I couldn’t stay.
The second I closed the door to the guest room I knew it. My c**k was still half-hard from the kitchen, throbbing every time I replayed the way her t**s had brushed my chest, the way her fingers had traced the outline of me like she already owned it. I grabbed my travel bag and started shoving s**t back inside. My place would be finished tomorrow. Until then I’d book a hotel. Anywhere. Just not here. Not under the same roof as her.
I yanked the zipper.
It caught.
I yanked harder. The metal teeth refused to close, jamming halfway like the bag itself had decided to f**k me over. I’d dragged this same black case through airports and hotel rooms for three years without a single problem. Of course it chose tonight—right when I was trying to run from the one person I should
