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He has intrepid hands and a wandering mouth and I unbutton his jeans and he lifts me up onto his waist and bangs me into the wall again and a bronze Fanghu Han Dynasty vase crashes on to the floor, smashing everywhere.
“Fuck—” He laughs as he moves around the shattered marble, walking us backwards into a display cabinet of antique plates and vases —at least half of which smash to the floor too and Julian looks at the ceiling and yells a million swear words and I’m laughing. My hands are in his hair when he shakes his head and looks at me. “I told you you’d be an expensive fuck.” His eyes go softer. “Worth it.”
Then he kisses me more.
I’m grateful he’s like this.
Sex with Julian isn’t really like sex with anyone else. He makes it harder for my mind to wander off, which it tries to do sometimes.
He carries me back over and onto his desk. He takes his own jumper off (Stone Island’s logo-appliquéd cotton-jersey sweatshirt) and I’m always so interested whenever his shirt is off — which is often. I try not to look.
There are quite a few scars.
There’s one. It’s round. Pinkish still, so I guess it’s new. I run my finger over it and he watches me as I do.
“How?” My eyes flick from the scar to him.
He swallows.
“Cage fighting.” He gives me a small smile.
My face falters. “Why?”
“It’s fun.”
“Getting hurt?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t get hurt.”
He pushes some hair from my face. “I’m sorry he didn’t invite you.” He’s sincere when he says that.
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
He gives me a look. “You always want to talk about him.”
“Julian—” I stare at him. “Do you think I’m lying here, half-naked, to talk to you about BJ?” He licks his bottom lip. “Stop talking and have sex with me.”
“Yep.” He nods and undoes my bra with one hand.
He pushes me down, spreads me out, stretches my arms up over my head. He hovers over me, looking at me way too tenderly.
“What are you smiling at?” He squints and then does it more but on accident. I shake my head at him. “Don’t you go soft on me…”
And then it’s gone. His eyes light back up. I feel the lead up before the rollercoaster drops off and he cocks a smile. “Never.”
He pulls me back up onto his lap, slides his hands down my body, arches my back himself.
His breathing gets heavier, mine gets faster.
He pushes some hair from my face and I collapse in the deep curve of his giant shoulders and whimper.
“Magnolia,” he pants breathlessly.
I pull back and look at his face, my hands knotted in his hair, and I don’t for one second close my eyes in case I see the other.
Afterwards, we’re lying on the floor behind his desk. I’m lying on his chest and he’s wrapped me up in a silver-beige cow hide rug. My chin sits in the little valley of his chest and he pushes his hand through my hair, frowning a bit.
“You think of him when you’re with me,” he tells me.
