Chapter Fourteen
Now
It’s half past six and after dark when my doorbell rings again. This time, I don’t bother pulling on a shirt when I walk to the front door.
I’m already certain who I’ll find there, even before I peek through the viewfinder.
Standing in my darkened front entry, Christopher’s no longer dressed in the suit he wore earlier. Now he’s wearing jeans, a plainblack T-shirt that hugs his chiseled form, and a grey unzipped hooded sweatshirt jacket over that. He carries a large duffel bag slung over his shoulder and several plastic grocery bags in his hands.
The Lincoln is once again parked in my driveway. I hope to hell it’s his personal vehicle, or at least a rental in his name, and not an official government car. That’s one more bit of gossip I don’tneed attached to my name right now.
With a sigh, I open the door for him.
He enters without speaking or hesitating, apparently on a mission as he heads down my hallway.
I close and lock the door after him and assume he’s smart enough to remember where the kitchen is on his own. By the time I’ve followed him there, he’s set his duffel bag down on the floor at the end of the breakfast bar andis already unloading the contents of the grocery bags all over my counter.
He doesn’t meet my gaze, doesn’t so much as glance my way as he opens drawers and cabinets and removes things, apparently having memorized where everything was from his earlier visit.
He points to the duffel bag without looking at me. “Bag in your bedroom, please,” he quietly says inthatvoice.
I swallow hard becauseit’s a tone I’ve dreamed about, fantasized about—missed—for over two decades.
I don’t know what I think I’m doing, but I straighten my spine and try to summon a little bit of balls. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He’s pulled out my cutting board, along with a chef’s knife I forgot I even had, and rinses a head of broccoli in the sink. “I think I’m cooking us dinner because I’m starving andyou’re eating worse than a toddler with a credit card. Bag in the bedroom.”
I step all the way into the kitchen, bristling a little at his characterization.
Mostly because what he’s said about me is true. “I appreciate that, but I didn’t ask you to. And I—”
Before I barely register he’s moved, I find myself slammed against the kitchen wall, one of his hands now wrapped around the front of mythroat and the other firmly planted in my midsection. He leans in close, his face inches from mine. The heat from his hand on my bare abs scorches me. I can still remember the feel of his fingers digging into my ass the last time I rode his cock that final night together.
When he speaks in a growling whisper that’s haunted my dreams, I shiver as my cock hardens.
“Bag in yourfuckingbedroom,boy.Now.”
I’m gasping for air, not because he’s choking mine off or knocked the wind out of me, but because my guts clench in that painfully delicious way I never thought I’d feel again.
“Yes, Sir.” It falls from my mouth before I’ve even thought about it.
An evil smile curls his lips. He leans in, slanting his mouth over mine, releasing his holds on me because he cages me with his body, bothhands now planted against the wall on either side of my head. The entire length of his form, every hardened and chiseled inch of him, presses against me.
Including his erect cock.
Before I realize I’m doing it, I’m writhing against him, my cock aching in a way it hasn’t in…
Too damn long.
I don’t resist because we both know I want this. Fuck lying or preserving some illusion of my dignity.
Iwantthis.
Specifically, I wanthim.
Need him.
I’ve needed him for years and I’ve denied myself for too damn long.
