I ache, aware of every step I take, every muscular twinge—all Cam’s fault…
But he was gentle too. Thorough and attentive and considerate. My breath catches as a feeling of invincibility courses through me. After a night like that, I can accomplish anything. Alone and without validation.
The hot water spray buffets my skin, reminding me of Cam’s rough, calloused hands gripping and possessing. The water on my breasts and between my legs mimics the glide of his demanding tongue, the caress of his dirty mouth, and when I press my fingers to my clit, trying to banish the renewed flutter of hunger, I relive every single orgasm of our decadent night together.
This is what well-fucked truly feels like.
I sigh a happy, sated sigh, the emotional impulse as unexpected as the man himself. Perhaps he’s a good-luck charm, if I believed in luck. Perhaps letting loose, embracing my wild side, is good for me, allowing me to achieve some much-needed work-life perspective. Either way, I can’t deny I feel more alive, more enthused for the months ahead than I have in years.
I shampoo my hair, hair that Cam wrapped around his fist as he pounded us both to oblivion that last time, sometime in the dark early hours. He fell asleep soon after, splayed on his stomach, his muscular back and tight buttocks a visual feast I struggled to tear my eyes from. I was so energised, my mind so focused, I worked through the rest of the night. Even now I’m in no way tired, although pulling all-nighters isn’t that unusual for me. When you run an international firm, sleep is an expensive luxury.
But could I afford another luxury, one in the form of a sexy Australian with grey eyes who reminds me I have needs? I slide my soapy hands over my skin, an idea forming. He said he was free and easy. No work commitments, money clearly no issue. The way he threw it around last night, almost as if trying to offload as much as possible, perhaps he’d be up for a whirlwind tour of the globe with stopovers at all the international M Club establishments? We could continue this arrangement for a few weeks… A way to explore the sexy side he’s unleashed in me. A way for me to keep this feeling, this newfound perspective, alive.
My proposition takes form in my mind as I towel dry and comb through my hair. A month, six weeks ought to be enough time to work my man toy, as he put it, from my system. I’d have to make the sex-only proviso crystal-clear. My one trip down the aisle confirmed that relationships and I definitely don’t mix. I have no desire to repeat that mistake. I don’t need a relationship, which in my experience is just another way to fall short of someone’s expectations.
If Cam agrees, if he too wanted more than just one fantastic night, he could accompany me while I toured my international offices to ensure everything is as I like it—ticking along like clockwork and expanding on our year-by-year profits.
A sex-only arrangement.
‘Amazing sex,’ I say aloud, catching my laughing reflection in the fogged-up mirror—eyes bright with excitement, hair tousled and damp the way it was last night after our first shower, when Cam fucked me from behind in this very spot, ordering me to tweak my nipples hard until I saw stars right before I came.
The man was some sort of sex god, a G-spot genius, and I his willing, eager-to-excel pupil. But I didn’t simply want to excel. I wanted to be top of the class.
I smile at my reflection—a feline smile.
I’d show him I could let go.
I’d ruin him.
Dressed in my favourite floaty Capri pants and a silk spaghetti-strap top in deference to another stunning Monaco day, I make discreet enquiries at Reception for Cam’s whereabouts. There was no answer when I knocked on the door to his suite, just down the hall from mine. Even if he hadn’t made a splash in the gaming room last night, he’s pretty unforgettable—his height, his commanding presence, not to mention his fuck you air of flouting convention and living the good life.
I find him in the club’s gym, the sole occupant. He’s ignoring the Shirts must be worn at all times sign, performing chin-ups on a bar facing a wall of mirrors. And I don’t blame him. If I had his body, every inch cut slabs of muscle draped in golden skin, a gorgeous, intricate tattoo covering one shoulder, I’d watch myself move too. I’m instantly damp between my legs just from one glance at his sweaty torso.
In fact, there’s no reason I can’t enjoy the show for a few hedonistic seconds. My pulse throbs through my sex while I watch, hypnotised. His back muscles flex in unison to drag his long, built frame up the foot or so required to place his chin above the bar. Sweat runs in rivulets down the bumps of those muscles. My tongue darts out to wet my lips, keen for another taste of the skin I sampled last night.
That happy sigh is back, thankfully silent and in my head, but again it strikes me I haven’t felt this rejuvenated in years. Cam’s the kind of man who makes a woman feel feminine. It’s effortless for him—his sheer size, those calloused hands, the formidable sexual prowess I’ve now experienced, plus his nurturing, caring side and impeccable manners.
Enough looking.
I’m on a plane out of here shortly. Time is money. I want his answer.
I approach with confident steps, although my belly twists with uncharacteristic nerves. What if he turns me down, or has a life to get back to in Sydney, or thinks I’m too old for him beyond one anonymous night? The pinch of disappointment speaks of the calibre of Cam’s brand of fucking. But I’m a big girl. A grown woman. I tell myself his refusal would be no big deal, that there are plenty of other Cams in the sea, although the shaky quality of my breathing confirms it’s a lie.
But I’m not giving up yet. I’m used to getting what I want, and this will be no exception.
I meet his eyes in the mirror, and just like last night the eye contact feels like a physical waveform buffeting me with his aura. With all the eye contact we’ve shared since, the physical intimacy, I should be over the starry-eyed phase by now. Bloody hell, I’m not sixteen.
Cam drops to the ground, not a hint of surprise on his face, as if he’d been aware of me staring from the doorway. He’s probably used to women hounding him for more sex the morning after.
My brain scrambles to recall exactly why I’m here, other than to watch his ripped body work out while I drool.
‘Has working all night refreshed your appetite?’ he says, grabbing a towel. He wipes sweat from his face and chest and then slings the lucky piece of towelling around his neck. ‘Women don’t usually hunt me down before breakfast.’
I drag my eyes away from the bulge of his cock, visible through the thin fabric of his workout shorts, all but panting at the memories of that spectacular part of his anatomy. ‘I only worked half the night. The other half—’
‘I remember what you did the other half,’ he interrupts, flashing that grin that reminds me he’s in his twenties.
‘And I didn’t need to hunt you down,’ I say, stepping closer. ‘After your antics at the roulette table last night, purchasing a bright yellow supercar, you’re something of a celebrity—all I did was ask for your whereabouts at Reception.’
He tilts his head in acknowledgement of my statement, his own stare taking a similar swoop of appraisal down the length of my body. ‘Did you receive the replacement dress and lingerie?’ I can tell that, like me, he’s remembering what he did while my ruined dress and torn panties shackled my waist.
I free a groan in my head, the remembered sound of fabric ripping sending delicious spikes of pleasure to my core. I fight the urge to kiss him in that way that seems to drive him crazy—my tongue surging against his, a scrape of my teeth along his decadent lower lip.
‘I did. Thank you.’ At the crack of dawn this morning, shortly after he left, there was a knock at my door. I rushed to open it, secretly hoping to find Cam on the other side, but it was a hotel porter delivering a garment bag. ‘The replacement wasn’t necessary—how did you even do that? It’s Sunday morning.’
He