He’s freaking drool-worthy.
At least tonight we can go to bed early, because I don’t need to feed him first. We can soak in the tub, head to bed, and he can read if he needs to while I fall asleep in front of the TV.
Very…domestic.
It suits me. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed that boring daily minutiae every bit as much as I’d missed the kinky stuff.
Once we’re inside the foyer and we’ve bid the detail good-night, I lock us in and reset the alarm.
When I turn, Elliot’s wearing a dark, determined expression. He sets everything down right there. Before I can react, he’s fisted my necktie. Then he drags me in close and captures my mouth in a toe-curling kiss that nearly makes me forget my own damn name.
Also makes me forget to remind him that’snotsupposed to be his role.
His other hand slides under my blazer and hooks around the back beltloop on my slacks so he can pull my hips against his. The firm heat of his body pressed against mine short-circuits conscious thought, and my brain dangerously spins toward a sweet, familiar pool I want to dive headfirst into.
One that I haven’t been able to swim in over the last six-plus months.
Except…Ican’t.
I’m not supposed to. This is supposed to be—
“Shut your brain off, Jor,” he whispers against my lips. “Just for right now.” Then he drags his lips over mine again, his tongue gently demanding entrance.
I give it.
And I choose to give myself over to him.
Hell, heisasking. Eh,telling.
Gentle downward pressure on my necktie eases me to my knees before him, and my heart gives that familiar flip-flop I’ve desperately missed for months.
We hold that pose for a long moment—heholds that. I’m on my knees in front of him, and damned if it doesn’t ease some of my stress.
With his other hand, he massages the back of my head.
I softly moan, my eyes falling closed.Fuck.
Ofcoursehe knows this secretoffswitch.
This isus, how we’ve been trained, both of us. Conditioned. It’s a sign of love, of care. Of concern.
It’s one of those “love languages” Leo used—uses, in Elliot’s case—to show us how he feels as much as he can. Or as much as Elliot, or a particular situation, will allow him to express.
And Elliot knows it every bit as much as I do. Because I use many of these same cues with him now. Or variations of them.
I don’t realize I’m crying, at first, until his lips gently feather along my cheeks, kissing.
Licking my tears away.
My breath hitches.
“Let’s get you upstairs, baby,” he whispers, and I’d swear if I didn’t know it was him, I’d think it was Leo.
I gasp, my eyes popping open.
No, it’s definitely Elliot.
The concern on his face guts me and I force myself to speak. “But—”
