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But when my eyes adjust to the darkness, they settle straight on him. My Cohen.
His back is to me, arms up, extension cord strung between two hands. Lance is with him, handing him things as he staples the cord onto the piece of wood. He’s likely building part of a new set, and as much as he gets to watch me work, I realize right now that I’d love to sit and watch him work.
Peering over my shoulder, I take in the elaborate set splayed out. This one is meant to mimic a library. Yep, they just shot some librarian reverse age-gap naughty college boy fantasy, but aside from the storyline, I can’t believe the set. An onlooker would think a film was shot here, they’d have no idea it was an adult film.
Wall paper and crown molding add a touch of reality, complete with electrical switches and plates, with a Tiffany lamp plugged into the faux outlet. Four worn wooden benches rest behind weathered desks, each with books and pencils scattered across each. The ground is blue, tight knit carpet, much like an actual library, and there are even card catalogs in the back of the room.
It’s beautiful and requires so much thought and attention to detail.
I look back at Cohen, who is done stringing up the cord, Lance having disappeared. He’s smiling at me, and my heart thumps at the sight. He never used to smile. And still, when I think about it, he doesn’t smile at others.
Only me.
I close the distance between us and rest my cheek on his chest, soaking up the affection of his long fingers stroking through my hair, his lips on the top of my head.
“How was therapy?” he asks, just like he asks after every session. My attentive, kind man.
“Good,” I reply, knowing that inside me I’m bearing very good news. Dr. Evans thinks I’m ready, and in truth, I know I am. I know I need to lower my shields, the fear of hurt and abandonment must be pushed aside if I really want him.
And I do.
But, I also don’t mind the idea of drawing it out a little more. Having him inside of me those two times, just existing comfortably with his big, aching cock filling me—that shit was hot. Hotter than any scene I’ve ever done at Crave. Because real life is so much hotter than even the hottest art.
“You want to get some lunch?” he offers, as we put a foot of space between us, only out of necessity. If I could have a conversation while buried in his neck, I would. But we’re at work, so we honor Crave and Aug by keeping a level of professionalism. Kinda.
“You made me lunch, remember?” I stroke my fingers down the buttons centering his chest, always loving the way he looks in his uniform of dark jeans and a flannel.
He shrugs. “But if you feel like getting out and talking about how your appointment went, we can do that.” He places his hands atop my shoulders, both grounding and soothing me. “We can stay here too. Whatever you want.”
Whatever you want.
He means that. I know he does. But not just about lunch or the couch or clothing or vitamins. He means that about everything. And not in a weak, tagalong way, either. The way Cohen Steele loves is with his whole being, and his act of love is a form of unquestioning devotion.
The fact that he exists and is mine makes my head spin.
When I look up into his eyes, I can’t say no. I don’t care about lunch, I just want him. I just want to reward him for being so good, so caring, so… loving.
Does he love me?
I know I love him.
“Wanna run home for lunch?” I ask, glancing very casually at the watch on his wrist. I lift a shoulder and let it drop as I say, “Or whatever.”
His eyes narrow, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Yeah,” he draws out, nearly stepping inside the response he spreads it so thin. “Let’s go.”
I enjoy how the word home belongs not necessarily to either of our apartments, but moreso, to wherever we are together. On the drive back, we hold hands, but I keep our linked palms in my lap, against my thigh. He’s not done anything sexy today, not overtly. He hasn’t grabbed my jaw and stolen a kiss. He didn’t grind into me against a wall and tell me how I make him feel. There have been no whispered words of adoration in the darkness.
It’s just him. Being him. That’s what has me drenched and aching the entire drive back… home.
We end up going to Cohen’s, though both of us have groceries now, thanks to him. He writes our lists, plans possible meals to make sure we both have things at our place, and takes us there. Can I shop for groceries and meal plan? Yeah, I can. But the fact that he wants to do it, and make sure the week is filled with the right meals? It makes me feel so taken care of, so… treasured.
He locks the door and bends down, running his pointer finger beneath the laces of his boots. Once his shoes are off, he peers around the apartment a second before his eyes come to me.
“Well, we could take a nap?” he offers, then glances at his watch again. “I could set an alarm. We could nap for twenty, eat for twenty, then head back?”
His plan sounds really good. A midday nap can be the difference between a meh afternoon scene and a fire one. And I find myself really wanting to give Crave my best.
“This afternoon is actually a scene with Uma, Maxi and myself.” I walk toward him and cling to the front of his flannel like I’m saying goodbye to my soldier. “So right now, all I want is you.”
