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A few moments later, my knees are shaking, and I come apart, gripping his arms for support. He presses more kisses to my lips and my cheek as I slowly come down.

I push him backwards and look at him through lidded eyes. “My turn,” I tell him.

He grins and holds out his arms. “Your servant as always, milady,” he jokes.

I kick off my trousers, letting them puddle by the door and slide my underwear back up. Pulling him into the living room, I push him down onto the sofa, before straddling his lap. He’s already hard, and I love it. I was the one who did this to him.

I lean forwards to kiss him, burying my hands in his hair. But as I feel a hand reaching to palm my breast I pull back, panting. “Nope,” I warn him. “This is my turn. No touching.”

He lifts his hands, crossing them behind his head. Just to torture him a bit more I unbutton my blouse, pulling it off before resuming our kiss. I grind lazily down onto him, feeling all that thickness and the roughness of his trousers against my sensitive skin. God this feels good. I push down into him more, feeling the pressure building in all the right places.

I break the kiss, running my hands down his chest. “Take off your shirt,” I tell him, sliding to kneel on the floor. He unbuttons his shirt and pulls it off. Without breaking eye contact, I pull off his trousers and his boxers together. He’s so hard. I smirk at him as I reach forwards and run a single finger along his length. He groans, tipping his head back, and I bite back my smile.

“Please let me touch you,” he begs.

“Nope,” I tell him. “I’m having my fun now.”

His response turns into a hiss as I spread his knees. His cock bobs between us, teasing the valley between my breasts as I kiss slowly across his stomach and then down towards his hips.

I reach out a hand and palm him again, before licking the tip and opening my mouth to take him. His eyes are hooded as he watches me, hands clenching and unclenching on the sofa cushions.

I love watching him fall apart. Pulling back, I swirl my tongue before taking him deeper again. He hits the back of my throat and I gag, eyes watering. My hands dig into his knees, feeling how tense his muscles are.

“I’m not going to last if you keep going,” he grits out. “Do you want me to come in your mouth or inside you?”

“In my mouth.” I sit back and look at him, wiping my hand over my lips, relishing in the way his eyes rove over me.

“God, Claire.” His breath is coming in short bursts.

“Hands where I can see them,” I tell him, as I reach to trail my fingers down his stomach again.

“Yes, ma’am.” He fists the cushions on either side of him again, jaw tightening as I press another kiss to where precum is leaking. I open my mouth again and take him back in, one hand braced on his thigh.

Tom’s panting, and I’ve never felt this turned on from going down on someone.

“I’m about to come,” he warns me, voice tight.

I squeeze his thigh in reassurance, and the sound he makes is half-gasp, half-moan, like he’s trying and failing to hold on. A moment later he spills hot and fast into my mouth, his whole body jerking under my hands.

I swallow, taking my time, then slowly let him slip free. Leaning forward, I press a soft kiss to his abs, and he shivers beneath the touch, muscles still trembling from the aftershocks.

“Maybe we should go to museums more often,” Tom tells me as I join him on the sofa.

“I like that plan,” I whisper into his neck.

We sit there for a few minutes, and he strokes my hair gently. I could get used to this.

After a few minutes I start contemplating getting up to get changed. “I need pyjamas and fluffy socks.”

“I need a shower,” Tom says. “I’ll order us a pizza for dinner.”

It takes five minutes for me to peel myself off the sofa, and another five to change out of my nice clothes, or at least those that I’m still wearing. I’ve pulled on my ratty grey pyjama bottoms and the old university T-shirt that should’ve been retired four years ago due to the number of holes. My makeup is off, hair scraped into a messy bun. I feel comfortable. I would never have hung out for an evening with unbrushed hair, no mascara and baggy clothes with any of the other guys I dated. It’s a version of myself I rarely show, and I love that I can.

When I return to the living room, Tom’s setting the table. He gives me one of those eye-crinkling smiles I love so much.

“Pizza’s going to be quick,” he announces.

“Thank god, I’m starving.” I park myself on the sofa and pull my sketch pad towards me.