“Hey.” Nash’s voice in my ear makes me jump, but his mouth against my neck, pressing slow kisses into my skin, has me sinking back into my couch again.
“Did you knock?” I say.
“Mm-hmm.” His hands glide over my shoulders, thumbs digging into knots that radiate pain all the up to my forehead and make me groan. “But the door was unlocked.” He finds my nipples, fingering the piercings through my shirt.
“I was starting to think you weren’t coming,” I say as I arch up toward him.
“Sorry. Doug invited me out for dinner with his fiancé.”
I pout, because I know he likes it. “And you’d rather go be their third wheel than come hang out with me?”
He undoes my shirt snaps, one at a time. “Calvin works for our largest donor. And he and Doug are my friends. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
Do I mind? A week of fucks and blow jobs doesn’t give me much claim on him. But his words leave a sour sensation in my chest. Maybe jealousy that he has any kind of social life. I’d have gladly been their fourth wheel tonight, with Nash and his friends, if it meant not staring at this giant list of applicants I am not going to hire.
I rise and find the buttons of his shirt and work them open one at a time, drowning myself in the taste of his mouth and the scrape of his late-day stubble on my skin. His cufflinks are more difficult to deal with, unfamiliar when my fingers are used to buttons.
“Why do you wear these?” I ask, fumbling with the first one.
“They’re distinguished.”
“They’re a pain in the ass when I want to take your shirt off.”
He laughs and pulls his sleeve from my grasp. Of course, he undoes the cufflinks like they’re no big thing and sets them on my table with a soft clack before holding his arms out wide so I can go back to my task of peeling him out of his shirt.
“So obliging when you want something specific,” I say, sucking at his throat.
“Is that a résumé?” Nash says. His eyes are on my laptop even while his fingers slide lower to my waistband. “Looking for a job? You better not be thinking of leaving me.” His voice turns to a growl, and his hands on my fly are making it hard to think.
“Nash.” I might actually whine as he leaves the front of my jeans open and untended, but he kneels in front of me, and the sight of him licking his lips hungrily obliterates what’s left of my Friday blues.
Nash does this thing with his tongue... I don’t even know if I can describe it, but I already know I’ll never get tired of it. He knows exactly how to tease the crown of my dick, finding the sensitive places under the ridge. And his tongue in my slit... the walls in my apartment are not exactly thick, and I have to bite my hand to stifle the noises that come out of my throat when he does that.
As I come, heat rushes over me. I bury my fingers in his hair. He doesn’t fight me. For a guy who I used to think got his rocks off by being condescending every time he called me, turns out Nash actually gets his rocks off by letting me do literally anything I want to him. Right now, I want to watch my come drip down his chin and onto my thighs.
The football phone goes off.
“Motherfucker.”
Nash looks up at me with surprise. He wipes his chin with my shirt, which came off a while ago, instead of on my skin, and I am now doubly annoyed.
“Do you need to answer that?” he says.
No. No, no, fucking no. I don’t want to. Nash is still at my feet, and I know he’s sporting a rock-hard erection in his pants. I can’t leave him hanging. And fuck, it’s Friday.
“I’m sorry,” I say, skirting around him, pants around my ankles. I shuffle to where the football phone is vibrating on my breakfast bar, my ass hanging out for anyone to see. “Hello, Brady speaking.”
“Oh, thank God you’re there,” the voice on the other line says breathlessly. I sort of recognize it.
“Yes, I’m here.” I glance at Nash, who is lifting himself to the couch. He sprawls on it like a king, torso bare, arms spread over the back. The outline of his erection is plainly visible, pressed against the front of his pants, and I want to cry.
“My printer is dead.”
Fucking printers. Whenever the football phone rings, ninety percent of the time it’s about a printer.
“Okay,” I say, trying to think in the post-orgasm haze. “Have you tried turning it off and turning it on again?”
Behind me, Nash snorts, and I give him the finger. His chuckle is dark and satisfied.
