“How do you think I’ve been following your instructions up until now?” He propped himself up on his elbow, head resting in the cradle of his hand.
“You could have a private chef for all I know.”
“I’m rich, not entitled.” Sebastian shoved himself out of bed and flung his legs over the side. He wanted to look over his shoulder to see what Remington looked like sprawled out and naked in his sheets, with that messy hair of his and those tired eyes, but he didn’t dare look back. His pride warred with his want, and the insinuation that he was anything like his brother…
He bristled, knowing that Remington wouldn’t know better. He didn’t know anything about Sebastian or the way he was raised beyond the assumptions he’d made and the glimpses he’d seen through Sebastian’s own revelations. By the time he reached his bedroom door, his shoulders slumped at the loss of his righteous indignation, but he followed through. Stalking to the kitchen, Sebastian brewed a pot of coffee and pulled the ingredients to make omelets out of his fridge.
He set to whisking eggs and pre-diced vegetables with some pancetta in a bowl, startling when Remington pressed up behind him, those long fingers bracketed around Sebastian’s bare hips.
“You’re upset.” Remington kissed the top of his shoulder.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
Sebastian sighed and dropped the whisk in the bowl, turning around and holding himself against the counter with his hands.
“What do you think of me, Remington? That I’m just coasting through life being waited on like an emperor?”
Remington arched a brow and folded his arms over his chest. “I know you don’t know much about me, but I was brought up a lot like you, and you know it’s a fair ask.”
“Why do you live in such a small apartment with a roommate if you have so much money?”
“That isn’t what we’re talking about,” Remington deflected, scratching beneath the frame of his glasses along his right temple. Sebastian’s eyes tracked the movement, ever entranced by Remington’s talented fingers.
“I live comfortably,” he said, turning back to breakfast and pouring the mix into a pan. “I’m the spare, so I’m more spoiled with less expectations.”
“You’re spoiled, but there’s no way you’re second.”
“I’m younger than Rhys,” he said, the words a bitter reminder.
Remington’s hands glided up the sides of his back to his shoulders, where they kneaded at his tense muscles.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
Remington’s breath landed hot against his ear, and he fought for his knees to not buckle. With the other man so close, it was impossible to focus on the eggs and the folding. All he could think about was the way Remington had been inside of him last night. The way a man had been inside of him. And the way he’d liked it.
Actual sex with a man wasn’t anything like he thought it would be. It had been so much more, so much better. And in hindsight, it should have been silly for him to even think being penetrated by an actual cock would feel anything like it had when Daniella had used a strap, but…
His dick pulsed between his legs.
Remembering.
“I don’t have a chef,” he muttered, folding the omelet. “I don’t have a housekeeper either.”
“Okay. I’m sorry.” Remington stepped back and Sebastian hated the space.
He slid the omelet onto a plate and cut it in half, carrying it to the breakfast bar and setting it down. He went back to the kitchen to pour two cups of coffee. Remington slid onto one stool, and he put the mugs down.
“Just move the mail.” Sebastian waved flippantly at the pile of mail he’d gone through on Friday.
Remington put his hand on the stack of mail and pushed it to the side, stopping and staring down at whatever was on top. Sebastian took a drink of his coffee and glanced over, blood leaving his face as soon as he realized what was on top.
“Sebastian,” Remington said, voice low.
“I hope you like pancetta.” He laughed nervously and slid a fork toward Remington, hoping he hadn’t put the pieces together yet, but he knew better. The tone of Remington’s voice made things clear.
“What’s this?” Remington tapped his finger on the pile of bills.
