Chasing Love's Wings by Zoey Derrick Page B

nipple pops free of my mouth and she climbs off of me, sliding
     down to the floor. Taking the button of my jeans in between her fingers, she unbuttons
     and then slides the zipper down. She hooks her hands in the waistband of my jeans
     and boxer briefs, tugging, so I lift my hips and my erection springs free, falling
     forward then flinging back, slapping against my stomach. She removes my shoes, then
     my jeans. She stands and I notice that she’s somehow managed to remove the clips from
     her thigh highs, and she starts working her barely-there thong down her legs.  
    “I want you, right here. Right now,” she says as she climbs on top of me.  
    She will get no argument from me. She reaches behind herself and lines up the head
     of my cock with the warm wetness of her sex and she slides down onto me. I feel like
     I am going to explode as soon as I’m deep inside of her, but I don’t, and she begins
     to tremble as she slides up and down.

    It’s around nine the next morning when I wake up. Cami is already out of bed and I
     can’t stop the pout that forms on my lips. I hate it when she does this, mainly because
     I love our morning cuddles and, even more than that, I love our morning sex, and I
     am left with a hard-on and no Cami.  
    Our flight for Montana leaves late this afternoon, and knowing her, she’s around here
     packing, but when I look around the room, she is nowhere in sight and there are four
     suitcases standing between her bedroom and the sitting room.  
    I crawl out of bed, take care of business, throw on some clothes and head downstairs.
     She’s not in the living room area, so I go down one more floor and find her in her
     office.  
    “Hi, beautiful,” I say as I lean into the doorjamb.  
    “Hi beautiful yourself,” she says, but she doesn’t look up from her computer. What
     on earth could she be working on that has her undivided attention?
    “Whatcha working on?”  
    “Rumor squashing.”  
    “Oh, what are they saying this time?”  
    “Have you heard from Layla?” she asks, extremely deadpan and without meeting my eyes.
     Something in her body language tells me that her defenses are up and her jealousy
     is flaming again. I kind of like it, but it is unnecessary.  
    “No, not since we left Tarah that night. Why?” I step into the room, walk around her
     desk and lean in over her shoulder.  
    “Rumor squashing, remember?” she says, more as a warning than anything, and I understand
     immediately that she is warning me so that I don’t fly off the handle when I see what
     it is that she has to show me.  
    There is a picture of Layla, and the caption reads:  

    Layla Brooks, released from rehab, sporting a baby bump. Who’s the father? Tristan
     Michaels or the product of an elicit affair that allegedly broke the pair up? Reps
     close to Ms. Brooks speculated that it was in fact Tristan’s child, but would not
     confirm.  

    All I can do is close my eyes and shake my head.  
    “Rumor squashing. This is what I get paid for.”  
    “It’s still bullshit,” I say, finally opening my eyes to look at Cami. Her eyes are
     soft, but there is a hint of pity in them. “I don’t need pity, but what I do want
     is for her to be put in her place, along with the reporters. I won’t have this popping
     up again, month after month, when she shows up somewhere.”  
    “Tristan, do you think I wouldn’t stop this nonsense?”
    “Of course not. I know you will. Forgive me for thinking otherwise.” I kiss the top
     of her forehead. “Are you all packed?”  
    “Nearly, just need my electronics. What about you?”
    I laugh. “You mean those four suitcases upstairs are all yours?” She laughs at the
     mock horror in my voice. “Nearly, but you know me, I live out of a suitcase. Packing
     will take me five minutes.” I turn her chair toward me and fall to my knees in front
     of her. “I can think of other things to occupy our time.”  
    “Yeah, rumor