A cry bursts out of me, surprise and lust and sheer ecstasy rushing through me like high tide on a full moon night.
He pushes inside me again and again, every thrust strong and purposeful, his cock penetrating me so deeply it's like our bodies were made for each other. He consumes me, unrelenting in his passion, and soon his movements grow wilder, greedier, like he can't get enough of me and never wants this to end. I want it to go on and on and on. The slapping of our bodies as they collide becomes a frantic rhythm, while I bounce and he grunts every time he slams me into the wall.
I come like a fireworks display on New Year's Eve, every burst of pleasure bigger and hotter and brighter, blinding me to everything except the look on his face. No man has ever looked at me that way, like he can't bear to give up being inside me but can't wait a second longer to let go.
His climax pulsates deep inside me, and I come harder.
We both go limp. I sag against the wall. Luckily, he has enough strength left to keep us both from falling into a lump on the floor. He nuzzles my neck, then peppers soft kisses on my skin as he makes his way up to my ear.
A phone rings.
Not mine.
My Brit digs his phone out of his pocket and answers it. "What do you want?"
He sounds irritated.
I'm kind of irritated too. I mean, he's still inside me, and he takes a call? What the hell? So much for politeness.
"I'm busy," he says curtly, his mouth pinched. "We can talk about this Monday."
While he chats with somebody else, I wriggle away from him, fix my dress, and stuff my wrecked panties into my purse.
The elevator stops. The doors open.
I don't have a room on the nineteenth floor, or anywhere in this hotel, but I suddenly need to get away from him. My plan to cheer myself up with a fling started out so hot, but now I'm feeling weird about the whole thing. So I stumble out into the hall.
"Wait," he calls out to me.
I turn toward him, hoping my expression conveys how much I don't like being screwed and then forgotten about.
He's holding his phone to his chest and giving me the sweetest look of regret. "Please wait. I'm sorry about this."
Being a total sucker for a pitiful, hot man---not to mention a sucker for a British accent---I chew my lip and try to decide what to do. I can hear the person he's been talking to shouting at him, demanding his attention.
"Not now," he hisses into the phone.
I hear more tinny shouting. My shoulders sag, because obviously, this is the end of my hot night of sin with a stranger. Like I said, I'm cursed. I get one good bang in an elevator, and then it's over.
He looks at me again, his expression pleading for me to stay.
I shake my head and march toward the stairs. I do my dramatic exit thing, then schlep down one flight of stairs before I realize I can't walk down eighteen more flights. Groaning at my sucky luck, I sit down on the steps and face-plant in my own hands this time.
The clapping of shoes echoes in the stairwell, coming down the steps from the floor above.
Someone sighs right beside me.
I peek through my fingers at the person.
My sexy Brit is kneeling beside me, looking a little embarrassed. "I'm sorry about that. I shouldn't have answered my phone."
A shrug is all I can manage in response. I'm still covering my face with my hands and watching through the gaps between my fingers.
He gently pries my hands away, clasping them in his bigger ones. "Please come to my room. I'd love to spend all night with you. You're the most enchanting woman I've ever met."
Enchanting? No one has ever called me that before. He'd also said I'm adorable. He is definitely adorable, enchanting, sexy, beautiful, and all sorts of other adjectives.
I open my mouth to accept his offer when my phone chimes, alerting me to a new text. Since I got annoyed when my Brit took a call, I can't check my text. I clutch my purse to my stomach, chewing on my lip.