiny green dot glows next to Turner’s name. We never deleted one another on the dating app or unmatched because why would we?
That would imply closure.
Or boundaries.
Or any level of maturity.
Instead, we’ve kept talking. Not every second of every day. But enough that I would feel empty if we weren’t. And despite the fact that I moved out of our shared house—moved out, like a grown-up trying to grow up—I still can’t stop checking my phone like a junkie for a fix. Still can’t stop thinking about that elevator.
He hasn't asked me out again. But he hasn’t stopped flirting either. Which means one of two things:
He’s waiting for me to make a move.
He wants to move on from me.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling of my stupid, dumb boring apartment bedroom.
What is this? WHAT ARE WE DOING?
We’re not dating. We’re not just roommates anymore either. We’ve crossed a line so thoroughly and so spectacularly that I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my hips when I shower.
And the worst part?
I want to do it again.
I want him.
But I also want clarity. And a goddamn plan. And maybe a brain transplant because who the hell sleeps with their ex-roommate in an elevator and then just goes back to sending dumb gifs like nothing happened?
Oh right. Me.
I sigh. Thumb hovering over the keyboard.
And then—
My stomach turns like I’m on an amusement park tilt-a-whirl hard.
I bolt upright, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth as the room sways, and for a second, I honestly think I’m about to pass out. Dizzy. So dizzy…