Free Claimed by a Stranger (Craved Series #2) by Hazel Kelly

in
it for part of that.
    But what about the other part? What about the part of me that was
convinced I really liked him?
    This was a disaster. I’d just had the best sex of my life with a
guy who was guaranteed to drop from my radar in less than forty eight hours.
    Maybe that’s why it was so much fun though. Maybe that’s why he
was so into it. Cause he knew I was transient. He knew I’d never expect a box
of chocolates or for him to sit through a cheesy romcom with me. He’d never
have to meet my parents or hold my hair back. I was just the flavor of the
month, a good old American fuck like he hadn’t had in ages.
    I hoped I was good anyway.
    He certainly seemed happy when it was over, lying spent with a
goofy smile on his face that I’m sure reflected my own.
    And on some level, even though I enjoyed myself way more than felt
safe, maybe I was only able to let myself go like that because I knew it wouldn’t
last.
    I mean, I was not the kind of girl who talked dirty like that,
the kind of girl who begged. In fact, I think most of the guys I hooked up with
preferred that I didn’t say anything at all.
    But Jack made it fun to say those naughty things, to be someone
else for a night. Or was I still myself and he’d just brought out a side of me
I’d never seen before?
    No. No way. I hadn’t been harboring a hidden fetish for begging
for cock like that. That only happened because he brought it out in me. Like he
had the power to transform me into some kind of lush creature of the night.
    After all, a few days ago I was an unemployed graphic designer
whose most exciting relationship with men involved tag teaming Ben & Jerry.
And now all of a sudden I was this exotic person who rode on the back of
motorcycles and had high stakes injuries, the kind of person who got invited to
private rooftop sex parties and got tongue fucked in foreign countries!
    Holy shit.
    I’d never been so far out of my element… or so supremely
satisfied to be there.
    Of course, we were both adults. There was no reason to feel
embarrassed by the things I’d said. It was just a little bit of sexy fun.
Except I didn’t do sexy fun. And yet there I was begging him for it to be time
to beg?!
    Was I that desperate or did I just feel that safe with him? I
didn’t even know his last name for crying out- oh wait, yes I did- Quinn. Jack
Quinn. I could picture it on the front of his book right below him standing
topless with a stethoscope around his neck, his arms crossed in front of his
bulging pecs.
    I felt dizzy from the realization. I’d fucked a guy who’d been
on Oprah. Or rather, he’d fucked me. And hard, too. In fact, he’d opened me up
wider than I even thought was possible.
    After we put our clothes on and smiled like idiots through a
much needed beer, punctuating the silence by uttering a mixture of polite and
impolite compliments, I left.
    Naturally, I wondered whether he would’ve suggested we go back
to his place if I’d stuck around. And part of me wanted to- probably the body
part, which hadn’t felt so delightfully exhausted by another person in some
time.
    On the other hand, as the high of sex with Jack started to fade,
my rational side reared its ugly head, reminding me that this thing with him
could only go the way of my last few “relationships.” Because once again, I had
feelings for a guy that could never possibly be reciprocated.
    I was going to get hurt, and I already knew it.
    I did take comfort in the fact that it wouldn’t be personal. At
least this time I’d be able to blame unsurmountable geographical obstacles as
opposed to my ass or my personality, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t going to be
awful.
    And going back to his place, sleeping in his armpit nook, and
waking up to his sleeping face was only going to make it hurt worse.
    So I didn’t even wait for him to invite me back.
    Instead, I just thanked him for a perfect night and left,
figuring the night couldn’t possibly be improved upon anyway. I