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I don’t think I can keep my distance from him, either. I don’t want to spend another day without seeing him. I want him. I draw in a breath. “Okay." I yawn.
“Okay.” The tension exits his big body.
I close my eyes and try to fall asleep, but I’m very aware of him moving around the room. He switches off the lights, then the bed dips. The covers rustle, and I realize he’s slipped onto the bed with me. He must stay on his side of the bed though, for he doesn’t touch me.
I try to will myself to sleep, but it eludes me. I turn on my side away from him, close my eyes, but the heat from his body is too alluring. I can sense his presence, the solidness of his bulk, but he doesn’t touch me. I sigh. Then turn on my other side, facing him, and flinch.
His blue eyes gleam in the semi-dark, a predatory glint in them. He’s on top of the covers, in his pants and shirt, but no jacket. He’s sprawled against the pillows with his left arm folded behind his neck. His biceps stretch the sleeve of his shirt, which he’s folded up to reveal his veiny forearms. His burly shoulders dwarf the pillow, and the darkness of his hair is stark against the white bedclothes.
"Couldn’t sleep?" His low, hard voice reaches out to lasso around me.
I shake my head.
"Want to suckle my cock until you fall asleep?"
Oh god! Saliva pools in my mouth. That... Why does that sound so filthy and so naughty, and so hot? Why does that sound so appealing? And why am I not more horrified by the suggestion? I squeeze my thighs together and nod.
“Is that a yes, baby?” he asks softly.
“Yes, please,” I choke out, trying not to sound too eager, and failing.
He reaches down and releases his zipper. The harsh sound pumps a burst of liquid heat through my veins. My nipples hurt. My toes curl. I lower my gaze to his crotch just as he pulls out his cock. Long, thick, and veiny, with precum glistening at the crown, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. When he pats his thigh, I scramble over, then slide down until my head is cushioned there.
"Open," he commands.
I do, and he slips his fat shaft between my lips until it throbs against my tongue. He holds my head in place, so I’m able to suckle his dick without much effort. He strokes his fingers down the length of my hair, and when they snag on a knot, he gently undoes it. The caress of his fingers through my tresses soothes me. And the feel of his cock, throbbing in my mouth, is reassuring in a way I can’t explain. Why does this make me feel so cherished? Why does this make me feel so secure that my muscles relax, and my mind stops going around in circles? Why does this... My eyelids drift down, and this time, sleep takes me under.
When I wake up, I’m on my side of the bed, tucked under the covers. Also, I’m alone. And naked. Guess he took off my paint-splattered clothes? I stretch, feeling more refreshed than I’ve felt in a long time. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and head to the ensuite bathroom. I brush my teeth, then shower and pull on a fresh T-shirt and jeans. Allowing my damp hair to dry naturally around my shoulders, I pull on a thick pair of socks and head down to the kitchen. The smell of coffee and the scent of frying bacon has me salivating by the time I reach the island. He’s wearing a fresh suit and jacket, seated at one of the stools. BBC Channel 4 plays in the background. He has a cup and a plate with the remnants of his breakfast in front of him. He’s also reading the Financial Times—"Uh, you’re reading the paper?"
He looks up at me and surveys my features. "Good morning to you, too."
"Good morning." Heat flushes my cheeks as I remember how I suckled his cock until I fell asleep. Another kink unlocked. I’m going to be thoroughly corrupted in no time, and you know what? I am not complaining at all. The gleam in his eyes tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking. My blush deepens. "The newspaper." I point at the broadsheet in a bid to change the topic. "You’re holding it."
"That’s what you normally do when you read it." Whew! He accepted the diversionary tactic. Also, there’s a thread of sarcasm running through his words, which is so very Q.
I resist the urge to smile. "You have a real paper—in your hands."
"As opposed to?" He inclines his head.
"I mean, you’re the first person I know who prefers to read a hardcopy of the newspaper."
"O-k-a-y?" The quizzical expression in his eyes makes my lips twitch.
He sets his newspaper aside and heads to the espresso machine.
"Everyone I know gets their news from social media. Or else, they consume their news online.” I seat myself on the other stool.
"Of course, they do." He works the espresso machine; a few minutes later, he returns with my cappuccino. He sets it in front of me.
A warm glow envelops me. I feel so cared for when he’s around. “Thank you.” I find myself blushing again, then duck my head and sip the hot beverage.
He chuckles and takes his seat, then slides some of the bacon onto the plate in front of me, along with some hash-browns. He pours me a glass of orange juice, then surveys my features as I drink it. "Feeling better?"
I nod, wipe the back of my hand across my mouth, and place the now empty glass down. "I’m sorry I fainted."
"Not surprising when you haven’t eaten in days."
"I’m not normally like that. But sometimes, when I’m in flow, I forget to eat. But I’m done with the paintings, so it’s all good."
