His eyes are locked on my dick. He stares as I stroke myself, as pleasure crackles in my veins, as it spreads relentlessly across my whole body.
“You better come on my chest,” he instructs. “Shoot all over me.”
“Yes, God yes. I want my come all over you.”
My orgasm rattles down my spine as my balls tighten, and I jerk faster, harder, until I’m coming so damn hard on his chest.
Then, as I’m panting and groaning, he reaches up to me, both arms tugging me close, pulling me against him. My release smears between our bodies, and neither one of us cares.
All I want is to get close to him. And that’s what I do as he wraps his arms around me, pulls me to his chest, and kisses me.
Soft. Tender. Gentle.
When he breaks the kiss, he whispers, “Thank you for coming back to me.”
“I’m so glad I did,” I say. Then I rise and grab his hand. “Let’s clean up.”
He pulls up his jeans, and we head to the bathroom, where he grabs a washcloth and wipes off my chest, and I do the same to him.
I walk into his bedroom, flop onto his bed, and beckon him to me.
“You’re ready to go again?” he asks as he climbs over me.
“Soon,” I say as I pull him on top of me and wrap my legs around the back of his thighs. “I told you so.”
“Insatiable,” he says, shaking his head.
“And you love it,” I add.
“I do love it,” he says.
I curl my hands around his neck as I hook my legs tighter around him, loving the contact after being intimate with him.
“But mostly, I just want to make out with you for a little bit.”
“Like this?” he asks, bending closer and brushing his lips to mine, sending a wave of tingles through me.
Tingles. Jesus. I get tingles from the way he kisses me. I am so far gone it’s unreal.
“Yes,” I say on a moan, as I draw him closer.
As I bring my lips to his, I try to tell him everything that I’m dying to say.
Everything I learned today.
I tell him in the soft but urgent way I kiss him that I want him again and again.
As I tighten my legs around his body, I try to tell him without words that I’m in love with him.
And I hope he’s kissing me back the same way.
It’s a little after twelve, and I make lunch. It’s weirdly domestic, but I like it. I cook a chicken and veggie stir-fry, since I know Fitz tries to eat as healthily as possible, same as me.
Fitz stands in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, drinking an iced tea and watching me.
“I could get used to this,” he says.
I eye his jeans, his bare, muscled chest. “Yes, me too. Please walk around shirtless literally all the time,” I say as I turn the heat down on the pan.
“I will if you will. Speaking of, why are you wearing a shirt?”
“Oh, you know, that thing called cooking. Figured it’d be better with clothes on.”
He scoffs. “I beg to differ.”
I shake my head as I plate the food. “Sit down. Time for lunch.”
Fitz pats his belly. “Good. I’m starving.”
I arch a brow. “You’re not starving. You’re several days and many meals from starving. You’re just hungry.”
He finds cloth napkins in the cupboard and utensils in the drawer, and sets them down at the table. “No. I’m definitely starving. I didn’t eat breakfast. I skipped out on Emma when I realized what an ass I was, and then I came straight here.”
I move to the table and set down the food. “So next time you’ll have learned your lesson. Don’t do a runner before the cook wakes up,” I say, sitting and picking up a fork. “I’m an excellent cook.”
Fitz digs in, moaning around the food. “Damn. You are. This is amazing.”
“Glad you like it.”
“I guess your cooking club comes in handy,” he says, deadpan.
“Cooking classes,” I correct.
“Whatever it is, it’s working. You can definitely make me breakfast tomorrow,” he says, then takes another bite.
“Gee, thanks. I was hoping you’d let me.”
He sets down the fork and leans across the table to give me a kiss.
Then he returns to his meal, and as we eat, he asks, “So, what do you want to do today? Besides fuck?”
“Well, that. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he repeats.
“I think the more important question is—what do you want to do?” I toss back at him. “Is there something you want to see? Tower of London, St. Paul’s Cathedral, Borough Market?”
He screws up the corner of his lips, thinking, then he shrugs. “What would you do?”
“If I were you?” I ask.
“Yeah. If you were me, and you had one day left to spend here.”
“I’d just walk around the city,” I answer.
“Then let’s do that.”
We straighten up and leave, and when we hit the street, I take his hand.