“Marshall.”
“It’s good to see you,” he said.
I glanced up at him. “The niceties are awkward.”
“Am I not normally nice?” He inclined his head toward the living room, and I followed after him. There was a glass of wine on the table, but everything else looked exactly as it had the week before. TheLA Design Digeststill took center stage on his coffee table, the cover folded back to an open article. It was the one after mine; I knew it on sight.
“You’re nice enough,” I said.
He gestured for me to sit, and I sank down into the overstuffed cushions of the chair I’d been in for lunch.
“I appreciate the text you sent me.” He dragged his tongue across the front of his teeth, his stare solely focused on me. “I can tell you put a lot of thought into it.”
I didn’t know what to say to him about it, so I just nodded my agreement. The message itself had been rushed, but not in thought, just composition. I worried if I hadn’t gotten it out on the first go, I never would. Not that I was careless with the whole thing, just…I knew myself well enough.
“Before we get started, I want to be clear about some things,” he said. “I’ve set an alarm on my phone for five minutes before twelve. I won’t have you missing your text to Lincoln.”
I nodded, almost dumbstruck at the forethought. “Thank you.”
“And next, I want to know if penetrative sex is on the table for you tonight?”
It was almost too formal of a question, too abrupt of a segue, but the thought of it still had my eyes aching to roll up and back into their sockets.
“Very much so,” I answered, sounding embarrassingly breathy even to my own ears.
“With protection.”
“Of course.”
Marshall nodded, propping one ankle up onto the opposite knee. He curled his fingers around his calf, and it was impossible to not imagine him curling his hand around my body in much the same way. I was horny and amped up on adrenaline, an addictive combination.
“Are you okay with edging?”
“Yes,” I rasped.
“What about orgasm control?”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
The corner of his mouth twitched into a dangerous-looking smile. “Not quite.”
“I don’t know then,” I whispered.
“Do you want to find out?”
“Not against the idea.”
Across from me, Marshall conversated like we were in the middle of a business deal, and I could barely string three coherent words together to answer his prompts. It was going to be a very long night.
“What about oral sex? Hand jobs?”
“All of it.”
“Giving or receiving?” he asked.
“Yes.”
That answer earned me a very proud-looking smile, and I was suddenly concerned about melting into nothing more than a puddle of precum in the middle of Marshall Covington’s living room.
