Page 49 of In the Frame

When he takes my cock in his hand, his finger sliding around the wet tip, I cry out again. He begins to thrust, and I can’t last, not like this. My balls are tight, aching, and right now, I totally belong to him.

“More,” I beg.

He gives me more, much more, and then I’m coming all over his hand and myself, and it’s so fucking hot. He’s everything right now, and with a sob, he comes, too, a moment later, riding me as he holds my trembling thighs.

We gasp, staring at each other, with him deep inside me and me covered in my cum, and this is such a ridiculous situation I can’t help a nervous laugh that escapes me. “Holy fuck.”

“Mm,” Florian agrees, kissing me deeply. I shudder as he withdraws, aching with the absence of him. Then he flops beside me as I lie splayed on my back. I’m sure I look as much of a mess as I feel.

“Oh. My. God.” I can’t think straight.

He smiles at me, and I shiver as he reaches out to trace his fingers in my cum. Then I realize it’s gone after eleven, and we have to get out of here.

“Florian, the time⁠—”

He kisses me again and nods. “Go ahead first with the shower.”

Which is way too small for two people. I get up on unsteady legs, reeling, as we hurriedly get ready to check out as if we hadn’t been fucking like our lives depended on it moments earlier.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

For all I know, I could be wearing my clothes inside out and backward, and I don’t care. We check out of the hotel with our bags and head to where Florian’s parked his car with the garment bags and our suitcases. We haven’t said much in our dash to get ready to leave. Our suitcases rumble in unison on the pavement. The day’s warm by noon.

Florian glances over as we pause to cross the street. “Alright?”

“Yeah. I think. I don’t know.” Which is probably borderline incoherent and a fair representation right now of my mind.

He gives me a wry smile. “I hope you’re not regretting it. It was beyond the base terms of our agreement.”

Still sounds like Florian. Thank God. It’s reassuring, even if I swear blood’s still pounding in my ears, my face hot, coasting on adrenaline.

“Authenticity. Top marks.” I give him a wry smile back. My fingers are tight on my suitcase handle, and I feel totally vulnerable. Like the reality of what’s just happened is hitting me. Like, Florian. I had sex with Florian. And it was hot. Incredibly hot. And he’s probably thinking about Billy right now and I bet they’ve had plenty of hot sex and if I think about that I’ll never get an erection again or leave the bedroom I don’t technically have in London. I hope Arran doesn’t mind when he comes back to his Mayfair flat and I’ve taken up permanent residence. Because I’ll be squatting in his flat, and he’ll go on living his best life, and I’ll live in a cupboard and⁠—

“Matty?” Florian murmurs, pausing on the pavement. He pushes his sunglasses up on his head. He gives me an appraising look.

“I… that was a lot.”

“I hope not bad. I hope you don’t regret⁠—”

“No! It was incredible.”

“Then?”

“I’m… just overwhelmed right now.” And that, too, is honest.

Florian nods, though he does look concerned. “This is my car here.” He has a Mercedes, because of course Florian has a Mercedes, and I’m surprised it’s not some high-end sports car but a more sensible sedan. He opens the back, and we place everything inside. He shuts the boot. With a click, the doors lock again.

We get inside. The interior is sleek in black leather. Florian’s wearing his sunglasses again, and he checks his messages, then tucks his phone away. He glances over at me, the question still in his eyes.

“I’m okay, really. Just tired. From the night and everything.” I manage a smile for him, but it’s the truth. I’m shattered and overwhelmed, and I need a couple more hours of sleep before we get back to London and I have to go to work tonight. “You alright?”

“Yes.” Florian smiles, and he’s gorgeous, his gaze lingering. “Very much.”

He reaches over to squeeze my hand. His fingers are warm, his grip reassuring. But I can’t help but think about all the high-end lovers he’s had, like Billy, and then I tell myself not to worry about it because it was a one-night stand, and he’s my fake boyfriend, after all. At last, my shoulders ease.

And we head back to London and our regularly scheduled lives.

On Monday, Noah’s in London to return his vintage suit rental to whichever posh place he found it. We agree to meet up for lunch at a Caffè Nero around the corner from Arran’s flat, basic but in my budget. We’re settled at a small round table out front because it’s a warm July day in the city.