by Jayne Rylon
“Mmm. Yes.” He shivers beneath me.
Since he can’t see me, I grin. He’s so damn cute like this, I can’t stand it.
Time for his reward.
Hopefully, I remember how to make this good. I haven’t done it in nearly three years.
I bend down until my face is an inch from his freshly showered skin. I can smell the soap on him still. Then I grasp his cheeks, tug them apart, and bury my face in his ass.
Rogan groans. He collapses forward, sprawling on the bed.
“Get up if you want me to eat this ass.” I spank him again, sure he’s loving every second.
After all, his cock is rock hard as it hangs low beneath him when he repositions himself.
I dive in, using my tongue to spread spit around while I prod and tease the clenching muscle there. While I entertain myself with his wild groans and curses, I sneak my hand around his hip to play with his dick. He rocks, thrusting back against my mouth then forward into my fist.
I love bringing him pleasure in every direction.
Slickness coats my hand as it leaks from his cock.
“Kaden. Kaden,” he chants. When the pitch of his voice changes, I know I’m pushing him too close to the edge. So I lower my mouth to his balls and suck on his sac while I reposition my hand to take advantage of the natural lubrication from my saliva and his precome.
I press my finger against his opening and wait until he relaxes before tunneling into him. He’s tight and hot, just like I remembered.
I can’t wait until it’s my dick burrowing into that paradise.
“Do you have anything to make this easier?” I ask.
He grunts and points toward his pillow. Curious, I peek beneath it and find not only a partially used bottle of lube but a small anal vibrator as well.
“What’s this?” I withdraw the toy and wave it where he can see it. “Have you been taking care of yourself for me?”
He groans, incapable of verbal communication now that he’s lost to desire. Good, I like him like this.
Plan B. Ditch the fingers, use the right tool for the job.
I grease up the vibrator before fitting it to him. The instant it touches his sensitive flesh, Rogan cries out. He thrusts backward, lodging the tip inside him before I make a conscious choice to insert it.
“Settle down.” I lean over his back, keeping him still. “I’ll give you what you can handle. No more, no less.”
He quiets, waiting like the good boy he is for me to take care of him. Shit, he’s perfect.
I run my finger along the edge of the toy, checking the fit before pressing it deeper. It doesn’t take long before he’s swallowed the entire thing. So I begin to swirl it inside him. I can tell when it nudges his prostate because he clenches and moans.
Of course, that means I do it over and over.
Until he’s gasping.
Then I turn on the vibrator.
“Kaden!” He rakes the sheets with his good hand. A long strand of pearly fluid drips from his cock onto the bed between his legs. “Please, stop!”
I freeze. “Are you saying Pygmalion?”
It seemed like he was enjoying himself, but I’ll never jeopardize his safety or satisfaction.
“No. God, no.” He shakes his head against the bed. “Going to come. Don’t want to. Not without you. Fuck me. Please, fuck me.”
“When you ask so prettily, how can I say no?” I slip the vibrator from him, switch it off, then toss it to the floor on top of my jeans.
I could easily plunge inside his loosened hole.
But I don’t.
I’m angling for something more intimate. Something more romantic than to pound into him from behind like this.
I tap his hip then half-lift, half-scoot him so he’s lying on his side, his head on his pillow. I cradle him from behind, holding him close to me from the tips of our toes to the tops of our heads. He turns his face toward me, and I capture his mouth.
I’m still kissing the shit out of him when I reach down and guide my cock to his ass.
Rogan inhales sharply as I join us, but he never flinches or removes his lips from mine. He looks into my eyes as I fill him while embracing him.
I lift his thigh and put my top leg between his, finding the leverage to fuck him with long, slow strokes that embed me balls-deep inside him then allow me to withdraw until I nearly slip out of his grasp.
He squeezes his ass around me, never letting me go too far.
I splay my hand over his chest. His heart pounds against my palm. I relish the sensation before rubbing his nipple with my thumb. Then I wander lower.
Once I touch his cock, our time will be limited, so I draw things out, examining every inch of his flat stomach before wrapping my fingers around his steely shaft. All the while, I glide in and out of him. Steadily, thoroughly, lovingly.
I hope he understands what I’m trying to show him.
The liquid warmth in his gaze tells me he does.
Rogan’s cock bulges in my fist. I pump him in time to my fucking. His ass tightens on my dick, making it harder to move within him. But not impossible.
When two people are as committed to each other’s rapture as we are, nothing is unattainable.
He begins to tremble in my arms.
“You’re ready?” I ask against his mouth. Rogan nods. “Good, then show me. Come all over these gorgeous abs while I fuck you.” The more I talk, the more I get into it. “Do it, Rogan. Do it now. Shoot. Hard.”
He writhes in my grasp then arches. His body tenses and explodes around me.
Come blasts from his cock, coating not only his stomach but also his chest. He decorates himself for me even as his ass massages my cock. I continue to thrust into him.
He looks up at me, stunned. Still coming, though in smaller pulses.
It awes us both to know I do this to him. That I have the power to drown him in passion.
So I swipe some of his seed from his body onto my thumb. Then I lift it to his mouth.
He stares straight into my eyes as he swallows the evidence of desire I feed him. He sucks on my thumb as greedily as he did my cock earlier, laving it with his tongue as he licks it clean. That’s all it takes.
I press my forehead to his and slam against him with a few more jerks of my hips. I call out to him as I release the pent-up fear, desire, and affection our connection has created. I threaten to overflow the condom I’m wearing as I come hard and long in his ass.
When the strongest spasms finish wringing me dry, I relax but never let go of Rogan.
I never will.
His eyes flutter open, still dazed. Then he smiles, bright and wide. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a long time. “Thank you, Kaden.”
“No, thank you, Rogan.” I kiss his cheek and settle him against my chest.
We lie quietly until long after my softening cock slips from his body. Neither of us ready to let go of the moment. Our hands roam over each other lightly as if we’re reassuring each other that this is real and that the other person is here. To stay.
If this was my loft, everything would be perfect. I can’t fall asleep here. And I don’t want him to either. Stronger than ever, I don’t believe this is where he belongs.
“What are you thinking about?” he wonders, breaking our magical silence.
I don’t mind taking the opportunity to make my pitch.
“I can’t believe you own another place so close to my building.” Maybe the location explains why he picked this one. My ego can hope.
“Uh…” He blushes, forcing me to make out with him some more. When we come up for air, he said. “Actually, there were quite a few to pick from in this neighborhood.”
“Exactly how many properties are in that portfolio of yours?” I shake my head. It’s kind of intimidating to think about, and I can’t afford for him to get the wrong idea. I’m not asking because I intend to freeload or anything like that. “You know what, I don’t want to know.”
“It’s
a nice enough house to live in for a while.” He shrugs his top shoulder.
“You haven’t set any roots down then, huh?”
“No. I thought about trying a different one next week. There’s one property I keep going back to in my searches, but it has some…issues.” He clears his throat.
I’m sure he’s got enough money to take care of whatever the problem might be. Secretly, I’m happy he hasn’t settled in. Because that might make it harder to ask him the question I’ve been mulling over since before I arrived. “Well, I realize my texts were out of control the past week. But I meant them. You’re welcome to stay with me until you can work out the problems with the house you like. Or, you know, until you get tired of me leaving my laundry on the floor.”
Or, hopefully, never.
Okay, so it wasn’t a question, but there it was. I’ve never asked a guy to live with me before. Cortez had followed me home from Romeo & Julian one night and never left. Sort of like a stray mutt you can’t say no to.
“Are you asking me to be your roommate?” He stiffens in my arms. Uh oh, too soon?
“Yeah. Sort of.” I smile, hoping it’s not too awkward. “Look, I didn’t come here tonight for a meaningless fuck. I came prepared to pour my heart out to you. Show you the not-so-sexy sides of myself. Be honest. And hope that’s enough to keep you in my life. I did that because you’re important to me. I’m not going to dick around here. I want to be with you, Rogan. So please say yes. Move in with me. Not as some generic roommate either. Be my lover. My boyfriend. Please?”
It’s been a long time since I begged.
He reaches for me so I go to him, unable to deny him anything at the moment.
After a tender, sensual kiss that does nothing to calm my racing heart, he stares straight into my eyes. Still he says nothing.
“I get that things are happening quickly. It’s only been a few weeks and if you need more time—”
“Like you said before, it doesn’t always take a long time for love to grow. What I need is for you to help me pack. I’m not much use with this thing.” He lifts his cast then shrugs. “I don’t have a lot here anyway. Most of my stuff is in boxes in storage.”
I look around, noticing it’s pretty stark.
“You think I could knock it out in a couple hours?” I ask him seriously. “I don’t want to spend another night without you.”
“It will probably take twenty minutes, tops.”
“Then let’s get started.” I crack my knuckles and hope he knows I’m talking about more than just the packing.
22
Cortez
What the fuck is that beeping and why won’t it shut the fuck up?
Each bleep stabs into my brain and rouses me from unconsciousness, the only thing that can stave off pure agony for a while.
It’s been like this for so long I can’t remember anything else. Not how I got here. Not where here is. Nothing except the fact that Kaden is hurt and he needs me. Were we in some kind of accident?
I have to get better so I can find out and make sure he’s okay.
That’s the only thing I think about. The only thing keeping me alive some days.
I’m pretty sure, anyway.
Voices murmur in hushed concern around my hospital bed. I’ve heard prayers that seem awfully familiar, weeping, and instructions from what must be nurses or doctors. Everything jumbles together.
Skin grafts, broken ribs, pins in my hip, and brain damage.
None of it matters.
“Kaden?” I ask. Or try to. Only a gurgle emerges from my throat.
“Shush,” a kind woman says as she pats my hand. “Sleep, if you can. You’re scheduled for another round of surgeries in the morning.”
“Kaden?”
More reassurance, though not the kind I’m looking for. “It’s okay. You can do this. You’re obviously a fighter. You’re beating all the odds. Improving every day.”
“Ka-den?” I try one more time. Even to my own ears, his name is unintelligible.
“It’s going to be a long, difficult road. I’m sorry for that. But I believe you’re going to pull through.” She sniffles then. “Any man who can literally walk through a burning building to save himself must have somewhere important to go.”
I nod the slightest bit then instantly regret it.
Everything hurts. Stars burst behind my closed eyelids.
Fuck me.
“Kaden.” This time it’s not a question. His name alone comforts me and ensures I dream of sweet things when the darkness claims me once more.
23
Kaden
Four Months Later
It turns out the “issue” Rogan was having with that property he was stuck on was that it was the other half of my building. Well, really more like the other two-thirds. The space is gigantic compared to my original cozy loft and the combo gallery-slash-studio space below it. You know, the one I’ve squashed myself, my belongings, and my work into since I was a bona fide starving artist.
It hadn’t taken more than a few weeks from the time he moved in until he’d admitted it, then showed me some design proposals from his team. I could see why they’re the best in the business. Each possibility seemed more spectacular than the last. Although it kind of freaked me out, because I could never afford to make those improvements myself, I agreed to allow him to go ahead with renovations. So we’ve been living in a construction zone since.
I went all in on this roll of the dice.
Why not, since I’m already gambling my heart?
There’s no doubt about that. Rogan and I are stupid in love, though neither of us has been foolish enough to admit it yet. It’s like we both agree that if we say the words, we’ll curse our relationship.
I’m not going to pretend we’ve resolved every one of our issues. We’re both still haunted by our pasts, which can lead to one or both of us doing something dumb that sparks an argument. Like me worrying about whether or not he’s going to leave me someday. Or Rogan getting jealous, which is kind of adorable but also occasionally annoying. Half the time I don’t even notice other guys, especially not when he’s around to hold my attention.
Nothing serious, though, and nothing we haven’t been able to fuck out of our systems after a brief cool-down period. We’re chiseling away at our insecurities and have gotten better at keeping them from getting the better of us, hashing things out when our emotions are triggered.
We both work hard, and play harder. Sometimes he’ll come home and find me still painting. Instead of nagging me about it or making me feel guilty, he grabs his laptop and sets up shop at my sketching table. He’s always got a million things of his own to tend to. Emails to send. Calls to business partners on the other side of the world to make in the middle of the night. Charities to hustle for when his own affairs are in order. The man does everything.
When we’re finished, we turn to each other for entertainment until our bodies are as exhausted as our minds. Hanging out—relaxing watching movies or working out in our brand-new home gym or checking out restaurants and attractions around the city—helps us recharge. We’re even planning a real vacation to some tropical island Rogan owns land on in the Caribbean for a few weeks this winter.
For the most part, this is working for us.
It’s crazy to think I’ve been with him longer now than my affair with Cortez lasted. Apparently it takes three months before I’m really sure I’ve met the one. Or…the other one.
I’m ridiculously pleased. Utterly content.
It shows in my art. Rogan is the best muse I could’ve asked for. My output has skyrocketed. I’m stockpiling paintings left and right. Quality shit, too. The canvases are heaping up. Rogan said he’ll help me put together a business plan for a traveling exhibition and create an online store to expand my gallery sales.
My new stuff is different from what I’ve painted before.
Frantic. Intense. Yet still highly sensual.
Understandably, instead of painting
different subjects every time, there are a hell of a lot of portraits of Rogan mixed in with my commissions and the spare work I create for my shop. They’re stacked neatly next to the mound of discarded canvases featuring Cortez.
It disturbs me that I haven’t painted over any of those yet.
Tomorrow. I’m going to do that tomorrow. I swear. It’s time.
Right now, I’m about to greet my boyfriend, who just made it home after a very long day at the office. I love nothing more than relieving him of the heavy mantle of responsibility he wears while on tycoon duty. I glance at my watch, shocked to see I’ve painted into the night and didn’t even realize it. Another late dinner awaits us.
Chinese in bed with orgasms for dessert has become a favorite bad habit for us both. At least we burn the calories off together.
On my path through the studio to the new living quarters we share, I pass the painting I gifted Rogan with months ago. I pause every day to admire how we look together.
So right. And yet…
I shove the niggling thought in the back of my mind away when it whispers that something is missing. Nothing is missing. We love each other. We have an amazing sex life. We enjoy the time we spend together out of bed. We’re supportive of each other’s careers.
What the hell else is there to life than that?
I can’t put my finger on the exact adjustments I’d make if I smuggled that canvas into my studio for a touch up. And I don’t dare take it off the wall since Rogan is as obsessed with the damn thing as I am. Sometimes I catch him staring at it with the dreamiest expression on his face.
Still, my fingers are always itching to make some revisions.
The curse of an artist, honestly.
Nothing is ever finished. Nothing we produce is ever good enough in our eyes.
That must be it.
I forget about my reservations when Rogan waves at me from our opulent new kitchen. It’s open to the living and dining areas as well, keeping the airy ambiance of my original home. I swear this area alone is bigger than my whole loft used to be. It’s gorgeous. Full of wood and bright colors. A blend of my funky style with Rogan’s more luxurious tastes. Exactly what I would have done myself if I’d had unlimited resources.