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“I haven’t minded staying at your parents’ house one bit, but I wanted the first place that I told you I love you to be ours.”
I’ve rendered him speechless.
“Dusty, old couch and all. Romantic, right?” I laugh, my heart a jumble of nerves. “But I can pay for two months’ worth of rent with my own money that didn’t come from Fairway. Or there’s a rent to own option if it grows on us.”
His eyes slip closed, his fingers tightening on my hips. His head falls forward, burying his face in my neck.
“How did I get so lucky?” he whispers into my skin.
“You had the best office decor,” I joke, feeling like an anchor has been released from my heart.
“What?”
“Your pot with the rainbow on your desk? A rainbow is the symbol of the LGBTQ+ community. I thought it was a Pride flag.”
His eyes widen and then slam shut. This time, when he buries his face in my neck, he groans.
“Don’t be embarrassed.” I laugh. “But, also, don’t you dare forget that pot at Fairway when you leave.”
Snickering, he shakes his head, but then surveys our surroundings. “So, where’s our bedroom?”
Yes! That’s a Pete-yes, if I ever heard one.
Leading him into the next room, I stop at the end of an old metal bedframe underneath a gaudy pendulum light fixture. The room is slightly larger than his bedroom, and there’s a closet, albeit a small one, with a chipped mirrored door. It’s clear a previous owner converted part of the next room into an ensuite bath. So, while the space is somewhat outdated, it’s still set up to provide easy use of amenities.
He takes in the room in silence. I can’t imagine how badly he probably wants to clean it right now, but he’s still here. His gaze stops on me, and I wait for his opinion.
Crap. He’s not staring at me. He’s looking over my shoulder. If that closet is a deal breaker for him, I might cry. His is a walk-in, large enough to leave two inches between each of his shirts and suit jackets. I’ll survive if he wants to pass on the place, but like a lovesick school kid, I wanted to memorialize where I first shared my real feelings.
“Hands on the glass,” he rasps, nodding to the closet in question.
Wow. He’s come a long way. Smirking, I walk over to the mirror and do as he asks.
“Like this?” I whisper innocently but can’t fight my grin.
His boots tromp against the floor. That’s what they’ll sound like when he comes home, I muse as he blazes a trail of kisses down my spine. His fingers slip into the waist of my jeans and boxer briefs, sliding them down over my hips.
He presses a lingering kiss to the place right above my ass that sends a shiver down my legs. Righting himself, I watch him pull his sweatshirt over his head. He reaches around me and hangs it on the closet doorknob, but his hands don’t stray far, sliding across my stomach.
Trailing his lips across the top of my shoulder, he arches a brow at me in the mirror. “Love, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Turning his head, he presses a kiss to my neck. I can see his smile in his reflection, and my heart blooms knowing I put it on his face.
I hear a button unsnapping, and then a zipper, as his knuckles brush against my ass. Listening to the rustle of fabric, I stare at the outline of his hip being exposed behind mine. We don’t need to get a mattress. I’m firmly convinced that mirror sex will suffice for all our days by how turned on I am at the prospect.
“You’ve waited twenty-five years for this,” he whispers, ghosting his fingertips up my thighs. “You’re sure you want it to be me?”
The last time he asked me that, it was about my virginity. I know he’s not revisiting the question just for memories of that incredible evening. My heart is a thousand percent his. I think it has been since I got the nerve to walk into his house.
“No one but you,” I assure him.
When he reaches behind him, I catch a glimpse of his wallet. A sanitizer wipe falls to the floor, making me bite the inside of my lip at how adorable he is, ever prepared for germ invasion and, now, spontaneous sex. I hear the rustle of packets, the tearing of foil, the snap of latex, and the slick slide of a lubricated hand.
“Even if that means it’s not all just sex?” he asks, tempting me by rubbing his cockhead between my cheeks. “It’s going out to dinners and holding my hand.”
“Absolutely.”
