Being with Aleck has made me touchier than the entire year stint between the moment (peeping) Tom interrupted Max and I until my first orgasm with Perpetually Pleasing Luke Pritchard.

And now Aleck and I are finally alone and not in a public restroom.

“You still want my cock buried deep inside that sweet pussy, Winter?” he whispers into my ear, his voice slowly growing roots and barbs, spreading to my limbs like wild vines.

“Yes. God yes.”

Aleck slides his hand down the outside of my thigh, digs his fingers into the crook of my knee, and pulls my leg up to his ribs, grinding his erection into my pussy. I moan into his ear, kneading my fingers into the muscles in his back, when a loud knock at our suite door makes me jump.

“Fuck!” Aleck drops his head into my shoulder with a growl, then lifts off me, adjusting his erect dick in his pants.

“I swear, we’re like the two most popular people on the fucking planet,” he grits, walking into the kitchen with a scowl.

“Saved by the bell,” I joke, sheepishly.

My vagina is weeping. Weeping I tell you.

I shuffle to the door since Aleck isn’t making a move to answer it. I attempt to smooth out the back of my hair so it doesn’t look like I just got dry humped through the springs in the couch.

“Trent must work fast,” I say, reaching the door. “I want you to know, I’m throwing these roses off the balcony.”

I open the door with a laugh, then gasp the second I turn to see Dylan, the surfing bartender standing in the hall with a bouquet of wildflowers and a lazy smile.

“Found you,” he says, his smile turning into a grin.

“Holy fuck!” I shout, nearly choking on my tongue. “S-sorry. I mean, holy fuck,” I repeat quieter. “What are you doing here?”

“You are not an easy person to find, Winter Sommers. Well, you would have been, had you not left town.”

“Uh, yeah. My best friend is getting married next weekend.”

“I remember you mentioning that. For you….” Dylan says, extending the bouquet of wildflowers, filling my nostrils with a myriad of floral scents.

They’re beautiful. They’re perfect for me, too. I’ve always loved the way wildflowers look like the most beautiful weeds you’ve ever seen. So eccentric and erratic for their line of work. A sloppy mess of delicate and vibrant colors alike.

I once had a giant canvas picture of a field of wildflowers. It was the first thing I bought when I moved out of my father’s house. I didn’t need it, but I couldn’t pass it up. It was the only thing—except for my clothes, toiletries, my bed, and me—in my apartment for weeks before I could finally afford a couch and a dinette table. Sadly, it met its untimely demise when I threw the television remote across the room after I found my ex’s secretary swallowing his dick like it was an antidote after being poisoned. The remote ripped right through the canvas like a warm knife into butter.