Brooklyn’s lips might be my favorite thing about her, right after her quirky sense of humor, her love of animals, her perfect tits, her amazing ass, her pink—
She pulls away from my kiss, and I see why: an elderly couple are walking our way down the shore, holding hands.
Fucking adorable cockblockers. Flaunting a long and happily married life and therefore highlighting the transience of our ‘no labels’ whatever-it-is.
Damn it. I’ve been yo-yoing from happy to heavy-hearted all day long, and all for the stupidest reason: I’m really, really enjoying my time with Brooklyn… who is leaving soon.
Why can’t this be like riding a great wave? When I do that, I live in the moment, enjoying being with one the ocean and the world. What I don’t do is mourn the fact that the wave is about to disappear—because all waves do.
Brooklyn clears her throat. “Shouldn’t we head back? The ride here was pretty long.”
Great point. “Do you want to stay here for the night?”
Shit. That was definitely my dick talking.
“Where?” Brooklyn looks around as if I were suggesting we sleep here on the beach.
And hey, if it weren’t for elderly cockblocking couples and sand sneaking into the most private of places, that option would be pretty romantic.
“The Palace?” I point in its direction. As I try to sell her on the idea, I like it more and more. “It’s actually a really cool place, so this way, we’ll cram yet another experience into this already-awesome day.” Is my cock making me sound like a travel agent? “Also, if we stay here, we can head out in the morning and be in Miami by lunch.” Yeah. It’s more efficient for the treasure hunt. My offer has nothing to do with the fact that I (and more importantly, my dick) can’t wait for the long ride back to be alone with her.
“Sure.” Brooklyn stands up. “Let’s go.”
I leap to my feet as though an angler fish has just jumped out of the ocean and threatened my blue balls. And I can’t believe my luck. When I suggested we go to the hotel, I meant after the obligatory wait for the gorgeous sunset to be over. But I’m not going to look this gift horse in the pussy.
I mean mouth.
Fucker.
Did that proverb always have undertones of bestiality?
Brooklyn grabs my hand, snapping me back to reality. Her palm is tiny in mine, and so soft and warm, making it all too easy to imagine it on my—
“Have you stayed at the Palace before?” she asks.
I nod. “The one in New York. I was there for an investor conference organized by Octothorpe.”
She looks thoughtful at this. Is she picturing what it would have been like if I’d met her while I was at that conference? She lives in Brooklyn, so it was theoretically possible for us to have met. I went out to get pizza at—
“Have you been to New York since?” she asks.
“Twice. At that same conference, I met Mason—a video call drinking buddy who, if he lived in Florida, would probably become my best friend.”
She grins. “I have two very close friends, and I think they each think they are my best friend, but I care for them equally.”
“To slightly paraphrase the Highlander: there can be only one best friend.”
Her grin turns impish. “Maybe I should give Jolene and Dorothy swords and have them duel for the honor.”
The rest of the way to the hotel, she tells me about her friends and how they got her this trip as a birthday present.
“I changed my mind,” I tell her when we reach the hotel door. “Both of them deserve the ‘best’ moniker.”
“Agreed,” she says, and we enter the hotel lobby, which turns out to be a carbon copy of the one in New York: same exotic birds, same mixture of different European architectural styles, and same porters dressed in capes, bicorns, and garish pantaloons.
“You were right,” Brooklyn whispers. “This was worth visiting.”
I gently squeeze her hand, which I’m still holding.
A snooty concierge glares at the sand we’re trekking into the lobby—like he hasn’t seen people return from the beach a million times by now.
“Hello,” I say to him. “We’d like a room.”
The guy looks me over and doesn’t seem impressed. “We’re not running any discounts at the moment.”
A kindling of annoyance sneaks through my Brooklyn-induced hormone overdose. It feels a lot like when I’m about to get hangry, which makes sense, because I am starving for something—it just doesn’t happen to be food. “I don’t need any discounts,” I say coolly. “Just give me the first available room.”
Looking doubtful, the concierge lazily types something into his computer, then looks back up with the fakest apologetic expression I’ve ever seen in my life. “I’m afraid all our regular rooms are booked.”
Is my eye twitching? “Why did you emphasize ‘regular?’ Are ‘special’ rooms available?”
“Well, rooms like the penthouse are—”
“I’ll take it.” I get my wallet and rummage for my credit card.
The concierge rolls his eyes. “The penthouse costs—”
His words are cut off when he spots my American Express Black Card.
“Oh.” His whole demeaner changes in an eyeblink. “Do you want the suite with the pool?”
“Yes.”
“What about—”
“Stop wasting time,” I grit out. “I’ll take the best damned suite available. Now.” I toss the card at the guy as if it were a ninja star.
“Okay.” He catches the card with such adroitness it makes me wonder how often other people have tossed cards at him. “I’ll book you into the Royal Suite.”
Brooklyn arches an eyebrow at me, so I wink back, my annoyance fading.
When we get into the elevator, she blurts, “Something is wrong with me.”
“Why?”
She blushes. “When you grumped at that dumbass, I found it kind of hot.”
“Pervert,” I say with a smile. “Seriously, though, I’m sorry about that. I’m not usually so easy to rile up.”
“Are you sure?” She grins. “What if you’re low on calories?”
“Well, I’m not craving food right now.” I lean in and whisper into her ear, “But I am ravenous.”
Her cheeks turn their deepest pink yet, which was my intent. “I think I’m hungry for that too.”
Fuck me. My erection is borderline painful now.
Beast mode activating, I gather Brooklyn into my arms and kiss her roughly and deeply, doing with my tongue what I’m dying to do with my cock.
Brooklyn melts into me, her soft parts feeling glorious on all my hard ones.
The elevator seems to slow to a crawl—it’s clearly a cockblocker, like those old people on the beach.
When I’m on the verge of bursting, the doors finally open into the luxurious suite, which could be a hovel for all I care, so long as there is a bed. Or a carpet. Or a wall. Honestly, even a cement floor would work as long as no old people barge in on us.
In our frantic quest to get naked, we sprinkle clothes onto the floor as we search for the abovementioned bed, and when we locate our quarry, Brooklyn pulls away from my kiss to whistle appreciatively. “This bed is enormous.” She glances down at my hard cock and grins wickedly. “Sorry, I should probably reserve that adjective for that. The bed is merely huge.”
I pull her so close my cock touches the luscious skin just below her navel. “Are you trying to stroke my ego?”
Her wicked grin becomes devilish as Brooklyn reaches down and strokes my dick, once, twice. “Do or do not,” she says in a Yoda impersonation. “There is no try.”
My cock twitches in her hand, and if I were to suddenly develop a fetish for Yoda cosplay after this, I wouldn’t be surprised.
“Oh, I don’t plan to try,” I murmur, staring down at her. “I’ll do you so hard you’ll be screaming my name.”
Her reply is to stroke me again, squeezing lightly as she does.
My balls tighten—and no doubt turn a bluer hue. “Get on the bed,” I order gruffly. “And spread your legs for me.”
Fucking fuck. I owe our “merely” huge bed a debt of gratitude because in order to do as I say, Brooklyn has to crawl on all fours for a few feet—and it’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.
With hands unsteady from all the pent-up sexual energy, I ready a condom and leap after Brooklyn, or more specifically, after her delectable pink pussy.
Greedily, I flip her so she’s face up, then lick her clit and suck on her folds until she comes all over my mouth with a loud moan that reverberates through my cock and balls.
All right. If I don’t fuck her soon, I might actually turn sex-crazed. And yet, as if to torture myself, I penetrate her with a finger and coax another orgasm—a screaming one this time.
This is it. Inspired by her recent bed crawl, I arrange her in the doggy position and slide into her slick pussy from behind—and it’s transcendent, like catching that perfect wave on a beautiful spring day. In fact, this feels too good—in that I’m on the verge of blowing my load already. Nope. I can’t wipe out so quickly, not when the wave is this perfect. I grab Brooklyn’s curvy little butt and thrust into her slower but deeper.
“Yes,” she screams. “Yes!”
“Fuck…” Keeping the pace going, I lubricate my index finger with some spit, then gently insert it into her butt.
She moans in pleasure.
I crook my finger just a smidge—which makes it so I can feel my cock going in and out of her.
“Evan!” she shouts as she comes, squeezing both my cock and my finger in the process, which pushes me over the edge. I grunt in pleasure as the most powerful orgasm of my life ignites my every nerve ending.
Afterward, I’m barely conscious, which is weird because I’m not usually the stereotypical guy who needs sleep right after sex.
Maybe the drowsiness is proportional to how much fun you’ve had? No idea, but all I have the energy for is to kiss Brooklyn and whisper, “That was amazing,” before I’m out like a candle in a thunderstorm.
I wake up to the hungry grumbling of my stomach.
When I open my eyes, I see Brooklyn looking at me with an amused expression.
“That sounds like an emergency,” she says. “If we don’t feed you soon, you might go postal—or whatever the surfer equivalent is.”
“Mental.” I reach for the fancy phone on the nightstand and order us room service: a Japanese breakfast for me and a Croque Madame as well as a Raspberry Pain au Chocolat for Brooklyn, who seems to be in the mood for French cuisine.
As we do our morning toilette, I sneak glances at Brooklyn, who is still only half dressed.
A sunken feeling lodges somewhere in my stomach. After today, there will be two days left of her vacation, or really only one because the day after tomorrow she’ll be flying to—
“Room service!” someone shouts at the top of their lungs.
Ah. Right. I toss on a robe and let the server in, then watch as he sets it all up by the pool on the balcony overlooking the ocean.
Another romantic meal will only worsen my malaise, but Brooklyn looks ecstatic when she joins me, and that makes me forget everything else.
During the scrumptious breakfast, we compare notes about our favorite classes back in middle school for some unknown reason, but the conversation only occupies a part of my attention as I keep marveling at one simple thing:
We’ve known each other for less than a week, yet I feel like I’ve known Brooklyn my whole life.