In a penthouse hotel suite in San Diego, Raji sat on the balcony, basking in the June sunshine and cool breeze like a lizard on a warm rock and reading the latest New England Journal of Medicine on her tablet.
Peyton was lying on the other chaise lounge, squinting at sheet music displayed on an oversized tablet while he strummed a guitar. His swim trunks rode low on his hips, and his muscular body was slowly turning bronze in the sunlight.
A thick safety wall surrounded the balcony. No one could see the two of them lying up here, and the privacy of it felt wonderful.
His guitar had six strings, Raji noted, and it was the one he always carried and noodled on when they met. “Why don’t you work on a bass guitar?”
He shrugged one strong shoulder. “A bass is easy to play. I’m just messing around with this music.”
“Is it a Killer Valentine song?”
“No.”
“Are you writing songs?”
“No.” He frowned. “Sort of. Not really. I’m just messing around.”
“You should write. You should play your songs for me. We could open a spreadsheet and set some goals for numbers and deadlines and deliverables—”
“Killer Valentine is working on some music for a new album. We’ve got three new songs to cut demos for. Do you want to hear one of the new ones?”
“Sure!”
Peyton set aside his guitar, balancing it on a table beside their pitcher of margaritas. Sunlight fell all around him, turning his hair yet more golden. “After I fuck you.”
“I—what?”
“Come here.” His voice had deepened, and he pointed to the cement balcony floor right beside his chair.
God help her, she set her tablet aside, padded over to him on that bright balcony, and stood where he had indicated.
“Take your swimsuit off.”
Raji looked at the sky around them. No other hotels were as tall as theirs, and a solid wall ringed the balcony. “Someone will see.”
“Take it off.”
Raji untied the top and stepped out of the bottoms, leaving the black bits of cloth lying on the deck.
“Turn around and sit across my legs.”
She did, and she ended up facing away from him while his hands roved her body, caressing her breasts, while his warm mouth traveled up her spine to the back of her neck. The suntan oil that he had rubbed on her back steamed in the sun, faintly coconutty.
His hand dipped into her cleft, touching her until she was whimpering.
He pulled her ass back and stroked into her core, holding her hips and controlling her body as he pounded up into her. His hardness shoved inside her, rubbing. Behind Raji’s back, Peyton growled as he thrust, a primal sound deep in his throat. His strong fingers clutched her hips.
Raji panted, tightening around his cock.
Peyton angled her hips backward, and her clit rubbed across his balls.
Ah, Peyton.