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I’d forgotten I mentioned harvesting wild plums to him. “Only if you’re up to it.”
He shakes his head as though clearing cobwebs. “Beautiful, I’ll always be up for you.” A yawn shakes his entire body. “M’be not tonight though. Tuck me in?”
In the bedroom, he throws back the covers then pulls off his tee and shoves his sweats down his legs. He’s… naked. Gloriously naked. Before I drop my gaze to stare at my toes, the shape of his cock is burned into my brain. Dear god, he’s beautiful. I’m going to dream of how he’ll look long and hard in my hand, the head glistening… shit. If I’ll even be able to sleep. I don’t want to disturb him, so no noisy toys tonight.
There’s the soft sounds of him settling on the mattress. The swoosh of the sheets as hopefully, he covers himself. “Good night kiss?”
Carefully, I lift my gaze. He’s lying on his side, snuggled into his pillow, the sheet pulled up over his shoulder. How can such an innocent pose be so damn sexy?
Leaning over, I tug the sheet a fraction of an inch higher then brush his hair back from his face. My soft kiss graces his forehead. “Sleep well, Marcus.”
“… too, beautiful. I love you.”
Wait. What did he mumble? No. He couldn’t have said that. And even if he did, he wouldn’t mean it. Probably something he says to any of his legion of fans as a way to get them into his bed. After my response and active participation in our kisses, he should realize he doesn’t need artifice and pretty words to have sex with me.
After the betrayal of my last so called lover, I thought I was done with relationships. Then I saw Marcus from a distance. I was hooked. A self-important and oft proclaimed god of rock and roll should have been easy for me to ignore even with my initial, strong physical reaction.
Now I’ve gotten to know him. A least a part of the real man behind the publicity, the spirit and heart of him.
I want him and for once I’m taking what I want.
So, do I now count myself part of his hoard of groupies? Maybe is the only answer I come up with. What I’ve listened to of his music is okay, but often harsher than I enjoy.
Still, that probability doesn’t alter the fact my entire body reacted with pleasure when he said, ‘I love you’. I back from the room and close the door. Those words, and how I responded need to stay in that room.
nine
Archer
Sunlight chases away my sleep and I wake more refreshed and alert than I have in a long, long time. I stretch and can’t keep the grin from my face. My restful night was because of her. My beautiful Bailey.
As is my morning wood. It’s been awhile for that, too. Wishing it was her hand surrounding me, I give my dick a few long, slow strokes while I listen for sound in the apartment. It’s quiet so I rise and take my self-pleasure into the shower.
I don’t want her to hear what I’m doing but holding back my groan and the aching need to shout her name as I come is damn near impossible. When I hear her in the neighboring bathroom, I rush to dress. Hopefully she has ingredients I can use to make breakfast. She’s done so much for me and I want to start showing my appreciation. Breakfast is just the start.
I’ll do anything for the woman I love.
Pausing with my hand on the door knob, I glance back at the bed. Fuzzy memories of last night begin to solidify. I’d been poor company when we started a movie since I hadn’t recovered fully from my composition exhaustion so she’d sent me to bed. Given my forehead a tender goodnight kiss. I’d said, ‘I love you’.
I said—? Fuck.
I do love her. But it’s too soon. Keeping my feelings under wraps until I sense what she feels for me had been my plan. As long as she doesn’t read the lyrics to the new songs. Holding myself back should have been no problem. No problem. Shit, I don’t even know if she heard my declaration.
What do I do now? How should I act this morning? Like a man in love or like I never said the words? Briefly, I wonder what my brother would do. Best I can hope for is to gauge her behavior and react accordingly.
It’s a fuckin’ stupid plan.
But it’s all I’ve got, so I make my way to her kitchen and find eggs, cream, and a loaf of unsliced bread. French toast it is. A pint of blueberries will make a great compote topping. I chuckle when I discover a can of aerosol whipped cream in the fridge and barely resist the urge to spray myself a mouthful.
I’ve got the bread soaking in the egg mixture and the compote simmering on the stove when Bailey exits her room.
“Marcus, what is all this?”
“Breakfast. To thank you for taking care of me and to apologize for falling asleep on you last night.” I study her expression but she gives me no clues to her thoughts.
“I really love French toast,” she sighs. “But seldom take the time to make it for myself.”
She watches as I transfer the thick slices to a skillet and remains silent until I set our plates on the island. “Oh, this smells heavenly.” She grabs my hand, tugs me close and blesses me with a sweet kiss. “Thank you for breakfast.”
