A Trip To Remember - Book cover

A Trip To Remember

Lyla Moore

Age Rating


Lyla meets a handsome stranger while on a business trip and decides to reject her usual timid persona and throw herself into a fling. One amazing night leads to surprises she never imagined. But is it all too much for her?

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Chapter 1

A strong hand gripped my thigh, firmly but gently prying my legs apart. A light touch skimmed between my legs, up from my knee, and along my inner thigh, just grazing over my naked pussy.

Desire thrummed through me, hardening my nipples as goosebumps broke out over my skin. I moaned, shifting toward the touch for more contact.

A deep chuckle and hot breath in my ear sent shivers down my spine. “Patience, Lyla, patience. Are you saying…yes?” he whispered.

“Yes, yes,” I said. “I’m ready, please…”

His fingers explored my slit, dragging moisture to my clit and rubbing in circles while I writhed. Again and again, he painted my clit with my own juices, dipping just inside my opening but not plunging into me like I desperately wanted.

“Please,” I moaned and pushed my body toward his hand to force him inside me.

Another chuckle made me shudder as his exhalation wafted across my ear and neck. “It’s time,” he whispered again.

“Time for what?”

“Time to wake up.”

My eyes flew open with a start. I stared at the ceiling, disoriented, but as my dark surroundings sharpened, it came back to me.

Fancy hotel. San Diego. Three-day work conference.

That dream, though…

I covered my face but flinched when wet fingertips grazed my forehead. Fearing I was bleeding, I checked my hands, but a clear sheen covering three of my digits made me bring them to my nose.

Holy shit, it’s my juices. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had masturbated, let alone in my sleep.

This was all my roommate Sara’s fault. If she hadn’t tried so hard to convince me I was going to get laid this week, I wouldn’t have dreamed about it. And I certainly wouldn’t have woken up horny and frustrated and, well, sticky.

After making a mental note to yell at her, I glanced at the clock: 6:15 a.m.

May as well get up, I thought, even though I had three hours until the conference began.

I rolled off the pillow-top mattress and padded to the bathroom, guided by the sunlight that escaped the boundaries of the blackout curtains. Once inside, I reached for the light switch, but it seemed each bulb had its own.

There was no way I could remember which was which, so I pressed them all, and the luxuriousness of the room made my breath hitch now that I was seeing it with nongroggy eyes.

This is as big as my bedroom, I thought as my gaze jumped from the marble double-sink vanity countertop that spanned one wall to the standing copper soaking tub and tiled shower that occupied another.

First, I used the one luxury feature I remembered from last night—the Japanese toilet. Then, I turned on the detachable showerhead, which released a strong stream of water that almost immediately filled the air with steam.

My excitement grew when I noticed the nine additional showerheads protruding from the tiles on each of the three walls. With the hotel’s impressive water pressure and presumably unlimited hot water supply, I’d make sure my company got its money’s worth for this room.

Once my fingers were well pruned and my body limp from the steamy water massage, I stepped out of the bathroom on wobbly legs with a fluffy bathrobe around me and a towel around my head.

Reaching the curtains, I whipped them open to bathe the space in the morning sunlight. This room was stunning; I had to show it off to someone.

“It’s about time you called, Lyla! I’ve been waiting! I googled your hotel, and it looks insane.” Sara’s excited grin shone out of my phone screen. “How is it? Super lux? Show me everything!”

Her curly blonde hair shot out in all directions from the headband holding it off her face, and she had a streak of blue paint across her cheek. She must have gotten up really early if she already started painting.

“Good morning to you too!” I chuckled and then switched the camera to show the room. “Here it is.”

A chorus of Sara’s reactions sang out as I panned the phone. Oohs and aahs and gasps led to demands for closer looks and sensory descriptions.

She made me describe the silkiness of the sheets on the king-size bed so she could guess the thread count, squish my toes into the carpet to show her how plush it was, and even lift and drop the curtains so she could get a sense of how heavy they were.

Sara raved about the patterned silk wallpaper, elegant decor, and matching furniture sets. She swooned over the bathroom with its fancy foreign toilet and begged me to take a bath at some point.

But I saved the best for last.

Covering the camera, I walked to the balcony and dramatically revealed my view of the ocean. This earned the loudest gasp.

“It’s so great here, Sara,” I said. “This warm California sunshine sure beats the gloomy Portland rain, and what I’ve seen of the city is beautiful.” I flipped the camera onto me and went back into the room, placing Sara on the vanity in the bathroom so I could get ready.

“You know, that room is pretty big. Big enough for company,” Sara teased. “Don’t forget what we talked about.”

“I know, I know,” I said, releasing my wavy brown hair from the towel. “You think this conference is going to be a giant fuckfest. But there’s no way I’m finding true love at a software engineering nerd convention, okay?” I began applying my makeup.

Sara laughed. “Says one of those software engineering nerds!” She shifted in her chair, pulling her feet up to sit cross-legged, dressed in her usual painting clothes of a bralette and overalls.

It had been a long-standing truth to our friendship that she was the cool one—a professional artist who tended bar on weekends—while I was the nerdy one who sat in a cubicle from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. every day staring at a computer screen.

“And who said anything about true love?” she continued. “I just think you need to get laid. It’s been…how long?”

“Yes, yes, I know, two years. I’m in a rut; you can stop reminding me,” I grumbled.

“A rut? Lyla, dear, you are in the Grand Canyon of dry spells.” Sara sighed, her gaze softening. “I know you’ve never been to a work conference before, but they are for hooking up. Trust me, I know.”

I opened my mouth to point out she had never been to one either, but she raised a finger to stop me.

“You’re in a new place,” she went on. “There are new people around you, no one knows you, and you don’t have to be yourself!”

Shooting my eyes to her, I glared at her through the tiny screen. “And what’s wrong with being myself, exactly?”

“You know what I mean. Be you, but the you that’s happy and carefree—and that’s getting laid. I miss that girl.” She appeased me with a smile, but she wasn’t wrong.

After a messy breakup, I had retreated hard from any sort of social life and spent almost all my time at work or home. If it hadn’t been for Sara’s unrelenting insistence that I accompany her out sometimes, I wouldn’t have done anything.

When it came to guys, though, I was the unrelenting one. I wanted love or nothing at all, but no guy she pushed me toward was good enough. And then it all just seemed so hard and not worth it.

But maybe I could take a break from love. Maybe Sara was onto something. New place, new me, right?

Unsure how not to be me, I sighed and said, “Tell me what to do.”

“Just don’t say no.”

While I finished getting ready, Sara and I negotiated the terms of our “not being me” agreement. I swore to keep an open mind, say yes to any social opportunity that presented itself, and not hook up with anyone attending my conference.

That last one was nonnegotiable for me, to Sara’s grumbling.

There was little that could be done to “not me” my wardrobe, however, so we settled on one more button unfastened on my light-blue shirt, which tucked into the black pencil skirt I was saving for a fancy event. Instead of my comfortable shoes, I wore black heels.

“All right, Miss Lyla Peterson, I think you’re ready. I’m holding you to our deal.” Sara arranged her face into a mock-serious frown and extended her hand to mimic a handshake.

I reached out my hand to match. “Miss Sara Davis, I agree to your terms and conditions.” I nodded curtly. “But now I need coffee. I’ll message you after my sessions this morning.”

We hung up, but before I left the room, I gave myself one final check in the mirror. My straightened hair fell neatly to my chin, and both my makeup and outfit gave me an air of professionalism with a touch of flirty—without going too far in either direction.

Standing a bit taller, I marveled that I had never known such a middle ground existed. Here I had been going to work looking like a schlub when I could have looked like this?

Maybe I had been in more than just a sexual rut.

With new confidence, I left my room and headed to breakfast, my footfalls muted by the soft carpeting of the hallway. When no one was around, I snapped photos for Sara of the many extravagant features of the hotel’s interior spaces.

Massive potted ferns lined the corridors, and tasteful artwork added further touches of sophistication. After walking through the central lobby, where a stunning crystal chandelier illuminated the marble floor with twinkling reflections, I reached the dining area.

The host checked me in before I made a plate from the expansive buffet and sat at a corner table. The dining room was only a quarter full, and concern prickled my mind that the hotel was only a quarter full too.

Surprisingly, sadness then crept in from the thought that there might be no men here who weren’t attending my conference. But I shook away the doubts and finished my breakfast, thanking the waitress after she cleared my plate and refilled my coffee.

I was just about to take a sip when a dark shape caught my eye.

A man strolled up to the barista station, his side facing me and his broad shoulders snug in a black suit. His dark hair was longer than the suit would imply, a bit shaggy and unkempt, with pieces falling just over his eyes.

But there was nothing unkempt about his face, I realized when he turned to scan the seating area. His skin had a glow to it that beckoned my fingers to stroke his cleanly shaven cheeks, and his moist lips were just begging for me to—

Stop staring! a voice inside me said, and I blinked.

Before I could look away, he turned toward me, glanced in my direction, and froze. If not for his piercing blue eyes holding me firm, I would have turned to double-check he was looking at me.

There was no way someone as gorgeous as him would be interested in me.

After what felt like hours but was probably only two seconds, I tested his stare with a smile, and he smiled back. This seemed to bring him back to his senses, and he walked to an empty table, grabbed a napkin, and wrote something on it.

As he sauntered toward me, his lip curling up in a smirk, I willed myself not to blush or panic. However, the closer he got, the higher the heat crept up my neck.

When he got within six feet of me, my thundering heart demanded I break eye contact, and I stared into my coffee cup to gather my senses.

Get yourself together, I scolded myself. ~You are twenty-eight years old, and you are blushing like a teenager. ~I caught movement from the tops of my eyes and raised my head.

His warm smile and soft eyes greeted me, but he said nothing. Instead, he set the napkin down on my table and pushed it toward me. “If you’re interested” was all he said before striding away.

My pulse raced, my cheeks burned, and my inner Sara was screaming demands at me. But I didn’t need her to tell me what I already knew.

For this man, I would say yes to just about anything.

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