BROOKE

“Fuck yeah, baby. You ready? Huh? You ready to come all over this cock?”

I dig my nails into Paul’s shoulders, arching my back off the bed. My breath hitches. “Yes, God . . . fuck, don’t stop.”

“Fuuuck.” He squeezes my hips while he pounds into me. Sweat beads up on his brow, on the dusting of hair coating his chest as he throws his head back, filling the condom with a groan, the cords in his neck straining.

My own orgasm follows seconds later.

“Coming!” I yell, closing my eyes as that sweet heat burns down my spine, exploding into a thousand stars between my hips. I lock my ankles behind his back, keeping his firm body pinned between my legs, his cock exactly where I need it while I ride this out. My body hums, my thighs shake against his skin.

God, I love sex. I mean really, who doesn’t love this right here? I’d consider giving up cupcakes for this.

I grind my hips against his pelvis as a life without salted caramel icing flashes in front of my eyes.

Chocolate chip cheesecake. Red velvet. White chocolate raspberry.

Okay, maybe not cupcakes, and maybe not this sex. I’ve had to tag myself in a few times.

“Greedy girl,” Paul murmurs, sliding his hand between my tits. He pinches my nipple.

“Mm,” I purr, slowly peeking up at him as that perfect ache settles, leaving me sated.

A lazy smile beams down at me, but blurs into something indiscernible as Paul’s spent body suddenly collapses on top of mine.

“Lord, move off.” I rock my hips, shoving against his shoulders. “Asshole. You’re going to kill me.”

He laughs, rolling onto his back and pulling off the condom with a satisfied groan. He ties it off. “Goddamn, I don’t think I’ve ever filled one of these this much before. My dick might need a week to recover.”

Mm. I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.

Go, Brooke. Wreck those penises.

I stand from the bed and grab my clothes off the floor, dressing hastily as Paul treads to the bathroom. Slipping into my heels, I spin to grab my clutch off the nightstand and run straight into a bare chest.

“Oh, hey, sorry,” I mumble, shifting my weight on my feet. “Just grabbing my stuff.”

He squeezes my hips, bunching the material of my dress in his hands. “Where are you going? Stay for a little while.”

“Can’t. I need to get home.”

“We can order take-out or something. Are you hungry?”

“I already ate.”

His brow furrows as his grip on me loosens, then vanishes completely. His shoulders drop. “Why do I feel like I was just used?”

A laugh rumbles in the back of my throat. I move past him, picking up my clutch. “I had a nice time tonight. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“And do what? Is this going to happen again if I do see you? ‘Cause if I’m being honest, Brooke, I’m not really feeling the love right now.”

I lift my head to look at him. His dark eyes are suddenly unsure. He looks wounded.

Wow, really? Didn’t peg you as a clinger, Paul.

Securing my clutch under my arm, I plant a brief kiss on his cheek, whispering, “don’t act like you didn’t know what this was.”

As I pad toward the door, my heels tapping against the hardwood, I wait for that moment to hit me where I feel remorse, or regret. Anything to make me turn around and reassure this man, but it never comes.

I don’t feel bad for this. I never feel bad after having an orgasm, even if some of them are brought on by my own efforts. And really? Why should I feel bad? He came. A lot, apparently. Enough to make him gaze at that condom like a proud father cradling a newborn. We’re both walking away from this experience satisfied, even if I am technically the only one walking.

Regret? Remorse? Fuck that noise. I’m Brooke Wicks, and I love sex. A lot of it. I don’t see any problem with my hit it and quit it philosophy. I’m doing what I want with the men I want to do it with.

Period.

Hand on the doorknob, I turn and give Paul one last look; a sweet one. “Good night.”

His eyes, lost in focus, slowly lift to meet mine. “Yeah . . . yeah, good night.”

With little resistance, I slam the door shut, smiling at the sound.

A hard, satisfying bang.

Nope. No regrets here.

I step inside the condo, shutting the door behind me and setting my keys and clutch down. Two sets of eyes peer curiously at me over the back of the couch.

Let the interrogation begin.

“Yes?” I ask, pulling my heels off and setting them by the door.

Billy turns around, throwing his arm behind Joey. “Well?”

I limply shrug. “Five.”

“That’s it?” Joey’s back goes rigid. His eyebrows meet his blonde hairline. “On a scale of one to ten, he was a five in bed? Are you fucking serious?”

“Oh, I thought you were asking me how big he was.”

Billy clears his throat, his wide eyes roaming the condo uncomfortably.

I look between the two of them. “Seven. Extra point for the dirty talking.”

Joey grimaces, waving me over. “A seven with a dick smaller than your vibrator? God . . . you poor, poor baby.”

“I know. I was going to bail when I saw it, but then I thought I’d see what he could do. You know me . . . always the team player. Plus, it was pierced.”

I round the couch and sit on the end next to Joey, who by the look on his face, is visualizing a pierced dick. Billy mouths the word “no” when he’s given an inquisitive stare, prompting a low laugh to push past Joey’s lips.