Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
“Come,” he whispers against my lips. “Do it.”
And, yup. I’m done just like that—pouring my entire soul into the condom with a teeth-rattling groan.
“Baby, yesssss,” Asher says, the words a scrape against my lips. Then he shudders and paints my chest as he slows down the pump of his hips. Like a wind-up toy winding down, he slows to a stop before collapsing in a sweaty mess on my chest.
Everything is silent except for the thump of my heart against his. We’re still in the midst of a long, slow kiss that eventually ends with a wet snick.
After a long moment of stillness, I realize I’m clutching his body to my chest, as if afraid that he’ll get away from me. I relax my grip, and Asher eases off with a quiet moan. “Wow.”
“Wow.”
He flops onto the bed beside me, and neither of us says a word for a few minutes. My thoughts are billowing around the room. I wonder briefly what I did to deserve this bliss.
“So this is your place,” Asher says in a gruff, blissed-out voice.
“Yup,” is all I can manage.
“You have navy sheets and a one-eyed cat.”
I pick up my head just a few degrees and spot Blackbeard licking his paw on top of my dresser. “Yup.”
“I think he’s plotting to kill me.”
“He is. But I’ll save you.”
Asher laughs. He reaches for my hand, lifts it to his mouth, and kisses my knuckles.
This small maneuver makes me unreasonably happy. “So, what do you want to do this weekend?”
“I just did it,” he says. “And as soon as I’m able, we’ll do it again.”
46
MORE THAN HANDCUFFS
ASHER
I am facedown on Mark’s couch, recovering from round number . . . actually, I’ve lost track at this point. We just can’t keep our hands off each other. On and off, all night long. In his bed, in his shower. This last time, I bent him over his own couch and held him tightly until I made him shout.
Now it’s about eleven a.m. New York time on Saturday. That means it’s five p.m. in Paris. I’ve barely had four hours sleep in the last day and a half, but I couldn’t be happier. I guess I’ll sleep when I’m dead. And now he’s making coffee, so that will probably help.
I doze.
The couch depresses with Mark’s weight. At least, I hope it’s him and not that freaky cat. That cat is proof that Mark Banks is full of surprises⏤I never expected him to have a pet. And one who’s a pirate.
A warm hand lands on my back and then travels up to sift through my hair. “Have I finished you off? Or do you have enough strength left to drink this coffee?”
“I can’t wait to drink that coffee.” With a yawn, I push myself up to a seated position.
Mark puts his feet onto the coffee table. He hands me a steaming mug, keeping one for himself.
I prop my feet up right beside his. And then I rub his instep with my foot while we silently sip our coffee.
This is so . . . nice. A Saturday at home with Mark. I want all the Saturdays, damn it. I don’t know what it is about Mark, but he makes me want things I don’t usually crave.
My hand finds its way onto his thigh. I’m not putting the moves on him. I just want to touch him.
His hand slides over mine. “I stirred up some pancake batter. And I also put some bacon in the oven. How do you feel about bananas in pancakes?”
Maybe the jet lag is getting to me, because the idea that Mark is making us breakfast almost makes me want to cry. “I feel great about it,” I rasp. “Feed me all the things.”
I take a big breath and, yup, the air is bacon-scented. I’m basically in heaven right now.
Then the door buzzer rings. Apparently there are visitors in heaven.
“Fuck,” Mark says. He gets up.
“What’s the matter?”
“I forgot about Brett.”
“Brett from work?”
“Yeah. We were going to play tennis.” He walks over to the vestibule and lifts a phone that’s attached to the wall. “Yes, thanks. Send him up.” Then he glances down at his gym shorts and threadbare T-shirt before turning to give me a head-to-toe sweep, and then a smile. “Just making sure we’re both decent.”
“Are we?” I glance down at my joggers and my FLI T-shirt. “I haven’t looked this shabby in ages. We both look recently fucked.”
Mark just shrugs. Then he pulls the door open to reveal another dude. This one is wearing . . . a polo shirt. Carefully trimmed hair and pressed khaki shorts complete the look.
I suppress a smile. Mark’s work husband is cut from the same cloth.
“Dude, I’m so sorry,” Mark says. “I spaced on tennis. Come in, will you?”
“Whoa,” Brett says with a chuckle, entering as he takes in Mark’s ragged appearance. “Did you get drunk last night? I’ve never seen you looking so wrecked.”