Sex On The Seats (Love After Midnight Book 4) by Elise Faber (most inspirational books .txt) 📗

And not just from the orgasm . . . the orgasms.

This was . . . not a mutually enjoyable night of sex. This was more. And that was fucking dangerous. Too fucking dangerous for my blood, despite the gloriousness of this man’s cock, despite how lovely it felt to be pressed to his side, his hand draped over my hip, fingers on my ass.

Because I wanted to crawl on top of him, to wake him up, disturb the peaceful sleep he’d fallen into, and have a round two.

But . . . baggage.

I smothered a sigh, closed my heart, despite my senses—the spicy scent of him in my nose, the soft rumbles of his snore, the tingles those fingers sparked along my skin—urging me to stay a little longer.

Instead, I moved in increments. First, lifting his palm from my hip and placing it on his stomach. Which didn’t help my temptation.

The man had abs.

Just like he had a fantastic cock, a squeezable ass, bulging thighs, and biceps.

I wanted more.

And that was precisely why I had to leave.

If I wanted more and I gave into that temptation . . . well, I’d been down that road, and I knew it only led to pain, heartbreak, and tainted memories. Right now, I had two yummy orgasms, some witty banter, and a single new understanding that I liked drinking Sex on the Beach cocktails. A trifecta of good that I wasn’t going to allow to be tarnished by the rest of it.

The rest of it being . . . relationships, connections with other people, and the temptation to see this man again.

So, step two.

Slide out of bed without waking him.

Luckily, even though it had been a while since my sex life had involved anything other than my vibrator friends and me tapping away on my keyboard and pretending that orgasms weren’t all they were cracked up to be (a total lie as this man had so effortlessly demonstrated), I had been avoiding pesky links with other human beings for long enough to ensure my sneaking out skills were up to snuff.

Even when those skills involved slowly inching like an earthworm away from the man who’d given me the most incredible orgasm of my life.

Orgasms.

S.

Plural.

Stifling a groan, I searched the room for my clothes. My bra was somehow tucked half under the bed. My jeans were inside out and nearly in the front room. One boot was near a door that must either lead to his closet or bathroom. The other was propped perfectly upright next to the dresser. And my tank was . . . I tilted my head to the side because it was somehow hanging on the doorknob.

The only small victory was that my underwear was still tangled in my jeans, making it the only item of clothing I didn’t have to actively search for.

Go me!

Gathering all of these, I slipped into the front room and got dressed.

Because it was a rookie mistake to do that where the person you were trying to avoid might hear you.

Also, this just in, skinny jeans were the fucking worst.

Great for the FUPA. Excellent for my ass and calves.

Fucking horrible to try to squeeze into post-coitally in a strange apartment when I was trying to silently wrestle denim up my thighs. Eventually, though, I managed to haul them up and over my ass, to button them and yank up the zipper. Next was my bra, my tank, and my boots.

I had a moment of guilt as I walked through the door, but I shoved it away, flicked the lock on my way out, and made my way back down the stairs, fishing my keys out of my pocket as I moved across the parking lot and out onto the street. A few minutes later, I’d turned the corner, spotted my car, and was opening the door.

Then I was inside my car, cruising down the freeway to my place, the heat blasting to stave off the chill from my bare arms.

Twenty minutes after that, I was in my house, in my pajamas, and in bed.

But it took many more minutes for me to fall asleep.

And when I finally did, it was with the smell of Archer in my nose, on my skin. The taste of him on my tongue. The feel of him inside me.

“Fuck,” I whispered. “Fuck.”

As in, I was so completely, totally fucked.

I was wrestling with my jeans again, trying and searching through the fucking pockets I’d had tailored. The compartments that had held my phone and my car key but didn’t hold my wallet.

No matter how deeply I shoved my hand into that specially tailored pocket, my wallet wasn’t in there.

So . . . fuck.

I thought back to my earthworm tactics from six hours before, tried to picture Archer’s bedroom. Was it possible that I missed it having fallen on the floor? Had I lost it somewhere along the way back to my car? Did I—

The doorbell rang.

I glanced up, freezing like a deer who’d been spotted on the side of the road, eyes darting from the jeans in my hand to my computers, which I could see through the open door of my office, taking up almost one entire wall of that space. Technically, it was the bedroom next door, but I’d had the opening installed when I moved in, preferring to stumble out of bed and walk just a few paces to be able to legally (and cough, occasionally illegally) access the data my clients required.

Sometimes it was the government who sought my services.

Sometimes it was a CEO.

Sometimes it was Joe Blow.

But because I had no digital presence outside of my day and evening and sometimes middle of the night job, my clients only came to me via word of mouth. All of which meant that I didn’t have people dropping by my house at—my eyes flicked to my cell—seven in the morning.

Nope.

No fucking way.

The bell rang again.

I grabbed my phone, pulled up the doorbell camera and, “Aw