Being inside of her makes me feel like a goddamned king. But it’s humbling too. Connecting with her like this, having her take me inside of her. Knowing she’s trusting me to make it good for her.

 I thrust and her eyes widen and she sucks in a little gasp of air, her lips forming a tiny o. Her pussy clenches around me so tightly I’m not sure it isn’t hurting her, but she’s so fucking wet for me that I slide further into her against all logic. The fit is so snug there shouldn’t be room for me to move. But I do. Keeping the pace long and deep, rubbing her clit with my thumb. Watching the way her eyelids flutter or rise, the way she angles her neck or dips her hips, telling me what she likes, what feels best.

 I wish I could fuck her without the condom. I want my cock coated in her, not latex. She was so wet when I fucked her with my fingers it was all I could do not to bend her in half and slam into her. And the taste of her, fuck. She tastes a little bit like that strawberry Chapstick she favors.

 She’s sweet. And warm and wet and oh so fucking tight. And brave too. She could have refused to come to Colorado with me. I wouldn’t have blamed her. But I knew she was just curious enough, intrigued enough, to play along.

 “Boyd.” Her eyes are on mine and her jaw drops on a gasp. “I’m gonna come.”

 She seems almost surprised, as if she wasn’t expecting it to happen again. As if I’d stop without it happening again, with me buried inside of her. Like there’s a chance in hell that I’d miss that.

 Her legs tighten against my sides and her fingers dig into my arms as her back arches. But that’s nothing compared to the feel of her muscles spasming and tightening around my cock. I still for a moment, buried inside of her, then thrust again before I feel almost numb and my brain shuts off as I tense over her and my own orgasm bursts out of me.

 I roll us over so I don’t crush her, still buried inside of her. She’s flopped on top of me, her limbs complete jelly and her head resting in the crook of my neck.

 I’m fucked.

 Everything I know about this girl tells me that tomorrow she’s going to retreat. Downplay what is happening here and likely avoid the hell out of me.

 “Chloe,” I whisper, stroking her arm. I’m going to have to move her. Get up and dispose of the condom. Offer her a towel. But that can wait a minute or two.

 “Hmm?” she answers.

 “What do you call a moose that plays a musical instrument?”

 I feel her smile against my neck. “A moose-ician.”

   ***

 I wake up before she does. Her head is on my chest and her leg is flung over mine. I could slide out from under her and get up, but I’m enjoying sleepy Chloe too much. Her breathing is soft and even and her hair is wild and disheveled from the night before.

 I know the exact moment she wakes. Her breathing pauses and she stiffens slightly in my arms. I watch her eyes blink open and stare at me and I wait for her reaction.

 “Hi,” I offer.

 “Hi,” she responds. Then she blinks a couple of times and rolls off of me.

 “Are you good?” I ask. What the fuck do I mean by good? I wanted to ask if she was okay, but thought she would take offence at the question so I replaced it with good. Not sure that’s any better.

 “Yeah.” She sits up and turns her head to look at me. Her hair sways across her shoulders and she tosses a smile in my direction. “You get five stars,” she says and then hops off the bed and calls out that she’s taking a shower as she disappears into the bathroom.

  Soon we’re packed and walking through the lobby. I’ve already called the valet and the car should be waiting by the time we make it outside. Chloe is falsely bright. It’s subtle though. So subtle I imagine she pulls it off with most people. It’s not real though. She’s covering for her anxiety. She’s not sure how to deal with the morning after. I’d try to talk to her about it, but I know it’s going to be several days until she’s ready. Until she’s done battling whatever conversation she’s having with herself in her head.

 We’re three steps away from the door when I hear my name being called out. It’s my cousin Tommy. I’d consider ignoring him, but Chloe heard him too and has already stopped walking.

 He catches up with us, his own suitcase in tow, and asks if we’re headed to the airport. It’s all downhill from there.

 Chloe takes an instant liking to him. I’m not sure why because he’s kind of a prick. Logically I know it’s because she’s grateful for the distraction—for the buffer between us after last night. But it doesn’t make it any less irritating. They chat the entire way back to the regional airport in Gypsum and then the inevitable happens: Tommy skips his commercial flight in favor of taking the private jet back to Philadelphia with us.

 “You don’t mind, do you?” he asks. I mind. This guy has been a pain in my ass since childhood.

 An hour later we’re airborne and Tommy has installed himself in front of us in one of the swivel chairs turned backwards so he can spend the flight talking to Chloe. Fucker.

 “Do you have anything else to do besides flirt with my girlfriend?” I ask him.

 “Oh, stop,” Chloe sighs in my direction then turns her attention to Tommy. “We met two weeks ago,” she tells him, curving her thumb in my direction. “I’m just doing him a favor.”

 “Right on,” Tommy says. Because he’s the kind of guy who still says ‘right on.’ Then he asks Chloe if she’s a hooker.

 I want to yell that she’s mine and let him know he’s treading on dangerous ground with me, but I know it would scare the shit out of Chloe. Not the yelling, but the claiming.

 She laughs. “You think I could pass as a hooker?” she asks Tommy, seemingly not offended in the slightest. “You really think that someone would pay me for sex?”

 “I’d pay you for sex,” he responds.

 I’m going to kill this fucker.

 “No, not a hooker, but thank you.” She smiles and leans back in her seat.

 Who the hell says thank you when accused of being a hooker?

 “Boyd brought me because he didn’t want his mom trying to set him up,” she adds.