“Yeah,” he breathes, his head falling back. “It feels really good. Your hands are… soft.”
I watch his face as I work him. His eyes flutter shut, his lips parting. He looks so beautiful like this—abandoned to pleasure, trusting me with his body.
I feel a surge of power, a distinct thrill that I can affect him this way. ThatIam the reason his breath is hitching.
I tighten my grip slightly, rubbing the knot with a bit more pressure.
“Fuck.” Eli shudders. His entire body goes rigid, his abs contracting.
Before I can react, a small spurt of come pulses from the tip of his cock, dripping over my fingers.
I freeze, my eyes snapping up to his face. “Did you just…?”
He opens his eyes, looking dazed. A dopey, satisfied grin spreads across his face. “Yeah. I guess… I guess I did. That hasn’t happened since I was a teenager.”
I smile, looking down at the mess on my hand. It’s filthy. It’s primal.
And I love it. I love that I put that expression on his face. I love that I am the reason he looks so thoroughly wrecked.
“Looks like I made a mess,” I tease gently.
Eli lets out a breathless laugh, reaching for more paper towels. “You definitely did. And I loved every second of it.”
He cleans us both up again, his movements slow and lazy. When he’s done, he helps me pull my sweater back over my head, smoothing my hair down with surprising tenderness.
He grabs his own shirt from the floor, shrugging it on, but he doesn’t button it, leaving the expanse of his chest visible.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his hands resting on my waist. “Did I hurt you? I got a little… carried away at the end there.”
I shake my head, leaning into his touch. “I’m more than okay, Eli. You didn’t hurt me. It was… perfect.”
“Good.” He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead, then the tip of my nose, then my lips.
It’s a sweet kiss, devoid of the urgency from before, but filled with affection. It makes my heart flutter.
He pulls away reluctantly and walks over to the sink to wash his hands properly. I watch him move, admiring the way his back muscles shift under his shirt. He looks so at home here, in this kitchen. It suits him.
He grabs the mugs and the plate with the remaining cinnamon bun, dumping them into the sink. “I’ll deal with these tomorrow. Right now, all I want to do is focus on you.”
I bite my lip, glancing at the clock on the wall. It’s nearly eleven.
“Oh,” I say, the reality of the outside world creeping back in. “I should go home. It’s late. Maisie will be up early for school, and Jude will be wondering where I am.”
Eli turns off the water, drying his hands on a towel. He frowns. “You just got here. And we haven’t even finished the buns.”
“I know, but?—”
“You should stay longer. Unless you want to leave?”
“Do you want me to leave?”
He tugs on my arm, pulling me back toward him. “No. That’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m not kicking you out. I just meant… you don’t have to run off the second we’re done. Unless you want to?”
“I’m not running,” I lie, though I can feel the old instinct to flee prickling at the back of my neck. It’s what I do when things get too intense, when I feel too exposed. I run. “I just need to get back.”
“Amber.” He waits until I look at him. Then he kisses me again.
It’s a deep, drugging kiss that makes my knees weak and melts my resolve into a puddle on the floor.
