🔥STEAMINESS ALERT—WHOOOOOOO it is hot in here, yo 🔥

♫ I'll be in the trench coat
Back of the bar, in the shadows
We could keep it simple, wear your hat low ♪
{Jojo—So bad}

Though she talked herself out of it several times while working, and a few more on her way home, Coralie couldn't convince herself not to meet with Michael at his hotel.

She'd spent the afternoon hot and bothered, his voice slurring about, over and over, in her mind.

"Fuck you senseless in my hotel room."

She'd stumbled through her rehearsals, making everyone wonder why she sang and danced so lavishly, as if making love to the microphone.

"I want you badly. Now. Today. Tonight."

She'd clasped her hands all through her ride to her apartment, fighting the yearning to sneak her fingers into her pants and play, toy, tease herself until she made it to her bedroom, where she'd be able to satisfy herself at last.

"I'm insanely turned on by you."

But she didn't satisfy herself. No, she didn't need to—because Michael would take care of that, later.

"Fuck it," she said, throwing her coat and the borrowed cardigan onto her bed. "It's decided. I'm going."

There was no one in the apartment to talk her out of it. The more she thought of Michael, the more she wanted not to think, but to see him, and with no clothes on.

She showered, packed an overnight bag, and checked the time as she wrapped herself in the trench coat, as he'd requested. It was five; that was when he said he'd be done with his meetings. By the time she found a Lyft to take her across town, he'd be ready for her, she hoped.

Because she was more than ready for him. She didn't care about the consequences anymore; there was something sly and sexy about hooking up with him at a hotel, sneakily slipping in as if it were taboo, forbidden. And technically, it was—they were on a break, at her request, and yet she'd caved at the mere sight of his pretty eyes, his dapper ensemble, and a brief recollection of what he looked like naked.

She fought her urges again the backseat, twenty minutes later. The car zoomed down the crowded avenues, and she sat, smirking at the surprise she'd planned for him—her nudity under the trench coat. He hadn't asked for that, but she'd been so turned on at the idea, when she got out of the shower, that she hadn't been able to resist. Now, she crossed her legs, begging herself internally not to slip her hand into the coat and between her thighs. No need to touch herself to know how wet she already was, and how excited she was to arrive and reveal that fact to Michael.

After double checking the room number he'd given her, she entered the hotel—a snazzy but low-key spot near a cluster of industrial buildings. She practiced her hip swaying stride as she strolled down the hallway to his door.

For a split second, she hesitated as she lifted her knuckles to rap them against the sleek, metallic surface. She stared at the number—one-hundred-and-twelve—and gulped. Was this smart? No. Was it necessary? Also, no.

But was it going to assist Coralie in figuring out where Michael placed in this race for her heart? Would it allow her to speed up her decision, to stop keeping these men waiting while she gave into her vagina's beck and call?

She knocked. It was too late, anyway—she'd come this far, and the ride wasn't cheap. She might as well indulge and spend an evening having sex with Michael, because who knew if she'd ever get to again.

He opened almost immediately, and at the sight of her, he squeezed the water bottle he'd been holding. "Oh." He blinked, as if about to say how surprised he was that she'd come; but his lips crept into a grin and he eyed her, from her loose curls to the fuck-me-red heels on her feet. "Shit. You wore the trench coat."

He sidled out of the doorway to let her in. The room was simple, classic—a king bed, a wooden headboard, two nightstands holding sturdy lamps, a desk below a wide, curtained window. Nothing fancy, nothing outstanding; but they didn't need much to get busy. Ryan would have wooed her with exquisite silks and an en-suite bathroom with a jacuzzi; Chester would have had another person there to join in on the fun.

But Michael didn't need to present Coralie with the frivolities or the excess. Coralie only needed him.

"Yeah," she said, leaning against the door as she shut it with her backside. "Trench coat, and nothing else."

Michael cocked his head. "Oh?" He then turned deathly still, only his eyes moving to widen in shock. He lost his grip on the water bottle and it fell to his feet. "Oh. Oh shit. You're... you've got nothing underneath? At all?"

Coralie unwound the coat's belt from her waist and twirled it around her finger as she took a step towards him. "Nothing underneath. These buttons—the only thing stopping you from seeing me naked."

Michael's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Damn. You have me beat, then; you have an advantage."

"Mhm." Coralie unfastened the first button. "You're wearing way too much clothing for my taste."

Heat flushed over Michael's cheeks. He kicked off his shoes, his focus remaining on Coralie. And not on her body, but on her eyes; melting into them, inferring all his raging desire into her.

"That can be fixed." He licked his upper lip, leaving his tongue in the crease between both lips as he gaped at her. "Tell me what you want, Cora, and I'll do it."

Coralie wasn't much for being dominant in her sexual relations. She preferred to be tossed about, thrown onto desks, dropped onto beds, her legs torn aside, her sex entered and thrust into with passion. But Michael's demeanor showed that he chose her to make the decisions. He expected her to control their rhythm, to express her needs.

There was something erotically dangerous about him tonight; he was off limits, but she wanted him more because of it.

She moved on to the next button—this one would reveal the top of her neckline, and she anticipated Michael's face might grow redder at the vision. "Every time I pop a button," she nibbled on her lip, "you drop a piece of clothing." She jutted her chin at him. "I've unbuttoned two; you've taken off your shoes. It's your turn again."

He didn't waste time, and heaved his long-sleeved shirt over his head. The defined outline of his pectoral muscles and abdominals cut off her breath—he'd always been in shape, but he'd clearly been working out more since she'd last seen him. And those arms—broad and tattooed and sexy as ever.

Oh, the craving to hurry forward and touch him, kiss him, lick him—it was intense, but she wanted to make this last. She wanted their arousal to reach the highest peak before they gave into it.

Another button down, and the coat's edges dipped between her breasts. Her nipples were still covered, but she felt them erecting and pressing hard against the fabric, itching to be flicked, teased, licked.

Michael, with a taunting smile, removed his socks next. "I think I'm winning," he said, waggling his eyebrows, waiting for Coralie's move. He knew her next loosened button would open the coat and expose her boobs; but he wouldn't be allowed to approach yet. Not until he was completely in the nude.

"Are you?" She drew her finger down to the button as slowly as possible, smoothing over her skin, sending shivers down to her toes. "Whoever is naked first is the winner. I'm much closer than you."

She undid the button, and Michael's jaw unhinged. The coat sagged open, unveiling Coralie's bosom. Michael's mouth opened, his tongue dancing within, eager to lather over her nipples, to take in every delicious morsel of her.

She snapped at him. "Pants. Off."

He obeyed without a fumble and ripped off his belt. He unfastened his button, unzipping, letting the trousers pool at his feet. Stepping out of them, he now wore nothing but his tight boxers.

The bulge throbbing between his legs was so appetizing that Coralie could barely contain herself. She wanted it—in her hands, in her mouth, in her vagina, now. But it was still too soon; she wanted to boil a little longer, simmer in their thirst for one another.

She unhooked the remaining buttons and wormed out of the coat, which she tossed towards the door, near which she'd left her bag. In nothing but her heels—and channeling the seductive Lila, whom she saw as a model of sexiness—she sashayed up to Michael, whose jaw had begun its slow drop to the floor.

With no words, he understood that he wasn't supposed to touch her. He let her pat her fingers from his neck to his belly button, as she pressed her lips to his chin, his collarbone, the middle of his chest. He tasted like sweet cologne and sugary lotion, and she fought not to bite into him. Shivering at her touch, he stood immobile, his heart hammering in his rib-cage with such intensity Coralie could feel it, hear it.

Another steady thrumming came from a lower spot—his ever-growing erection, prodding into her legs as she caressed and kissed him. Its poking became so overwhelming that Coralie had to do something about it. So she lowered to a crouch, Michael's throbbing penis in her face, with only the light boxer material separating her tongue from his skin. She pressed her lips to the fabric, feeling the warmth underneath, the firmness awaiting her.

Michael moaned, his fingers entwining in her hair but not shoving against her head or forcing her mouth harder onto his penis.

She kissed the length of the bulge, cupping his balls with one hand, using the other to slide under the waistband of his boxers. Then, with one swift motion, she dragged his underwear down and marveled at the majesty unfolding before her.

She delicately took hold of his testicles again as she slid her tongue along his length, enjoying the slippery feel her saliva caused. He arched his spine and leaned into her, moaning as she lapped up every inch of his shaft, lost in the ecstasy of his delicious flavor. He shrugged his fingers through her hair, with more intensity than before, as begging for her to take him fully inside her mouth—and she did, devouring him, delighting in the pulsations, in his veins vibrating with arousal.

She sucked steadily, then accelerating, slowing down, and picking up the pace again as she glanced up to see him peering down at her, panting, desperate for a release. But she wouldn't allow that; the only release would come from their ultimate union, which she didn't plan on starting yet.

They were far from done with the foreplay; she'd plotted to push him over to the bed and continue her exploration of his penis. But he gripped her arms and heaved her up, taking the control away from her.

"My turn," he said, then planted his lips on hers in a deep, dizzying kiss. Their tongues twirled together for a few minutes that felt like forever, before he grasped her ass, lifted her, and carried her to the bed.

"Oh?" Coralie lay there, feigning intimidation, fanning herself as she watched him standing against the mattress, stroking his dick as he ogled her.

"Like I said," he shoved her legs apart and lowered to the mattress, creeping his face up to the juncture between her thighs, "my turn."

She was more than happy to relinquish control if her pleasure was about to ascend. And ascend, she did—the tip of his tongue barely flicked the surface of her inner lips that she squirmed and squealed in delight. He seized her thighs, keeping them apart and steady as tremors overcame them while he flitted at her center of arousal. Faster, slower, faster, slower—he licked and titillated every fiber of her, sending her to the brink of bliss. Her legs convulsed so much they'd become numb, and electricity shocked through her, paralyzing her to the bed. The sheets were damp beneath her, and as he dipped his tongue in deeper, she all but screamed out in absolute and delirious euphoria.

By the time he stopped, she wasn't sure she was breathing, nor if she was still on planet Earth. She had no protest as he motioned at the nightstand, where he went to grab a condom and slid it over his throbbing shaft. He needed no signal to not waste another second, and to slide that delicious, thick stick of pleasure right into her.

He raised her legs and placed them against his chest, allowing a deeper penetration that her body reacted to with another round of convulsions. She bit the insides of her cheeks with his every thrust, and screamed into her fist—unsure how dense the walls were, she worried about being too loud—as she grasped at the sheets, clutching them in her hand so hard they chafed against her skin.

When he flipped her over and fucked her rough and fast as she was on all fours, she lost all sense of time and space. Sweat gathered over her forehead and between her breasts, and the swell of his penis inside her drove her to a drug-induced state. Her eyesight was blurry, her senses tingling, her orgasm like an earth-splitting tremble that tore into her, rendering her nauseous and feverish, but oh-so-satisfied.

"Fuck," he said, as he reached his own peak, magically in synch with Coralie. They came together, her no longer able to muffle her yelps, and him shuddering as he released, exploding in an incredible finish.

He fell beside her, satiated, spent, and took her hand in his.

"Worth every single second of waiting."

Though Coralie said nothing, she squeezed his hand back, in heartfelt but pained agreement.

I hope that wasn't our last time, but if it was, it was a glorious way to go out.

***

Watching Michael sleep—he'd dozed off within minutes of creeping under the covers—Coralie wondered why their sex session had been different. It was a blast, as always; but there was an extra punch to the sensations he'd caused, an additional thrill to his thrusts. Was it because it had been so long since she'd seen him? Or was it the rush of the forbidden—the fact that she wasn't supposed to be sleeping with him?

The night-light on his side was still on, basking his face in a warm, golden glow. He lay on his back, head turned towards Coralie. And Coralie rested on her side, holding her head up, elbow on the mattress as she admired him. His torso rose and fell, and his subtle snoring made her giggle.

She was transfixed by his beauty, his calmness, his perfection. New outfit, new job in NYC, but he was still the down-to-earth, generous man she'd grown incredibly fond of. An amazing human being. Anything he did, he excelled at.

Except for me; he failed by choosing me, didn't he?

Sexy, successful, smart, and incredible in bed—she'd scored by letting him into her life, but he had no clue how atrocious she was. How much of a low-life, cheating piece of shit she'd been.

She slipped out of bed and fetched her change of clothes from her bag. He'd asked her to spend the night, but she couldn't; how could she sleep beside him anymore, knowing what she'd done? Realizing how many times she'd betrayed him? And how she'd betrayed herself tonight by giving in to him when she was supposed to be keeping her distance?

She was disgusting, a disgraceful, shameful, dirt-bag. As she slugged on her leggings and pulled on her sweatshirt, she shook her head. He didn't deserve this. This night of intense passion—it would be their last, at least for a long time. Because even if she chose him, how could he ever forgive all her transgressions? She didn't expect him to, and refused to hope he would. Bella was right—he'd need time, but Coralie presumed he'd choose not to bother learning to move past what she'd done.

He'd do best to forget me and my bullshit.

After putting on her flats and shoving her high heels into her bag, she shrugged on her coat and hesitated to give him one last kiss. He was a heavy sleeper, and likely wouldn't stir if she placed a peck on his forehead. But the idea of tainting his soft skin with her gross lips didn't appeal to her.

Instead, she spotted a notepad on the other nightstand, and though Bella's voice rang in her head, telling her to stop, she allowed her impulse to take over.

She wrote.

Michael,

Tonight was perfect in every way. But I can't lay next to you and not feel guilt for my behavior. I've been a horrible girlfriend. Not because I moved across the country, but because I've been cheating on you, with—

She paused, wiping a vagrant tear that had dared to slither down her cheek. She hadn't even noticed she was crying, and sniffled, adamant on finishing her note.

—cheating on you with a fling from my teenage years, a former best friend, who resurfaced after years of silence. He seduced me, I caved, and now I hate myself more than you'll ever know. And there's another guy, too; yes, I'm a nymphomaniac piece of trash who doesn't deserve an ounce of your time, and even less of your affection.

Just so you're aware, I've broken things off with them both, but I don't expect you to absolve me from this. I understand if you block my number and never speak to me again and curse my name. I earned it. But I wanted you to know the truth, for once.

She blew out a breath. Yes, it was a partial lie; she was only on a break with Ryan and Chester. But her hand hurt, and she didn't want to dwell on details Michael might not give a damn about.

You might have had my heart, but I'm not strong enough to figure it out. I think I'm in love with you, but I'm a coward, and I buried myself in sex with others to avoid it. That's all—I'm done wasting your time. You're too good for me, and should be with someone who respects you, who loves you, and doesn't betray you like I have.

Without another glance at him, she hurried out and hailed a cab to take her home.

She waited until she opened her door and snuck into the darkness of her living room before unleashing the fountain of tears she'd been holding in.

She crumbled to the floor, but sudden motion in the obscurity and a few mutters of "oh, shit!" prompted her back to her feet, rushing to the light switch, grabbing one of her heels from her bag to use as defense against the intruder.

Once the light flickered to life, exposing the scene, Coralie dropped the heel. It clacked to the floor as her jaw sank. Not intruders—she was the one who'd intruded on them.

Delilah and Bella lay naked on the couch, a blanket dangling off their asses, their arms wrapped around one another. Caught in the act—and wow, what an act it was!

Coralie's voice was low, gravelly, when she finally found it. "What the fuck did I walk into?"

♥♥♥