Page 2
“Fox.”
“You close it.”
“You’re closer.”
“Am I?”
He kisses me again, and it takes everything in me to stop and duck under his arm to shut the door myself. When I turn around, he’s watching me with an expression I know very well. It’s the same one that used to keep me up at night when I was twenty-four and had only just started to admit to myself that I might have a problem when it came to Foster Crue.
“You realize what time it is?” I ask. I’m going for amused, but it comes out breathless.
“I missed you.”
“You could have texted.”
He crosses to me and catches my wrist. I follow him toward my bedroom because, of course, I follow him. I’ve been following him for ten years. It’s a well-worn path.
My bedroom is dark, lit only by the streetlights bleeding through the curtains. Fox pulls me in and then pushes me against the closed door. His hands find the hem of my T-shirt.
“If I’d texted you, I wouldn’t have been able to do this.”
My T-shirt hits the floor, his coat follows, then his shirt.
“You’re always so warm,” he says against my throat.
His mouth is on my collarbone, then lower, and I lose the thread of all the questions swimming through my head. My hand finds the back of his neck while his finds the waistband of my sweatpants. We stumble together toward the bed, half-undressed and completely uncoordinated.
Fox pushes me to sit on the edge of the mattress and sinks to his knees in front of me.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
“That’s the idea.”
He works my sweatpants and underwear down my thighs until I’m completely naked. His hands are warmer now. His mouth is warmer still. He looks up at me from the floor, his amber eyes locked on mine, and I have a moment of complete out-of-body clarity where I think: this is my life. Foster Crue, the bass player of Hall of Fame, is on his knees for me in my apartment.
Then his mouth is on my dick, and clarity dissolves.
“Christ, Fox.”
He hums around me, which does terrible things to my nervous system. His hands settle on my trembling thighs, holding me steady as he works me deeper. My head falls back and I plant one hand behind me on the mattress to hold me upright.
“Your mouth,” I manage. “Fuck, your mouth.”
He pulls off just long enough to lick a slow line up the underside of my cock. “Missed it?”
“Yeah.”
“How much?”
“A lot. Fuck. A fucking lot.”
He goes back to what he was doing, and I try to hold on to some kind of coherence, but it’s not working. His mouth is too good. His hand is stroking what he can’t reach with his mouth. The sounds he’s making, like he lives to have my dick in his mouth, are absolute filth.
“Look at me,” he says, pulling off again.
I do. His lips are red and slightly swollen. There’s a smear of precum at the corner of his mouth, and I want to photograph it so I can always remember what he looks like when we’re like this.
“You gonna come for me?” he asks. His voice rough.
