“Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Fuck. Jesus. Brady. Don’t stop.”
Sometimes I stop. Sometimes I like to listen to him howl as I back off and his orgasm recedes, leaving him begging and frustrated. He knows I’ll never leave him hanging completely, but those moments, when he’s angry and understands that his pleasure is entirely under my control, are pretty heady.
Not as heady as the certainty that floods me now, though. I love him. His moods, his snark. I can see how much he cares, underneath it all.
So I don’t make him wait.
“Touch yourself,” I say, pulling up onto my knees. “Show me.”
He makes this heavy whine in his chest as he starts to jack himself. The head of his dick is nearly purple, and he works it relentlessly as I pull his legs wide and rock into him, looking for the spot that drives him wild. My own orgasm is building, tingling in my back and in the tightening of my balls. I’m ready when he is, and the flush spreading over his cheeks and chest says he’s close.
I love you.
I love you.
The words are there, on the tip of my tongue, and part of me thinks saying them will be the thing that pushes us both over the edge. But, in the end, Nash’s jaw clamps shut and the cords in his neck strain, and he doesn’t need anything so kind from me before he’s splashing come all over his belly and his ass spasms around me like the best kind of fist, holding me tight as I spill deep into the condom.
He lets me collapse on top of him. I feel like jelly, but somehow Nash still has enough control to run his hands restlessly over my body, raising goose bumps as I shiver in the cool air.
“Your office is cold,” I say, amazed I can string that simple sentence together.
He rumbles contentedly under me. “We didn’t set the thermostat with nudity in mind.”
Nash grunts as I slide out of him. I grab a few tissues off his desk and wrap the condom in them. We’re a mess, sticky with lube and Nash’s come, but I came prepared for that too. In the drawer where I’d stashed the lube and condoms, I also left a pack of disposable wipes. I grab it, the plastic crinkling, take a couple for myself, and toss it to Nash. He catches it but gives me a wry look.
“What?” I shrug. “You’d rather try to deal with tissues?”
He shakes his head and dabs at his skin. “I’m going to need a shower anyway, even with these.”
“You can shower at my place,” I say. As the fuzzy buzz of orgasm recedes, the day’s events—the missed interview and the poser who is barely qualified to tie my shoelaces—come back. Right. I need to talk about some of this. Maybe we can grab a pizza and he’ll let me talk through my new plan.
My heart drops when he shakes his head. “I’ve got a call with the screenwriters at seven. I was going to try to grab a quickie at your apartment before I rushed home. But now...” He trails off as he wads the wipe up and tosses it to the trash with all the style of an NBA superstar.
I open my mouth to say he could come by anyway or even do his call at my place. I have to go through another tranche of resumes. I’ll be quiet as a mouse while he inspires future movie-making icons. The idea of going home alone makes me queasy.
But he’s already on his feet, pulling his pants back up. He won’t quite meet my gaze, and for once, my courage fails me.
“Yeah, no problem,” I say. “I’ve got a bunch to do tonight anyway. Better if you’re not there to distract me.”
He huffs a laugh as he lifts his shirt off the floor. We’ve wrinkled the hell out of it, but it slides over his skin with a hiss that makes me want to wrap myself around him all over again.
“Where’d you go?” he says.
“Hmm?” My own shirt is not nearly as accommodating. I’ve done it up but somehow missed a button, and now I have to start over.
“You got this look on your face for a second. In the middle of it. Like you were thinking about something else.”
“No.” I give him a smile that feels too tight at the edges. “Just thinking about you.”
About how I don’t feel about him the way I’ve ever felt about anyone else. About how it’s more than hormones and sex, and maybe always has been. Nash challenges me more than anyone else, but he gets me better than anyone else too. And I don’t know what to do with this information.
“If anyone asks,” I say as we head to the office door, “I was helping you sync your contacts.”
He snorts. “Is that what you kids are calling it now?”
I laugh and shove at him. His whole face creases in his answering grin.
“You know what I mean.”
